Bohemian Papist

I never dreamed things would happen the way they did, I just wanted to end the world. Sure, I knew there were risks. You join an apocalyptic death cult and you figure there’s a chance that some heroes are going to come in swinging at the last minute with their elder signs, disrupt the ritual, and then you have to wait another century before you can try again. Well, not you specifically, you’re worm food by then, but the cult endures and they take another stab at it. Slaggesh told me about it back when he was going by his cult name and not Steve. The Cult of Iskayl was his third doomsday cult.

“It sucks when a ritual gets disrupted,” he said, taking a drag of his cigarette. “I remember when we were summoning Salanayx from beyond the high ether to reign on Earth, we had everything right, then some asshole burst in with a flamethrower and barbequed our leader right when the gate was about to open.” He shrugged, his eyes sunken in and dark. “After that, you know, a lot of the periphery drifts away. The core stays, sure, the true believers.” He nodded at me. “But there’s always some cult out there getting ready for the big apocalypse and most of us don’t want to clean up when the party’s over. After this, the Cult of Y’lnoteph’s up and their rituals are really just excuses to have an orgy.” He grinned at me, neck stooped forward and crooked. “Actually, they’re one of the few that get high membership even when they don’t have a celestial alignment coming up, but what can I say, if the world’s going to end, I want to be there to kick it over the edge.”

Those were the good times. Every Saturday at midnight, we’d descend down into the grand foyer for our dark mass. We’d sacrifice some goats, drink a thimble full of blood, sing hymns in a tongue not made for our ears to understand, listen to a sermon about all the dark delights that would open to us once Iskayl pierced through the ether to bring the end of all things, and then we’d get our marching orders for the week on how to subvert governments or companies or induct new members or whatever the cult needed. And Slaggesh always told me, if we were worshipping Y’lnoteph, we could be having an orgy right now. We mostly kept him up in the exalted ranks because what he lacked in loyalty, he made up for in experience.

I never doubted though. I saw the truth in Iskayl’s prophecies, knew out of all the unfathomable horrors that lurk beyond the periphery of this world, she was the one who’d come to end our world, and I think that’s why they chose me to be her wedded vessel. For a month before the ceremony, I ate only the livers of the goats and calves we sacrificed to our dear Iskayl, spent my days reading her word, surrounded myself with her holy symbols, and spent my nights scrubbing myself clean of worldly poisons and anointing myself in holy oils. When the day came, I marched through the grand foyer clad in her black wedding gown and laid down on the grand altar as the priests did their final rituals.

That dark, hallowed hour stretched out to infinity, and far off in the foyer, I heard mumbling, imagining a few of the veterans glancing at the entrance, applications to follow Y’lnoteph already written up on their computers. Some of them probably had their interviews scheduled. Quitters. But then, High Priest Genardame and the eight chosen brothers finished the last syllable of the many-throated prayer and through the stoney ceiling, stars opened up for me. Beautiful mother Iskayl filled me with her essence, my back arching as more and more of her poured into me, memories of other realms, other stars, places beyond seeing filled my mind, crystal water flowed into the heard of a dark star. Piping flutists danced around a great planet of flesh, lulling it into sleep, and as I caught glimpses into her, she ripped through my mind, pulling out every secret as fleshy tumors grew through my skin, transfiguring me into her perfect form, new limbs forming and reforming in the mass of flesh.

The transformation ceased, and I felt content in the crevice of my old mind she’d shoved me into. I felt her looting my mind, pulling out the words she needed, learning how to shape the sounds into  a meaning we could understand. “Thank you very much,” she said in my voice, but sweeter that it ever sounded when I commanded. Almost fawning. “But this is all too much.” She rubbed two tentacles together. “I don’t know how most of those things got into the summoning ritual, but you still did it, so thanks all the same.”

