Chapter Text
Wisps of water, the dying breaths of once great waves, lap against a dying shore. It is as dark as the midnight sky, and as cold as the harshest winters. The mesmerizing sea engulfs the legs of one young lady staring up at the moon. Her face is streaked with soot, her long hair unevenly singed around her shoulders. All sounds, peaceful or no, could not fight the deafening ring in her ears.
A few meters away, the remains of her raft lay in pieces. The crude craftsmanship glittering in the moonlight gives away its amateur build; it is no wonder the piece failed to bear the wicked thrash and pull of the sea. Still, however the quality of its build, the raft delivered the poor pyrate to land in one piece.
With the threat of a war a peaceful distance away, the pyrate found it difficult to keep her eyes open. The sky turned silver as she slowly blinked through the fog that is her consciousness. Deeper and deeper is she lulled, mistaking the alarm in her ears for a siren at sea. The call is sweet and thick, like molasses. Surely, nothing out here would threaten her well-being. Perhaps a little rest will help her stinging eyes and throat.
Some time passes, the amount unknown. Something prods her skin curiously, gentle at first then more aggressively. As much as the pyrate wants to react, her head feels the weight of an anchor keeping her still. Pain reintroduces itself to her senses ― dull and unremarkable. Then, a cut on her rib is dug into, searing as sharp as a freshly smithed blade
“Hah!” A finger twitches in the sand. The first sign of life is enough to send away the seabird in a fright.
Adrenaline is pumping through her now. With this boost, she opens her eyes and finds the sky stained pink and orange. The beach shows more sign of life now and is highlighted brilliantly by the sun. Birds, much like the one who woke her, eagerly search for straggling sea life before the next high tide.
She is alive. She made it. Isla, craftsman of the wreckage surrounding her, made it off her home island. Her lips crack and sting with movement, and her lungs hurt. Still, Isla’s chest shakes with laughter. How had she not drowned? She must have narrowly missed being washed back out to deep waters.
Shaky on her elbows, Isla pushes herself up to stare out at the vast nothingness in front of her. How deceptive it is out on the water; the calm shields any chaos beneath the surface and quiets the different worlds behind the horizon. The sight is nauseating. All her life, Isla was told that the sea was her protection. It was meant to be secure, keeping dangers far away from their home on the island. Instead, it became a prison and kept anyone from escaping the brewing turmoil that eventually boiled over with searing hot ambition.
“Good riddance.” Isla cannot convince herself with those words. Her gaze has turned soft, longing.
Her family is still there – maybe . The fires had grown hungry as it spread from hut to hut. Humanity is cruel and born greedy. A society which was born to protect the treasures left behind by their founder was destined to fall. No pyrate lived by the same code, not even those who yet to claim the sea. Tales of the gold boarded on the ships docked in that cave – guarded at the entrance by the elders and their apprentices – were whispered throughout the island. Treasure collected off the rich and the exploitive companies of the European empire, locked away to ensure no one could ever step into those boots.
It had been too good to be true.
Elders of the island, crewmates of the founder and their descendants, were murdered and buried in the waves. What greeted the storming mob that night was a hollow graveyard. Remains of the King of Wild Waters lay marked by a decorative sheath along a puttering stream. Decaying ships once captured in the golden days of piracy crumbled in the sand, their sails drooped and black flags worse for wear.
No chests or rubies in sight, the people of Libertalia rioted. Just as the storm that swept away their legacy, a storm swept the beaches of Isla’s home. Ash rained on her skin as she desperately tied driftwood together. The rope braided from dried grasses had snapped twice before the raft reached water.
Not knowing how to navigate rapid waters, Isla burned her palms on the rope by simply keeping her head above surface. The ruthless pull of the tides threatened to take her down to the sea floor. At times, Isla had felt the same lulling call she hears now as she rests on the shore.
She should find some place to camp first, if not locate food. Pain roars in her ribs as Isla forces herself to stand in wet stand. Stumbling and vision waning, Isla steadies herself and gets her first great view of the beach. Pale sand blends into the blushing sky where the cliffs form jagged lines. The area could have been considered isolate if not for the rugged skyline over the rocks.
Her stomach churns like the ocean storms at the thought of meeting the village.
