Fantasy 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐒 — THE STORY

[Gao]

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IN-CHARACTER

THE PROLOGUE

ROGUE WAVES

YOU BOARD THE LEVIATHAN.

THE PROLOGUE.

The air has shifted, and threats like these do not arrive with just a whisper— not that there was any coy attempt to hide it, either.

From the shores of Zenith to the seedy alleys of Antares, word has carried, but unease in the mind can bring spoil to one’s palate. The Oracles sit intangible with their otherworldly silence, the Baron is a mythic blaze in the smoky dark, and wariness is dipping in and out of criminal eyes like a cautious pendulum.

In the rising crescendo, Zenith streets are akin to rabbits in briar, a sea of movement roiling beneath decorations that are ribboned between aching beams. Celebration is swift and so too are the merchants, bartering their wares of Cascade gemstones and Sirocco metals down cobbled streets. They haggle compliments and lies to both locals and travellers, and remain blissfully ignorant to how clandestine hands swipe from behind the periphery.

But even the finest of nobles have not adhered to civil expectations, in the midday sun, plumed feather fans conceal flasks and rose-crushed faces, corsets strained to a rib splinter, gaudy jewels heavy to the slope of their necks. It may be only noon, but it is easy to envision what is fated to unravel once the hull of the ship breaks from port. Caterwauling drunks and revelry to be heard across saltwater tides in glory of their sovereign’s new vessel.

Sight of The Leviathan disproves whisper and rumour, an apparition that manifests into something real. Idling at port awaits the eye of the storm, the very lodestone this maelstrom of carousing encircles. And haunting the same port are those that are not just sightseers, those that are to be captained, passengers and crew; fates lure them with promise of intentional prestige or blind consequence. That is the true Damocles sword primed for their necks, that they may board with indifference, may go in willingly with soft underbelly and readied jugular, may go in flightless and bird boned or iron-wrought and steeled with apathy.

The Leviathan is a cage of its own making, but one may just find revelations in her shadows.

{IN-CHARACTER}

night owl

 

[Gao]

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IN-CHARACTER

BOARDING NIGHT

ROGUE WAVES

ONBOARD THE LEVIATHAN.

CHAPTER ONE.

31ST OF AUGUST

The hollow shell of the Leviathan, once dark and frosted in freshly lacquered silence, now teems with a vibrant core like a kernel of sunlight. Burdened with the gravity of hubris and value not so casually seen or indulged by most, being free to sip at rivers of fermented grapes and piles of silver platters is a gesture of the vessel’s goodwill.

A mess hall now dissuaded of cold and shadow, it blossoms with throngs of guests and crew members that dance to live music, exchange names and stories and splay hands of cards across tables. Peals of laughter hammer the inside teeth of the ship, and its breath stews warm and fragranced with spiced meats. In the light do new connections bloom, does forgiveness flower, does food and drink run ample.

The gentle disquiet rolls beneath their feet, rigid hull to thawing waves, an ocean tide that moves to lap at the lethargic vessel; call it vigilance, call it ire, the elusive Captain has ordained the ship take anchor for the rest of the night, save poppy-high or wine-drunk aristocrats tilt, are in disfavour with gravity, and find themselves taking a plunge overboard to the ocean below.

Liquor heats blood to leave most impervious to the nightly chill above deck, yet in the underbelly, colder still. Overlooked are the Leviathan’s passages, sprawled in layers of wool and bundles of teeth where threats reel up from roiling graves of which many would hope them to remain hidden. Histories and mistakes now made tangible, acidic to the velvet of the tongue, no longer a faraway risk tucked away from the mind’s eye. Warnings and blackmail are spoken in the dark throats of the ship, a converging meet where burnt bridges must be acknowledged.

With a gesture must be its reaction, as what follows the crew is promised to be a watery retribution. But for tonight or how many this boat can spare before it upends and the veil of false security slips away, unworried are most patrons.

Reunited but perhaps not reconciled, with the clash of old friends, family, lovers and enemies, boarding night is promised to be a nucleus of tension.

{IN-CHARACTER}

night owl

 

[Gao]

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IN-CHARACTER

ROAM

ROGUE WAVES

ONBOARD THE LEVIATHAN.

CHAPTER TWO.

7TH OF SEPTEMBER

Twelve days since boarding, and the vessel has taken to water like an alcoholic to rye whiskey— that is, smooth and without complaint.

With passing days brings a draught that steeps in the guests, settling the excitement of novelty into a seedling of a familiar timetable. Retreating from margins of Zenith land as they pass from one port-town to the next, still do citizens replenish the waterfront to watch the imperious frigate port and collect ticketed patrons.