Thousands of eyes stared at us, awaiting her royal decree, the first order that would herald the end of all things as I felt her tentacles slither into my mind, pulling the words she needed. “You all need to get jobs. Real jobs. No more cults and sacrifices. You’re too lovely to be cooped up in this dark foyer every day. The world is your oyster. Seize the day.” Her thousands of legs twitched and she slithered to the exit to find the cult still blocking her path. “Fine, you’re going to make me use my voice, aren’t you?” None of them reacted and she made a series of articulations that among her kind could be interpreted as a shrug. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I felt inside her mind, once mine, the rush of a language where every word was packed with a thousand meanings, all used at once, complex webs of thought conveyed in only the utterance of a syllable. She hacked at it like a mad gardener, pruning concepts and ideas down to the most basic commands. Simple enough even we could understand. And then, she opened her true mouths, a scream beyond sound filling the cavern, ripping open the minds of all in attendance. <Get a real job. No more fake names. Keep a positive attitude. Love, Iskayl.> Her mouths clenched shut and the crowd filed out of the foyer. “There,” she said, and I could feel her attention flitting to me. “That wasn’t too hard, was it?”

***

It turned out the first thing ‘horrors from beyond the veil of time’ want to do after being summoned is watch television. Lots and lots of television. To get into my apartment, she had to fold in on herself dozens of times until the room would properly contain her, forcing more and more of herself into a place that existed between the spaces of our three dimensions, setting up her almost-humanoid form onto my couch, and flipping the TV on, my laptop right next to her, with my old radio going at the same time. And there she sat for six weeks, not bringing the end of the world or anything, just watching every show in existence.

But as she watched, so did I. I looked into her memories, saw the eternity in the dark as an abstract being of thought, talking to others of her kind, communicating without voice, differentiated from each other only by their mental signatures. “Okay,” she said, turning off the TV and slithering off my couch, returning to something more resembling her first form. “Watching you all was a bit more boring than I thought. Can’t imagine how I thought I was going to do that for eternity. I guess we’ll have to come up with another plan.”

***

“People of Earth!” she shouted as a news chopper circled around her in the distance. On every road leading to Central Park, dozens of tanks sat, looking like match cars, guns smaller than a thumbtack. “I have travelled from beyond time and space to help you reach the next level of understanding and achieve a higher consciousness. Let me talk with your leaders so that we might make peace and share our knowledge.” A tank shell impacted into her side, feeling like the faint tickling of a feather. “Fine, be that way.”

<Broadcast my words on every television station. Bring me your leaders so that we might sign a concordance. Love, Iskayl.>

***

For a shining second, I thought my apocalyptic vision might be realized. She’d gathered every leader to her, now all she had to do was launch a plot hatched inside her inscrutable consciousness to bring about the end. Maybe command the president to fire every missile simultaneously or have scientists open up some rift to worlds that break lesser minds. After spending the last few months drifting in and out of Iskayl’s memories while she was being boring, I could suggest a few interesting ones. The Waking Nightmare of Iln’zoth, for starters. But no, she just wanted to talk.

“I appreciate all of you being here with me.” She smiled one of her mouths that was on something that might approximate a face. For the occasion, she’d ‘requested’ a tailor sew a purple robe for her, commanding exactly how she wanted the runes on it for her. She didn’t want to be the only one in the room not wearing clothes. “Now, I think we should start the negotiations with something simple. World peace. What do you all say?”

“Excuse me,” the president said. “I don’t know who you think you are, but I am the President of the United States, and I think everyone can agree I’m the best one, so why don’t I tell you what I want you to do so you’re not deported.”

“Oh, were we not clear? I apologize. Communicating with you is an exercise in frustration and I forget your limited ability to grasp meaning.” she looked to all the other leaders gathered around the table. “Well, just so we’re all on the same page, I am Iskayl, goddess of endless compassion and love, one true friend of humanity, and if you talk again, I’m going to make you eat your tongue, alright?” She unfurled herself, opening up her endless beauty to the president, showing him worlds beyond our dimensions and a sliver of the great power she had. He nodded. “That’s great. And I want you to understand, I’m not here to conquer you. I could if I wanted to, but I’m not. I just want to help you all be your best selvs, because I’m a good person.”

