Deep Sea Embers

Dagger Island had been missing from all charts and navigational tools for an extended period. Despite the relentless search efforts from the people of Frost and the Mist fleet, not a single clue had surfaced from the purported region of the vanished island.

Tyrian, a formidable pirate by reputation, let out a sigh filled with an ineffable mix of emotions. He turned away from the mesmerizing view, abandoning the bridge for the more private confines of his captain’s quarters. In the interior of his private space, an ancient oval-shaped mirror dominated the desk, its antique design forming a striking contrast against the otherwise modern and technologically advanced ambiance of the Sea Mist.

Drawn towards this piece of history, Tyrian approached the mirror and cautiously examined his reflection. A wave of hesitation seemed to fleetingly cross his features.

However, he soon shook off his indecisiveness. Reaching into a drawer, he retrieved a beautifully carved candlestick intended for ceremonies and carefully placed it before the mirror.

“Sea Mist calling the Vanished…” Tyrian whispered into the silence. In that moment, he felt a kinship with those sailors who, in their final bouts of insanity driven by the illusions of the Boundless Sea, offered sacrifices while invoking the terrifying power that resided in the deepest, darkest abyss of the ocean. His situation was not vastly different. The entity he was invoking was indeed the most formidable power known in these waters.

In fact, the terrifying power was none other than his father.

The candlestick burst into flame of its own accord, the brilliant dance of the flame casting playful shadows across the room. The mirror reflected this eerie play of light and shadow, and Tyrian, anxiety creeping into his heart, observed the tiny flame. As it flickered several times before transforming into a ghastly green hue, he knew his call had been received.

The oval mirror swiftly became a canvas of flames, its center turning an ominous pitch black. Tyrian’s reflection disappeared, to be replaced, a moment later, by another figure – that of Duncan, his father’s primary form, which resided in the Vanished.

Duncan was casually holding a piece of bread in his hand. He glanced upward at the mirror, a look of mild curiosity on his face: “I was about to have lunch. Have you eaten?”

“Uh… not yet.” Taken by surprise, Tyrian responded awkwardly. Duncan seemed to have subtly changed after regaining his human form, exhibiting a unique, albeit amiable, manner of greeting. This new approach was friendly, but it left Tyrian feeling quite uncomfortable. After all, he hadn’t had such an informal, relaxed conversation with his father in what felt like forever.

“Eating your lunch punctually is beneficial for your health,” Duncan advised nonchalantly. “Now, what is it that you require from me?”

“Despite a thorough search in and around the location of Dagger Island, we’ve turned up empty,” Tyrian asserted, regaining his focus and steering the conversation towards the urgent matter. “The individuals from Frost are relentlessly continuing their hunt, but I fear they’ll meet the same outcome as us.”

“The island was consumed by the deep sea. The crux of the issue lies beneath the water’s surface. A surface search won’t yield anything meaningful,” Duncan said, shaking his head. “Furthermore, we currently lack the appropriate diving equipment to conduct an underwater search. Also, the city is becoming increasingly tense. The church is planning to extend their search to the Second Waterway soon. Rest assured, I’ve already dispatched a warning to your informants.”

At the mention of the Death Church planning to search the Second Waterway, Tyrian felt a wave of tension sweep over him. However, Duncan’s assurance that he had alerted Tyrian’s informants eased his worry somewhat. Brows knitted in thought, he asked, “Do they suspect that there’s a heretic stronghold hidden within the Second Waterway in the city?”

“Considering they’ve already overturned the entire city-state except for this area, it’s a logical suspicion,” Duncan responded, an eyebrow raised. “They’re running out of places to search apart from the Second Waterway.”

Tyrian lapsed into thoughtful silence, his forehead creased in a frown.

Observing his expression, Duncan inquired, “What are you thinking?”

“I highly doubt they’ll uncover any leads in the Second Waterway,” Tyrian said, shaking his head slowly. “Even though my informants don’t control the entire Second Waterway, they have a solid understanding of the happenings there and control several strategic points. If a substantial number of Annihilators were hiding there, conducting large-scale rituals, I believe I would have received some intel.”

“Maybe they’ve managed to hide extremely well, or perhaps the ceremonies they’ve been conducting have somehow distorted the perceptions of any informants who might have detected their activities. The informants either didn’t notice anything, or if they did, they might have been corrupted, thereby preventing you from receiving accurate information,” Duncan suggested.

Tyrian nodded slowly, “That is indeed a plausible explanation, particularly given your confirmation of the existence of cognitive pollution within the city-state.”

“I will also maintain surveillance on the Second Waterway,” Duncan assured him through the mirror, “I’m equally curious about the whereabouts of these Annihilation followers. If your informants encounter any difficulties during this operation, I’ll extend as much assistance as I can.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it greatly.” Tyrian bowed his head respectfully in response.

Their discussion was suddenly interrupted by an unexpected knock on the door of the captain’s quarters.

“Someone’s at your door,” Duncan, alert to the interruption even through the mirror, noted, “If there’s nothing else you need, you should attend to your duties.”