A piece of driftwood groans when Isla steps over it. With great care she bends down and uses the length to push herself up right again. The stick hardly reaches her hip, but the support is enough to help Isla trail along the shoreline. During the low tide, small crabs and fish get stuck in the sharp rock. She has time before the waves come crashing back to shore, so she takes it easy with small steps.
When she does reach the pools, little life is left stranded. The seagulls must have picked off their share before trying Isla out for dessert. She reaches for a loose piece of rock, the razor like edges tickling the palm of her hand. Isla balances her weight against her stick to reach for the hem of her dripping shirt. With the edge of the rock, the fabric rips effortlessly into an uneven strip. She wraps the cloth around the rock and wraps her fingers around the base.
Her aim is terrible. Crabs, fish, even the sea slugs can evade the plunge of her makeshift spearhead. Water splashes high enough to cover Isla’s cheeks in droplets, to which she tosses the rock deep into the tidal pool. She screams, lips burning from cracks and sea water. Escaping her home had been the only way to survive, yet here she will die starved.
Listening to the waves lap at the shore, she sways. She kneels, sticking her hand in the cold waters. She feels around the cracks for her stone – anemone and algae coat her fingertips in a sticky film. The flame-colored tail of an anemonefish darts from a shadowed ledge. Isla immediately follows the fish’s path under the rock until she finds the brush of fabric.
“There you are,” She whispers to herself.
After retrieving her tool, Isla finds a flat rock to sit on. The sun beating down has turned the rock into a warming plate which has become pleasing to her soaked bones. Water swirls where fish and other sea life break the surface. Almost as if to mock her, the large span of water creeps back alive as soon as she rests. She closes her eyes.
Responsibilities back on the island were assigned. Each family reserved themselves for a specific set of skills; Isla’s parents were good at curing meat. Storing food. Others had been the ones to bring in the catch which provided their main nutrition source. Some foods were able to be grown with the seeds and stock brought in by the former crews, although they only grew when the weather was warm. Part of her wishes she had paid attention a little more to her neighbors, who weaved nets and carved spears. She mourns the opportunity to explore and scavenge for local fruits.
Isla’s stomach demands her attention once the breeze shifts. She stands again, feeling a little weaker than before. Salt stings in her nostrils, and the smell of bitter seaweed makes her insides flip. She’ll need to eat before building a shelter.
Using the piece of driftwood, Isla steps back into the water and begins prodding the crevices and depressions of the sand. Small rocks are flipped, often with nothing to show but a few shrimps which flee with the next current. Worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, Isla continues in a steady path down the tidal pond. Some parrotfish dart by, their tank-like build too strong to spear with the blunt end of driftwood.
Isla pauses where the shallow bank begins to drop. The soles of her feet feel as if they are one step away from bleeding raw. Close to walking herself deeper into the tides, Isla prods the entrance to a den under the lip of a rock. Sand stirs into a cloud as its disturbed, hiding the entrance. She draws a circle in the sand. For what feels like a long stretch of time nothing happens. Isla prepares to step off the bank.
From within the debris a long, dark tendril reaches for the piece of driftwood. The octopus, not much larger than a piece of fruit, gingerly pulls itself from its den to wrap around the wood. Isla watches, dazed, scared to move. She drags the creature closer to her feet and watches as it stiffens. The skin of her knees scrapes and bleeds as Isla drops down into the water, stone in hand and plunging through the surface. Ink floods the water and obscures her view as the octopus attempts to flee – but Isla’s desperation makes her faster. The skin of the octopus pales almost immediately as the mantle is struck. Its tentacles curl and tighten, and Isla is left panting.
She uses her belt to string her catch along with her back to shore. Her knees throb with each kiss of the wind but Isla pays them no mind. She hums to herself a broken tune, something she remembers hearing outside the school group. Seabirds harmonize with her as they flap their wings together on a stone protruding high off the surface.
All you that will be Seamen, must bear a valiant heart,
For when you come upon the Seas, you must not think to start,
Nor once to be faint-hearted, in hail, rain, or snow,
Nor to shrink nor to shrink, when the stormy winds do blow.