Splitting a rift through King’s waters like a silhouette cut from the cloth of another realm, She pours through the ocean as if the moon has lost dominion of its inexorable push and pull vigour. Wind-fractured waves are snow-laden peaks curling into themselves, winking phosphorescent in gossiping sea breeze. Gliding languid and steady in the midday sun, canvas sails blossom themselves full and sea-spray salt scars itself into its crevices.

Teacups fluid with sienna and pinched within lofty hands, not a ripple in sight or drop spilt to the sedated rhythm of the ship. Many mill the main deck to soak in the sun while crew channel through the spaces around nobles like intangible constellations.

Completion of The Leviathan’s build awaits them in Siroc, planes of metal to frame the bow with ice-splitting titanium to prepare for Umbra.

The mimicry of peace is to be a short-lived sentiment, for something brews in the far-off horizon.

{IN-CHARACTER}

night owl

 

[Gao]

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IN-CHARACTER

HAVEN INN

ROGUE WAVES

OFFBOARD THE LEVIATHAN.

SEASON FINALE

2ND OF OCTOBER

It had been an overcast omen for seven days, the slew of clouds that writhed and demanded to moult. She is navigated to a wider arc with intention to thread around the tapestry of furore, but how abominable and cruel for the storm to set upon her during nightfall.

Guests are ordered below deck with the direction of officers, and it does not take long for noble confusion to substitute understanding when the ship begins to tip with the growing turbulence of the sea. Crew furl and secure the sails as salt spray begins to sear itself over the bow, and they must constantly arrange their graceless footing to be malleable enough to accept the depolarising weights.

What crystalline purity could once be engorged from the ship's sun-baked deck is left forgotten in another lifetime, toiled away by pelting rain as the churning undertaker of the ocean seeks to flood over the sides. A creature void of form, the water is black as a gash crowned by fate lines of roiling seafoam, swelling with intent to consume the vessel whole.

Each slamming wave is an obsessive demand to the tissues of the hull, sending the ship askew with aftershock tremors. Porcelain chatters are its trembling teeth, neglected beasts rattling in their cages, and those onboard can align only briefly with balance till it is usurped from another impact.

Offering recalcitrance and repaid with scorn of the sea, some cower in the recesses of the ship and some huddle to practise tongues of prayer, all are scabbed with insomnia as lined shelves empty their contents across solid wood grain. The oesophagus of the Leviathan is cleaving open with the aches of bruised timber, resonating noise like a clawing birth, and the brief intervals between one contradictory wave and the next resonate with straining wood and nauseating stirs.

Wrenched this way and that like a flimsy meteor diverging from one surface to another, it feels hours till the pulse of the storm slowly gnaws itself down, chewed and corroded away to be an onboard fable. The waves ease, rain abates, and damage has worn its way deep into the grooves of the vessel, into the splintered and leaking freshwater reserves that had been poorly tethered.

The speed of the storm’s withdrawal could almost divine it apocryphal if not onboard bruises and destruction a testament to its vigour. The masts are intact, the hold lesser so, with water glowering through cracks and crew scrambling to bucket the salt-fresh melange.

It is an unsettling interval for the crew with the essence of time bleeding around them. Legs slosh their way through the flooding to plug cavities with wood and caulk, and only once the ship is repaired enough to be considered stable does the crew gather guests into the dining hall to avow security.

The squall of shaken guests is louder than the prior storm, swilled with alarm like rabbits in bracken. Scorched with passenger’s urgency, the Captain stands silent in the surging questions with the regular unreadable furrow of his heavy-set brows.

“Are we sinking?” a woman cried from the crowd.

“Are we going to die?!” another man shouted.

“We’re lost, aren’t we?”

“What will we do?!”

The crowd grows restless, and only with the help of the more outspoken officers is Lexis able to voice anything.

“She is no longer sinking.” With quiet care, the Captain measures his words to answer only the most important question. But the unfortunate turn of events has the Captain linger in silence, a language he is most fluent in. Within that interval is the unspoken acknowledgment of uncertainty; words press heavy, but quietude is sisyphean.

“There are lights in the distance,” he has found space for continuation in the rippling murmurs of the room, “a township.” Hopeless to be guided by charts of the skies when the canopy above is whisked with heavy clouds, stubborn in their resolve to loiter. “Locals will provide us with a heading to replenish our water supply. We will proceed with our voyage by dawn.”

Something settles the passengers, perhaps contentment to have the pressing issue demeaned into a simple objective.

“Anyone who wishes to participate may make it known. Longboats will leave within the hour.”