“Excuse me,” the French translator said. “It seems peculiar you refer to yourself as a person as we understand you are not human.”

She laughed and the whole building shook, even in her folded form. “Of course, I’m a person. Do you know how funny it is to me that you little, hairless, Shhyalzip-looking things going around calling yourselves people? It’s adorable, really. Now, world peace. All you have to do is pull your troops out of countries that aren’t yours and stop fighting each other. It seems easy enough to me, so let’s do it.”

“We will not compromise our nation’s sovereignty or national interests to some extra-dimensional terrorist,” the Russian translator said, sweating and looking back at his country’s president. He leaned to the microphone and whispered. “Also, please remember, I’m only translating what he says.”

Iskayl sighed, her other mouths opening. I braced myself for what came next, fighting the urge to sing with her proclamation, watching as her voice revealed undeniable truths to her listeners. <Stop fighting each other. Get out of each other’s countries. Love, Iskayl.> And just like that, the great withdrawal had started and Iskayl’s word was law.

***

“You know, I think you’re a bad influence on me,” Iskayl said, laying a clutch of eggs in the new Palace for Peace and Prosperity built by a million workers over a thousand days, designed to be the perfect home for her radiance. She sensed my confusion as she sensed all things about me. “We always absorb a little bit of the flavor of our host when we’re summoned into our godly form and pulled from the world of the high ether. When I was summoned, I just wanted to chill out and get to know your world, but then I started getting this itch that maybe I should do something with my enormous power to make the world better, because when I got here, don’t take this the wrong way, it was a bit of a trash heap.”

She finished laying her clutch and stroked one of the eggs with her tentacles. “I thought I would be so cool, just getting to understand and be one of you, but it turns out you’re idiots, and I can’t stand watching people be morons. I think that’s what I get from you. Some lonely misanthrope joins a death cult, proves her dedication again and again until she’s chosen to be my vessel, so of course I might grow to be an irritable megalomaniac.” Iskayl, great lover of humanity, goddess of endless compassion cooed a sweet nursery rhyme to her children. “Really, it’s a testament to my character that I’m so good. Maybe I’m not the chill stardrifter I thought I’d be in the high ether, but I’m here, I’m making your world a better place to be, and that’s a lot more than any of you are doing.” She corrected herself. “Were doing.”

Iskayl folded herself down to only a dozen times larger than the average person and moved to pick up her great robe, slithering her many limbs through it. She studied herself in the mirror, reshaping her radiance into the most perfect form for that minute. She looked back at the clutch. “Or maybe we’re all just cursed to turn into our parents, no matter how much we want to be better.” I felt her mind shrug. “Either way, we are where we are and I want the best possible future for my children, and that means the best possible future for humanity, so let’s make today a great day.” She stamped a hoof on the ground – hooves, she had decided, were in fashion this season and so she endeavored to make sure all of her forms had at least one – and the great heralds of Iskayl pushed the door to her throne room as music blared, a symphony composed to remind her of the high ether played on instruments of her own devising. Cameras rushed to capture her as the eyes of the world turned towards her radiance.

In the end, she hadn’t forced anyone to step down. Every world leader had simply relinquished power to her, parliaments voluntarily dissolving so she could better lead humanity into the next golden age, and to her credit, she protested at first, but the demands were insistent. Even when she used her voice, a new leader would come to her with the same offer, and I think she decided it would just be easier to get rid of the middlemen and rule directly about the third time the president abdicated to her, this one elected running for the Love Iskayl party, which only had one plank in their platform: Love Iskayl. He won in a landslide.

That’s when she understood her mistake. Existing in the high ether was to exist without sense, coldly viewing the happenings of other dimensions but never able to hear or touch. The only others with her were her brothers and sisters, waiting for their cults to give them form, to bring them to a world where they might continue their species and prepare for the next cycle. And while they waited, they talked. Planned what they wanted to do, complained about their parents, made promises to keep in touch after they were summoned, and to differentiate themselves from each other, they always made sure to sign their thoughts like we signed a letter. A quick well wish and their name. And of course she signed it with love, because she really did love everyone.