A few feet away, the large broad head of a sea snake lifts for air. Its scales are colored like a statue, broad and flat like sheets of metal. The serpent’s tail lay some seven feet behind its nose, curled around rock as it steadies itself in the gentle current. Such a sight at home is rare, especially for large specimens like the one before Isla. Their fangs are as long as pine needles and burn like the worst flame. Usually, the only sign of one is a trail of paralyzed fish from their hunts – floating on their sides but not quite gone. The puncture wounds in their heads and gills are enough to scare any child from the water.
She stills before the serpent swims towards her. While it has already likely noted her presence, Isla is not in the shape to attempt outrunning the speed of its tail. Slowly, the silver scales dip back below the surface. Isla watches, breath hard in her lungs, as it swims closer at a leisurely pace. A pearlescent scar wraps itself around the tip of its tail, she notices. Perhaps the serpent retired itself to the pools in old age.
The force of the water being moved wraps itself around her ankles. Adrenaline prickles along through her skin but Isla forces herself still. She lifts her catch a few inches higher, worried it would attract the serpent closer. The head turns ever so slightly as it drifts past, sizing her up no doubt. Uneventfully, however, it swims right past and Isla gasps for air.
Even the birds quiet as Isla trudges back through the coral.
𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼
Striking a fire is difficult with wrinkled fingers. Still, Isla stays hunched over a tiny pile of kindling she has gathered. She has decided to call a lip of the cliff home, the rock providing just enough shelter from the sun and far enough away the sand stays dry. The stones strike and produce sparks which quickly die before they can catch.
In the distance, Isla spots an outline of a ship. Though she has never boarded once, the sight is familiar. Every now and then Isla would have been tasked to help newcomers travel through the island. The large masts and sails are unmistakable – she had spent hours watching them burn at sea after their hulls were emptied. Their craft must have taken months or years to bring together, and often Isla mourned their burial.
Likely less than a day away from docking, the large ship drifts peacefully in the water. It must be a trade ship , she rationalizes. Stories from her home detailed the downfall of pyracy not long after their King laid to rest. The ever-growing empire from the north had been capturing the stragglers. Most were executed. Those who did survive were aiding the capture of the remaining ships known by the government.
In order to protect their secret community, no one who landed on the island had been allowed to leave.
The promise of what could be on that ship rumbles deep in her belly. Gnawing on the inside of her cheek, Isla strikes the stones once more. Sparks float on top of the dried moss and twigs, shining bright orange before cooling. Gently, Isla blows on them until the kindling glows on its edges. Again, she blows on the embers as she cups her hands around the pile. Shy flames rise, reaching toward her and flickering in greeting.
Snapping her driftwood into pieces, Isla feeds the fire until it grows large enough to stabilize itself. She cooks her meal in silence. Little happens on the beach as she eats. Light reflecting off the sand is almost blinding, shining bright even as she closes her eyes. With her stomach finally settled and her wounds scabbing over, Isla rests against the rock and counts the hours until she falls asleep.
When she opens her eyes again, the sky is sinking. She is coherent enough now to search the stars as they begin to appear in silver hues. One shines the brightest, and Isla anchors herself there as she maps the direction she had washed up in. If she had truly been out for only a day, then Isla must have gone south. The Southern Cross is nearly directly above her head and brighter than she recalls from home.
Turning her gaze to the horizon, Isla scans the rolling waves for her ship. It has drifted closer to the port connected to the town behind her. Wetting her lips, Isla rises to her feet once more. Her singed hair falls along and itches her shoulders. Her ripped clothing barely hangs onto her now that they have dried, showing off growing blooms of red and purple where Isla must have hit the wreckage. The pain, while still there, is bearable now. Isla loops her belt around her hips once more and shoves her wrapped tool to lay against her stomach.
She imagines what grain they have aboard as she walks. Memories of the barley brought to the island by one of the retiring crews weigh heavy on her tongue. Better yet, the alcohol that had been brewed from such grain kept well and served as refreshments during the journey from beach to the settlement. A journey which once took three days to travel – through forests and caves to crashing rivers. Isla would learn much about the outside world from the men and women over the bonfires.
Isla can practically feel the wood under her fingertips. Many ships she had seen were conquered and came from a variety of backgrounds. Her favorites had been intricately carved and smooth. Even the harsh sea could not soil the love put into the vessels.