---

The ship and sea is a quiet hover, wood still lacquered wet with sheets of rain yet quelled by this new, unfamiliar and eerie calm. Unmoored from their path and without direction, but as per the Captain’s claim, rich yellow glows await, dotted in the black distance.

Longboats slice through waters with the dip and pull of oars till they can slide onto the shore with a sigh, tugging the boat to rest on the sand. Inhales, oxygen and petrichor annex lungs, and the ascent up the beach is not one of arctic wind, instead hangs itself humid and heavy on the nape. But even the give of wet sand undersole is a more trustworthy bedrock than The Leviathan’s current state.

What greets them first on these unfamiliar shores is a building, reared with wood that faces the coast like a pyre. The closest of glowing beacons, crowned with a carved wooden sign penned with honorific:

THE HAVEN INN.

It could almost feel insincere after the night they have endured, a half-dream.

They push inside with the chime of a bronze bell, and what tension is bound through the sinew of shoulders now loosens a fraction to gravity’s pull. There is a certain type of luxury to it, mahogany panels saturated to a rich red and the aroma of honey and spiced cider. A polished flooring easily associated with weeks of swaying, now solid and steadfast despite the padding of thick rugs; a comfort where one can worry no longer on the mercuriality of the sea or leaden night.

Some may welcome in it, may bask in this reprieve as salt chill is drawn from their bones. Others may repulse the gleam of soft warm hues.

Only one patron is in view, a receptionist that is nothing if not expectant. Dripped in strings of yolky gold, a syrup of metal that ripples fluid in the lantern ambience is draped over layers of tailored grey, assortments of patterns and textures that part to reveal loose bracelets that clink softly as she moves.

“Come in, come in.” Fracture-sweet as a melody is their voice, but settles soft as ash. A gold clad hand motions the crew inside, tames them from damp stray to welcomed guest. “Haven’s as good a place as any to leave those outside troubles behind.” She rises from behind her desk, sharp carvings of her features now softened by the rounding shadows of the room, but holds a smile that is far too knowing for a stranger that is yet to learn both the name or face of these visitors.

---

They had been unable to garner many answers. Their location is betwixt towns nobody had heard the name of. Enquiry to water resources had been met with reservation, only the innkeeper can help with that, but she will not return till later.

The crew will settle till dawn in wait for their return, and in the meanwhile will have to pass time at the Haven Inn.

The receptionist smiled, told them “Haven can keep you as long as you need,” then took an ornate master-key from the wall behind her and gestured them to follow. Her shoes padded softly along the carpet beneath the drag of grey fabrics as she led them down hallways, indicating amenities such as a library, common area and taproom.

One by one she assigns them a private room, unlocks the door and stands politely to the side for them to enter. It is not comparable to Sirocco luxury, yet the furnishings are comfortable and the rugs are thick.

She’d made sure to note a light supper would be served in the common room. The apprehension of the storm is to be swallowed, and by the time any arrive to investigate this promise, there are couches circling a hearth, and a table of small platters with cheese, fruit, spreads, thick-crust bread, golden and dusted in flour, await the crew.

The rooms had been ready for quite some time now, but one should remember:

People are nothing but a shell of ringing desires and the promise of endless horizons. There will be no outstripping something that is built into your very being.

{IN-CHARACTER}

night owl

 

[Gao]

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IN-CHARACTER

THE INTERLUDE

ROGUE WAVES

ONBOARD THE LEVIATHAN.

THE INTERLUDE

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐄.

The night of Algol is a funeral shroud, cloud-baked sands in a cosmos of hiemal gray and poppy-red spillage. The injuries littered throughout the cast are only warning signals, but are a sincerity of the Graymaw’s intentions.

The crew herds away from the breaking tide where tendrils of wave and limb wait with canary yellow eyes. The tide flows in and they come with it, calm step after calm step and from where the crew clusters, they can see it; the brief cuts of light that silver over wet shoulders, rippling despite the moored stance of their bodies.

Still, the cast remains and the heat of their flesh is testament to their survival. An anchor with the imagined surety of being alive and around the safety of touch, they gather flasks and fabrics and tend to the wounded with what they have.

Not a moment of consideration is needed to understand why trying to get past the Graymaws and back to The Leviathan would be a bad idea. Wounds are tributes to the bestial encounters and red scents the frigid air as it soaks like acrimony.

It is first glimpsed like opaque rays, the break of daylight splitting through the black gut of the sky. It lightens slowly, unveiling the flat swathe around them that is blurred like an ashen dream. With the arrival of daylight does the chain of graymaws recoil, and they sink below the water that barely churns to their immersion.