“Very well, Father.”

As Duncan’s form faded from the mirror, the flames followed suit, reverting the candlestick back to its original dormant state.

Exhaling softly, Tyrian felt the burden on his heart ease slightly. His brow furrowed as he rose from his seat and opened the door, “What’s the matter?”

“A speed boat from Frost has approached,” the undead sailor standing outside the door, easily identifiable by the visible hole in his head, reported, saluting his captain. “They are displaying flags and emitting light signals indicating ‘non-aggressive action’ and ‘request for contact’ while drawing closer. It seems as though they are… emissaries.”

“Emissaries?” Surprise flickered on Tyrian’s face, but it was quickly replaced by a gleam of interest, “Intriguing… it appears they can no longer contain their restlessness.”

“Should we fire upon them?” The sailor’s eyes glinted with anticipation.

“Absolutely not, allow them to come aboard,” Tyrian commanded, shooting a stern glare at the eager sailor. He then added, “Only permit three individuals to board. If they don’t agree, they can return whence they came.”

Aboard the mechanized speedboat, bearing the emblem of the city-state of Frost, a man adorned in a respectable suit and gold-rimmed spectacles stood on the deck at the bow. He repeatedly removed his glasses, wiping them nervously as he observed the formidable steel warship growing larger in his field of view.

The Sea Mist, steadily drawing nearer, loomed like a colossal mountain afloat in the icy sea, exuding an increasingly palpable sense of oppression. Encircling the speedboat were floating fragments of ice, drifting like sentient entities in the oceanic expanse. The icy fragments seemed to deliberately circle the speedboat, persistently clashing against the hull near the waterline and striking an unsettling rhythm.

The secretary, in a reflexive nervous habit, wiped his glasses again. However, his thoughts were inadvertently invaded by the folklore passed down through generations in Frost – tales of curses from the outer sea, the legendary pirate shrouded in fog, sailors turned into frozen statues within their dreams, and children’s tales.

“We’re close enough,” the secretary, placing his gold-rimmed glasses back on, took a steadying breath and instructed the officer beside him, “We should maintain this distance. Any closer, and that warship will surely commence firing.”

“Reduce speed to minimum, make a left turn!” The officer pivoted and bellowed his orders to the scout sailor.

The mechanical speedboat promptly decreased its speed, making minor adjustments to its trajectory to align parallel with the colossal steel warship.

Simultaneously, the officer was scrutinizing the movements of the Sea Mist.

A sudden flash of light emerged from the warship, followed by the sight of a sailor brandishing a flag towards the speedboat.

“They’re signaling,” the secretary inquired in haste, “What’s the message?”

“The Sea Mist has granted our request… thank heavens, it’s a signal that a living being can comprehend,” the officer visibly relaxed. He then noticed a small boat being lowered from the side of the warship, “They’re launching a vessel for transportation of personnel.”

“May the God of Death be with us… I assumed they would simply retaliate with gunfire.” The secretary was also noticeably relaxed. As the inaugural envoy dispatched to negotiate with the Mist fleet, despite his readiness to sacrifice himself for the city-state prior to his mission, he still experienced a sensation of relief akin to narrowly escaping a deadly encounter.

The boat dispatched from the Sea Mist rapidly neared Frost’s mechanical speedboat. Onboard were a handful of undead sailors donning old naval uniforms.

The distinctive Queen’s insignia on their sleeves and the uniforms, symbolic of a bygone era, were particularly conspicuous. But what was truly startling was their uncanny appearances as the undead.

Two of them bore large, gaping holes in their heads, another displayed a cavernous hole through his chest, while one seemed unscathed – yet bore the bloated and horrifying countenance of a corpse submerged in seawater for days.

Upon witnessing the arrival of these undead sailors, the Frost sailors aboard the mechanical speedboat felt a wave of nervousness wash over them. As they watched these spectral figures step onto their vessel, many sailors displayed an array of complex expressions.

Regardless, the undead sailors appeared thrown by the attitudes of the living, who didn’t cower in fear of them at first glance.

“Who is the envoy?”

“That would be me,” the man in the succinct suit and gold-rimmed glasses stepped forward promptly. He strived to regulate his anxiety and not gawk at the harrowing features of the undead sailors. Forcing a composed tone, he introduced himself, “My name is Eddie Ruel. I am Frost’s representative in discussions with the Mist Fleet.”

“A table clerk?” The bloated undead sailor arched an eyebrow, casting a fleeting glance at the secretary, now identified as Eddie, and retorted with an air of derision, “I thought at least a few military delegates would be sent. Has Frost’s navy been drained of courageous soldiers?”

The accompanying officer was quick to step forward, poised to utter a response. However, Eddie promptly intervened before he could articulate a single word, raising his hand to silence him.

“I am indeed the envoy,” the civilian functionary wearing gold-rimmed glasses asserted, locking eyes with the undead sailor before him. He underscored his demand, “Escort me to Admiral Tyrian.”