As she approaches the port, the noise of the town grows into a quiet hum. Lit lanterns become visible at the top of stone stairs. The structures are somewhat breathtaking to Isla, who has never seen modern construction. Iron is decoratively lining the port, twisted and bent in ways the salvaged parts at home never were. Buildings visible from the shore are even more impressive. Their architecture is inspired and stands as tall as the birds dare fly.
Isla nearly forgets why she has wandered so close.
A red flag, deep and rich, is now visibly flying above the nearing ship. Yellow and blue swirls into patterns decorating the edge. The arrangement is not unfamiliar, though Isla does not know which crown it hails from. She slips into the shadows of the pier to wait. In the next hour or so, the ship should be fully docked and ready to unload. Slipping onboard once the crew is in town should be easy. Sneaking off with clothes and food unseen will be the true challenge.
Isla passes the time by tracing outlines of different ships into the sand. Despite her meal earlier in the day, she feels the beginnings of hunger prickling. Waves lap at the cold sand surrounding her, reaching further as time goes on. Her clothes grow clingy as they become drenched in seawater once more. She notes that she should find a place to bathe.
𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼
The hull creaks and moans as it approaches the port. Anchors are thrown to slow its path forward. When the massive vessel finally comes to a stop, two rowboats are lowered with the crew members. They take their time coming to shore, not much more than a few sacks of tradable goods between them. Their attire, Isla notes, is clean and pressed. Not unusual for businessmen, but for disembarking from a ship which shows signs of long weeks on the water.
A few trips are made to and from the main vessel. Each rowboat carries more supplies and more men. Isla waits patiently for the last pair to walk up the steps and into the night before wading out from her shadows. Pushing one of the boats back into the water takes more force than anticipated. Isla sinks and slides in the sand as she forces the boat back into the inky waters.
The oars are heavy in her palms. Isla seats herself on the wooden bench, holding her breath when the boat rocks. She rows slower than the men she saw before, mostly due to her lack of endurance. Water swirls around the oars as Isla drives the boat back towards the ship. Once she has gained the momentum, she almost feels like she’s gliding.
A rope hangs alongside the ship, where Isla guesses the rowboat had been strung. She takes the rope and ties her best knot around a metal fastening near the oars before standing. Once again, she rocks, and it takes longer for her to find her balance with no shallows to level her. Tentatively, Isla wraps a hand around the rope and gives it an earnest tug. Tension vibrates along the cords and burns in her palms. She lifts herself out of the boat, and climbs.
Her feet slip against the wood a few times when she has reached the waist of the main deck. With great effort, she pulls herself over with shaking muscles and empty lungs. Moonlight beams down and reflects off the deck. Whatever crew manages the ship had taken great care in swabbing and reorganizing. However, the cleanliness brings attention to the curiosities aboard.
While the ship had been obviously decorated in the highest degree of craftmanship, additions have been welded on. Great sheets of metal, dinged and paint stripped, wrap around the beams where the captain’s quarters would be. The additions are crude looking and mismatch with the natural wood and iron. Once Isla picks herself up, she takes her time inspecting the mysterious interface.
The surface is smooth with faint symbols lining the edges. Despite her lack of knowledge of the shapes and grammar, Isla finds a vague understanding. She lay her palm flat against the pad. At first, nothing happens. She presses harder. Isla’s brow creases. Something is not working properly, though Isla does not know why, frustration bubbles beneath her skin.
A light flashes. She jumps back like a rabbit, feels her heart in her throat. A voice, coming from who knows where, speaks in terrifying monotone.
Evol not detected. Please try again.
Her fingers find the edge of her rock tool. Isla draws it out in less time than it takes for the light to flash again.
“Who are you?” She asks. Isla realizes she has not heard her own voice since crash landing.
The voice does not speak again. Still, it reverberates in her. Quest to find food forgotten, Isla is frozen in place where she stands. She has seen many of ships before, has deconstructed more than one. Isla would sneak out to search for the remains of a burial on shore and collected the finely made bowsprits. Never has she seen one donned in armor such as this one.
Just above head, a storm cloud rolls in. The moon and stars have their light dimmed as a shelf cloud billows like smoke without a flame. Ocean storms are not uncommon, but the thing that bellows in the sky is supernatural. Isla feels her stomach turn, the hair on her arms raising as the pressure around her drops.