It is a measure of caution as the crew waits until the sun holds safe dominion, a measure of caution as only a select few volunteer to test the dinghies in the water. Once affirmed to be a vague notion of “probably safe”, the crew piles in and they make for the ship in silence.

Their pivot from dinghy to safety of the deck is steadied by reaching hands of those that stayed behind, and it is hard not to notice the thinned numbers blanketed with quiet, how comfort is scarce in slathered undereyes and how mouths are ready to eat blame. Somewhere abandoned in the sucking mud of Algol are unmarked graves that plump and soften, the bodies of Genevieve Kalten and Adrius Blackwood picked away to pale bone and ruby broth.

All the snarled wounds ground deep with sand, nails thick with copper and flies that make a mess of the blood. Many of the crew does not speak of it, that petrichor of anarchy on the shores of Algol, everywhere and all at once, and the glow of hungry eyes that refracted through lemon sclera are branded like a violent dream.

How to distill what they have encountered in words without sounding entirely deranged, only to permeate the superstitious whispers already diffusing through the vessel.

Perhaps the haunting quiet of the survivors is for the best. With throats soon to be tight with thirst and the events of Algol a struggle to speak about, a silent concordance has settled those onboard; maybe some things should remain unknown, and seeking logic in what happened would be a kind of undoing— maybe one that would not be entirely physical.

The ship still aches from mutilation through the storm. She is afloat but porcelain is broken and some people are, too. The future weighs upon rationing and scrounging water from passing vessels until they reach the closest landmass for repair and resupply:

Antares.

---

𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐓𝐒 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐎𝐂.

{IN-CHARACTER}

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[Gao]

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IN-CHARACTER

PURSUIT

ROGUE WAVES

ANTARES.

CHAPTER FOUR

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑.

𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟓𝐭𝐡, 𝐀𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐬.

In late October, there’s a reason for their stop in Antares and it is not to flirt with infernal iron.

Accidents, infections, dehydration, even a course of bad luck is the final fate of many expeditions, but the grandeur of a ship this size now must apprehend the currency of stories, of half-truths, of rumor that has diffused under and over the ridges of Solas.

Survivors of Algol, the realm has not yet decided it to be myth or candour. Onboard with the subjects of this gossip is a sobering that has worked into the grooves of the ship like a salt crust of residual laughter. Celebrations have been quiet as of late, mouths scorched with drought and a sun that is sea-light sharp. Days spent dimming energy with eyelids that bat like weak fins, flesh is coveting for water when sapped of vitality and the ugly ravening is beginning to stir itself into ferity.

A constant thirst, it had been a month spent scrounging what water they could trade from passing merchants and rationing it thin, not much else is to be found in the desolate salt.

It is not a comfortable decision, this one. The crown’s jewel has sailed outside of the safe Zenith region, bathed in the sun and been nourished by civilian adulation, met the early October storm and fractured her hull, found the haven inn and bloodshed of Algol, and now limps itself dry to the only location that can serve them salvation.

Lingered like an animal who held their flinch low in the gut, waited till the basin of the sky haloed pestled shades of orange and red. The port is a matte flush of yam, and half-fathomed in the dying sun is no sight of the Baron’s ship. No doubt red corsairs are present, a wrong assumption on this matter will deceive, place you at the end of their gun or sword, and smaller ships of their fleet are tethered in the dock like silent warnings.

A place that strikes like a punch, all fire and rum and knuckles burgeoned boysenberry bruises. Anger has a home here, basalt shadows the eyes of many, and the sight of a royal vessel cutting the breadth of a pirate oriented harbor is an apprehensive one. Consequences follow trespassing, and no doubt clamor will be churned for an audacious intrusion such as this.

The Leviathan pulls slowly into Antares, a goliath that brushes past like a prey-shudder for vessels that permit themselves inferior enough to slip by. Merchants, unaffiliated pirates, royal ships that are either crooked in their dealings or as impudent as The Leviathan itself, the sight of her dredges stares as she reconstructs shadow over Antarian waterfront and settles into moor.

A curious turn of events, gliding into the scarlet-hearted fester of the baron’s port, the squalling dynasty of these streets rises to meet them and some flavor of feeling— not trust, but the passive entry and arrival lightens the threat of her presence, convinces those along the dock that there is no malicious intent to decimate the port.

The crew has been depleted of souls since Algol, pairs of useful hands lost in the maws of the storm or those that did not wake on the bloodied sand. The Leviathan will repair and resupply both inventory and crew, and those onboard are permitted to roam Antares till their departure at dawn.

Don’t fight anyone.

{IN-CHARACTER}

night owl