The crowd wept as she made her way to the grand dais where she had her throne, chants of “Love Iskayl” filling the marble room.

I love learning someone is spying on me. Anyways, I might as well go. Maybe the all-seeing wizard will know some way out of here. 

How about I do, anyways?

(So, I feel the need to apologize here. My voice for Lapis hasn’t been as strong or good as I’d like it, and I’ve been rewatching episodes to try and get a better grip. Here’s where I went wrong: I tried to play up angry Lapis too much. Yes, she can get incredibly angry at times, and she knows how to hold a grudge, but I’ve let that overshadow the rest of who she is. She’s also incredibly prone to self-doubt/self-loathing, kind to those who’ve shown some degree of hospitality to her, and as of Gem Harvest, pretty willing to give people the benefit of the doubt.

I’d argue that at least some irritability could be caused by... you know, being teleported to another dimension and stuff, but I’m going to try and tone it down. I’m also wondering just how much of everything I should show. Been skipping farming stuff, and I might start cutting fluff. Anyways, back to our semi-regularly scheduled thing.)

Thanks, perfectly timed television broadcast that seems applicable solely to me. I’d definitely look for them if I didn’t already have a few in my trash box. Let’s see if the other station took my idea about playing Camp Pining Hearts reruns.

Okay. I mean, I don’t really think I need a well right now, since I have a river running through the middle of my farm, but if I ever get too tired to walk down a set of stairs, I’ll let you build a well on my farm.

Day 3: I’m still here. Expected, but a gem can dream. This morning wasn’t that bad, though. I woke up to the patter of rain against window panes and just spent an hour lying in bed thinking.

Pelican Town isn’t awful. Farming is relaxing, and some of the people are tolerable. There are worse places I could be stuck waiting for Steven and Peridot to rescue me. Anyways, let’s see who’s in this building.

What’s that thing on your lip? Is it contagious? Can I get sick? My gem’s still here, but I also need sleep and... I need to go forever now, bye.

Look, a house with hopefully no sick people inside. The first sign of the disgusting face growth, though, and I... it feels hypocritical of me to burn it down, but I’m working with what I have.

I know. Finally, someone who gets it. I’m not even sure why I’m doing this besides the fact that maybe someone knows the way out of here. (Also because completely ignoring the social component of the game is kind of missing the point. Pure RP would probably just be Lapis sitting in the cabin rocking back and forth for at least the first season.)

Lapis. You too.

Yeah, thanks. It’s not awful as prisons go. You should be proud, I suppose. Now, enough people talk, time to do some relaxing.

I’m fiiishing away. Dreaming of Beach City.

Because I want to be free. Waiting for rescue from Steve and Perry.

Come fish away. Come fish away. Come fish away with mee.

Okay, that was fun. Back to dealing with townies, I guess. Maybe the museum guy wants some of this garbage I found on the beach.

That’s nice. I had all the information I’d need to be a functional gem instilled in me from birth. Your way seems interesting, though. I need to empty my pockets.

The fish should store fine with the rest of my garbage box, and that frees up more space in my pockets that I really don’t like thinking too hard about.

Oh, and look at that furnace. Thank you explaining how to heat ore and refine them into metals, Clint. I would have never figured that out as a millenia-old gem. What else can I do in town today?

I can go to the bar.

I heard about them, too. Were there nineteen or twenty? I think they were in one of Steven’s books he loaned me.

Oh, so now you feel bad about it? I understand. I spent a while feeling bad because I fused with another gem, dragged us to the bottom of the ocean and spent the better part of a year venting all of my rage, frustration, and self-loathing that formed after being imprisoned in a mirror for six-thousand years on them. It took me a while to feel good about myself after that, so I completely understand you feeling bad about stepping on a bug. That sounds awful.