A cracking sound, akin to lightning, resonates over the waters as space itself is ripped open. Instead of a waterspout reaching down towards the surface, the long tendril of a monster stretches toward the ship. Its movement is almost graceful as it searches for a safe place to land. Isla feels its groans under her skin as if it has already consumed her. With no place to retreat, she tries opening the door again with a press of her palm.
Unsurprisingly, the door speaks and denies entry once more.
A foul odor fills the air, something much worse than wet rot. The monster meets with the ship’s wooden rails and the entire vessel rocks. Isla’s feet begin to slip out from under her, and for a moment the cold waters threaten to finish what it could not do the night before. The moon has disappeared from the sky and the only source of light pulses from within the cloud.
The thing that finally hits the deck stands taller than any wild animal Isla has seen. It’s skin is dark and rough – almost like jagged stone or crystal. Parts of the shards on its shoulder shimmer in blue and green hues. Though the shape is humanoid in nature, there is no face to the creature. Where there should be identifiable features is a void of black.
What little distance laying between Isla and the creature is quickly eaten as it lunges forward. Hungry and far away from home, the creature is just as desperate to survive as Isla is. She feels her energy being sucked through her skin as it nears – a bleed that does not require wounds. Readying her weapon, Isla does her best to take a position to parry.
It swings for her. The long claws at the end of its even longer limbs never reach her. In a flash of light, the arm is severed and dissipates into dust. Isla is not sure if the screeching comes from her or the creature, but that is quickly silenced when the light appears again. This time, a blade is pointed towards her throat.
“I believe this is considered trespassing.” His voice is soft, deceptively sweet. There is an edge as sharp as the sword he holds.
Isla has never seen a seaman so...clean. With a shaved face and neatly arranged locks of hair. Parts of his fringe falls in front of his face as if it was just slightly overgrown, yet it was obviously maintained. Under a torn and dirtied coat is a suit of pure white. She gets a glimpse of a chain wrapped around his waist, gleaming in blue jewels.
She has robbed the wrong ship, it appears.
“I just...wanted something to eat,” She answers truthfully, holding her hands up to where he can see. Eyes, the same precious hue of those gems, flicker to the sharp stone she holds. Slowly, Isla unwraps her fingers around the grip until it clunks by her feet. “One meal.”
Shame rushes hot through her. The glow of the man’s sword almost burns the surface of her skin where it threatens to slash through, just like it had to that monster moments before.
He glances back over her, takes in her ripped clothing and uneven hair. The one weapon she had was laughable, her survival instinct worse. With a slow shake of his head, the man sheathes the blade at his hip. The glow disappears.
“We have no food. You should leave.”
She does not relax. Biting down on her lip, Isla stares past him where the storm clouds begin to disperse. “What was that thing?”
“A sea monster.” A grin that seems more bitter than humorous appears on his lips. “Have you heard of the Lochness?”
She has not. Though the men at home had stories of myth to share during their journey to the community, none of them had mentioned such thing. Sirens and harpies, maybe. The occasional overgrown squid would make its terrifying appearance during their recounts of their time roaming the sea, but none had mentioned a Lochness much less a human made of crystal and stone.
With no sword pointed at her, Isla slowly lowers her hands. She looks again to the mysterious panel with the disembodied voice. When she goes to touch it one more time, the man grabs her wrist.
“You should leave. ” He insists again, kinder this time. “I do not know how you got here -”
Isla frowns. “I have nowhere to go.”
“You cannot stay here.”
Isla says nothing for a while. She studies him what she can under the dim lighting. Almost no scars are visible on his skin – no deformities either. He must be royalty from some country the islanders had told stories about.
“That wasn’t a sea monster,” She starts. Tugging her wrist free, Isla takes a step back. “And I told you, I have nowhere to go.”
For a moment, she thinks she has tempted him to draw his sword once more. A frown settles deep on his face – brows furrowed and lips downturned. Her feet shift to ready herself to jump overboard. She watches as he raises a hand, rests it over his eyes. He sighs.
Isla is blocked in once he reaches to place his palm on the panel next to her. The panel glows immediately, feeding whatever he infuses into it, and sings a happy tune. Welcome back, Captain, it sings in that awful voice. Behind her, the sound of latches coming undone ring through hollowed wood.
The man walks past her into the shadowed room. Glancing over his shoulder, he pauses.
“Come with me.”
𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