Tentative deadline: End of October
Howling wind carries men’s screams overboard, losing them at sea, threatening to give their origin a similar treatment. The tide of slaves crashes into sailors, desperate to muster up a defense. Eventually, though, each is overwhelmed by sheer number. The short sword you’ve armed yourself with makes quick work of their defense, finding gaping holes in their meager parries. The act brings a slight smile to your lips; it’s been awhile, but it’s good to see your skills haven’t deteriorated too much since the shackles were clasped around your wrists. Your old mentor would have a field day if--
Your head instinctively ducks at the sudden movement in your vision. An axe plants itself in the side of the ship, not inches from where you just stood. A sailor, dressed in loose trousers and simple shirt, unarmored, frantically tries to pry it loose, but it’s firmly in place. As you bring the short sword up to finish your opponent, a wave rocks into the boat, knocking everyone to the deck. Lightning sends a surge of brightness into the air. Upon subsiding, the sudden flash keeps lingering images, ghostly figures, in your eyes for several blinks.
“She’s going down! Hang on!” a voice carries over the wind, barely understandable. The storm encouragement enough, you grab onto a rope tied to the side of the ship and brace yourself. Contrasting the sudden lightning, the world slowly, gradually turns darker. As one, the deck’s combatants halt their skirmish, turning to face the looming darkness. A wave peers down at the ship, building, rising higher and higher. Ominous it grows, flexing its size over the comparatively small vessel. Then, in a burst of motion, it crashes.
A lone wooden coffin sits on a pedestal, surrounded by bright colored flowers. Candles burn at four points around the coffin, shaped in an imaginary square. You’re lightless, floating above the pedestal as if a spirit. Simple stone blocks line the floor, and a small staircase leads up to the coffin.
The coffin calls to you. The lid is cracked slightly, daring you to peek inside. Taken by an impulse not known to you, you float closer. As you approach, the candle’s flames intensify as if oil was poured on top. The flowers, formally an array of shining yellow, red, and white, peel back at your approaching presence. They sink inside themselves, decaying and wilting on the spot. The air around you becomes heavy, filled with the moldy smell of spoiled meat.
Death follows you, child.
Your inner forearm suddenly ignites in flame. You scream, still floating in the air. The flame subsides, and left behind is the blackened image of a crow mid-flight. A woman appears at the pedestal’s steps, dressed in simple religious robes. Her face is unblemished and youthful, but her eyes speak another story; they’re black, piercing and born of experience. The woman’s long blonde hair falls perfectly past her shoulders, to a small degree like the way hair floats underwater, the loose strands never appearing to fall in front of her gaze.
Scratching softly appears from the coffin, like two rough stones rubbed against one another. The coffin, surrounded and filled with death, rumbles low, its vibrations filling the room. The woman watches silently, interested to see what you do. The scratching becomes louder, building to deafening levels. Following suit, the coffin’s vibration intensifies, shaking the wooden structure uncontrollably, the lid on top threatening, begging to be tossed from its cracked position. In a thunderous echo, the coffin falls from its position on the pedestal, tumbling down the stone steps stopping at the woman’s feet. Rolling from within--
You awaken to find a man staring at you from above as one looking over a ledge. It’s the same hazel-eyed man who released you. A burning feeling draws your attention to your arm: the image of the crow is tattooed on your forearm, aged as if it’s been there for many years, yet your arm was void of ink mere hours ago. You start to say something, but immediately water rushes from within your throat in a coughing fit. After releasing the excess sea water, you speak.
“Made it through the storm, I see.”