(I give Leah grief, but right now, she’s the one I’m most likely to romance.)

So did everyone else.

Well, the place is still pretty overgrown, so if you ever feel like trespassing on my land again, you’re more than welcome to. Just don’t take my parsnips. They’re what gets me out of bed in the morning.

Sam wants a soda. He’s standing next to the soda machine. Somehow, I end up solving this problem for him.

You’re welcome, but next time... Oh, I see, you tricked me into paying for your soda.

Yeah, you seem pretty busy leaning against the wall staring into your beer. Let’s not talk again some time soon.

I don’t really care for sports, but you can toss the ball to yourself, and I can do something else entirely.

I’m pretty sure I’m stronger than you, and if I had my powers back, I could drown you with a thought. Just... interesting things to think about before you go saying stupid things.

And, anger gone. Lure goes in, fish comes out. No one can explain that.

Hmm, so, a human died in this house, right? I refuse to believe something terrible didn’t happen in a place this run down. Maybe the purple woman can walk around here instead of my farm.

And, another teasing path out of Pelican Town that just happens to be blocked. I think I’m just going to go head back to sleep and dream of somewhere that isn’t here. Or at the very least, dream of a bountiful turnip harvest.

It’s my second day in Pelican town. So far, everyone’s been... nice. Useless, but nice. I don’t think any of them will stop me if I try to find a way out, and hopefully, I’m up early enough none of them will see me leave.

Or, they could have someone sitting outside my door waiting for me to come out. Hi.

How could you possibly know that? Did you break into my house and look through my garbage bin? Because we aren’t close enough for you to do that.

Th- Thank you? Please leave, and let’s never talk again.

What part of ‘Let’s never talk again’ was so hard for you to understand? Next.

I’ve had a night to sleep, think, and stop the screaming in my head. A few things have become clear to me:

1.) Panicking gets me nowhere: We’re dealing with some energy capable of teleporting me to another location, and possibly dimension, while also forcing me to need sleep. I’ve had far worse things happen to me.

2.) By now, people back in Beach City have noticed I’m missing and are probably coming up with a rescue plan now.

3.) There’s no risk of eminent harm or shattering. Everyone seen so far has been friendly to me, and I’d imagine are acting just like I’d imagine normal townspeople would be. 

4.) I have some time to try and get to know the area before doing anything crazy. What’s a day compared to 6,000 years?

(Okay, so when I just started this, I kind of wasn’t thinking completely in character, so I spent the first day doing kind of standard first day things. This is my attempt to justify it. Hooray for holding characterization secondary to plot reasons!) Let’s see what we have. Mystery box that wasn’t here the night before.

Apparently, the mayor snuck into my house during the middle of the night to give me his seeds. I don’t think this is normal human behavior. Still, farming was fun. Maybe I can do it to pass the time. Ooh, and a TV. Do they have Camp Pining Hearts?

No, just a suspiciously well-timed farming broadcast. And the weather, but who watches that? Maybe someone in town will have the tapes. Also, we have a bed, fireplace, table with a sleeping gem on it, and torch. Let’s go outside.

The king is dead, long love our new king: King Kaire Penikis. While some have disparaged his character, accusing him of the murder o his brother, we bel–

*SHRRRK*

Yeah, no. It’s nice that grandfather wanted to get this history book going, but history’s written by the winners, and so that means it’s written by me. Besides, if this is going to be our people’s secret history, then there are some things only I should be writing. Can’t tell anyone else where the bodies are. Now, let’s get started. First order of business is getting married.

A bit young, but she’ll do, and secure a non-aggression pact with one of my more powerful vassals. They’ll be eating out of my hand in no time. Now, let’s wrap up that holy war in the north, and start my reign off with a glorious victory. Maybe it’s time to bring in the holy order and wrap things up.

Are you kidding me? The head of our faith is my vassal and you’re declaring war on me? For a single freaking county? Fine. I can’t fight two wars at once, and I’m not about to start losing land. Consider yourself lucky Rus. Brotherhood? I won’t rest until you’re my vassal state.

(I wanted to show off this game to a friend to explain how the game worked and kind of forgot I was doing a let’s play of it. We apologize for the interruption in narrative. To recap, we won the war, but during it the council pushed a faction through for more power because apparently, tribal vassals can always faction against you, no matter what.)

Enemies list:

Chosen of Perkunas My Council

Fine. If they won’t appreciate my kindness, I’ll force them to obey. They will obey, or they will die. I am the king of Lithuania, defender of the Romuvan faith, my ambition is nothing less than empire, and I won’t let small-minded men stop me. I am a Penikis!

One of the chief conspirators against me is about to learn the price for his arrogance. Death to all who defy my vision!

One less conspirator to worry about.

Moving on to the next conspirator on my list and the current heir. Also, some adventurer is trying to take over my land and failing miserably.

Unfortunately, I can’t get anything done. Over half my council are malcontent, and the rest are being forced to vote with them. Why can’t they just let me work? I’m creating a better future for our people, and they dig their heels in for less than any reason. What have I done wrong?

The next malcontent won’t be dying, but he will be spending the rest of his life in my cell. He’s been my rival for years, usurping power from his liege and proving to be untrustworthy. He’ll be safer in prison.

Oh, it’s fine, I don’t need to reclaim the lands the Chosen stole from me for reasons I don’t fully understand. Just let them hold our rightful domain.

Back to spying on my heir until I find a way to deal with him. Nothing turns up except evidence he’s a bastard that I can’t use because my council refuses to arrest him.

Finally, I can declare war for my rightful land. With his limited men, this should be easy enough. I highly doubt the majority of the Chosen will fight their own Romuvan brothers.

Wait, they absolutely can. At least I have a chance to murder my current target. A small silver lining.

Except it doesn’t work.

Just what I need, another Adventurer’s War while I’m failing to fight the Chosen. Why won’t they let me do what I need to? All I want is to make my father’s empire. I want him to be proud.

For the first time in our people’s history, we fully lose a war. My legacy will be forever tarnished with this fact, and it will take some time for our treasury to recover.

My only consolation is the time spent with my new wife. The only bright spot in dark days. Our dynasty grows, at least, and the break from war allows me to think about what’s important, planning out our next step to empire.

And our technology advances to the point we can implement new reforms. Hopefully, the council will support my efforts to change our type of administration.

Of course, they won’t. They won’t even support my effort to raise taxes on their city vassals, a move that would benefit them. They’ll bow before me one day. They all will.

Yes, let’s murder him please. One less vassal to worry about.

But, of course, it doesn’t. Why would things work out? I’m only trying to save the Romuvan people from all the threats that surround us. Why would anyone in my kingdom support that. It doesn’t matter. At least, I wounded him. May that cut turn gangrenous, and he die choking on his own pus.

And speaking of threats to the empire, the Christians have called for wars of holy liberation. They call these new wars the Crusades, and I have visions of Lithuania drowning in soldiers carrying the cross. This cannot happen.

Fine, I won’t kill or imprison him. Instead, I’ll just focus my efforts on something more productive, like crushing the latest Adventurer’s War.

Intrigue has failed me. Maybe the problems will abate if I get my vassals to not completely despise me. Fine, let’s try playing friendly, you jerks.

If we could just put that 350 gold into our treasury instead of throwing it into the sea, that would be idea. Unfortunately, that seems impossible. Farewell, fortune.

Maybe they’ll support my efforts to centralize the realm. How can they say no to more power for them?

Oh. Look at that, the Catholics launch a crusade to retake Aquitaine from the Aztecs. Also, the Catholics lost Aquitaine to the Aztecs.

New plan: Marry my dynasty into EVERY house in the kingdom. I knew there was a reason for all these children.

Ancestors, just, please give my realm prosperity. Let it grow, let it prosper, let it turn into an empire. Let your creation flourish, and please don’t listen to my brother. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Here, have this woman in my dungeon.

Maybe it worked, because for the first time, I don’t have any malcontents on my council. What would I give for a single loyalist, though?

Now, with prosperity restored and councilors who don’t despise me, it’s time for the war machine to spring to life, opening one eager eye towards Altmark as 99 retinues go by.

The first battle of the war ends in victory. A good omen for us!

Even better, our latest high priest decides it’s time for us to take our place as the equals of Christendom, and declares an era of grand holy wars to fight the Christians. Unfortunately, he refuses to give me the power to declare them.

And apparently, Germany is the kingdom that most desperately needs religious liberation. Not Poland or Saxony or Rus or any of the other kingdoms I’ve tried to make inroads with. No, we need to pick a fight with the Christians. Then again, they are distracted with their own Crusade at the moment.

Oh, would you look at that? The Saxons just had 7,000 men waiting around in reserves. Time for another humiliating white peace another mark of my failure, another aborted conquest. Why? Why can’t I do something? Why must fate always bind my hands? It’s because I killed you, isn’t it? Because I had the drive and ambition to be king and you got in my way. I bet you think you could have done so much better, well you can’t!

You couldn’t even save yourself, you couldn’t see the machinations all around you, I alone see the wheels, see the strings, know the direction the wind is blowing in. What kind of ruler is a man who couldn’t even save his own life? How would you have saved Lithuania? I’m the right choice, it’s me, so why did father choose you? Why did he nominate you. If he’d just picked me, you could be ruling along with me by now. Why must you mock me from above?

Failure, that’s what I’ll be remembered as. The man who couldn’t keep Lithuania together, unless... There’s still time. Perhaps I can make right by Dievas and have his blessing rain down upon me. Perhaps I can redeem myself and atone for my sins. Perhaps Lithuania can prosper once again. To Germany! To Glory!

Let Lithuania stand with the church and mend our differences with the chosen. Today and forever, we shall fight for the Romuvan people. Dievas Vult!

Unfortunately, one of my own dynasty plots against me. Well, I’m sure the council will at least support my efforts to arrest him (something I could have done without their approval if they hadn’t factioned against me years ago).

No, of course not. The worst are the glory hounds who refuse to arrest the man plotting to kill me on the grounds that arresting someone of my dynasty will weaken my dynasty! I just... Why? I might stand with Dievas, but the council doesn’t stand with their king. More marriages are needed so I can replace them with sycophants.

And more luck, the Crusade for Aquitaine fails, and the Catholic armies now march north. Hopefully, they’re still decimated from fighting the Aztecs, giving us the slimmest of chances.

Perhaps, not all is as bad as I imagine. We still hold our ground in Germany, and my youngest son has just come of age. I sign the papers nominating him as my heir, and go to look at the world from my balcony. He has grown into a wise man, far more likable than I ever was, an by all accounts wise. Some question his... eccentricities, but I’m sure that with time and seasoning, he will be more than ready to take the reigns from me. Perhaps, I’ll even have an empire to hand him when my time draws close. I take a breath and lean against the railing.

The king’s body lies broken. In his bed, he grasps for breath, struggling to hold on. A courtier approaches, doing his best not to look at the mangled tissue that is currently our king. “The lords are fractured,” he says. “With no other strong contenders, your son will rule by your vote and your vote alone. However, it is possible that, given time, the councilors might agree to nominate one of their own and supersede–”

(Hello, everyone, and welcome to my little Let’s Play of Stardew Valley. Everything in parentheses will be my out-of-character asides, and everything else will be in character. Speaking of which, let’s meet ours:

Yep, if you couldn’t tell from the series title, this is going to be a strange Steven Universe/Stardew Valley crossover that exists solely because I thought it would be interesting, and need a break from my CK 2 project and actual legitimate writing thing. Anyways, I think that’s enough preamble, let’s dive in.)

Voyage III (January 3, 1888 to January 21, 1888)

Oh, I fear I have been a terrible adventurer. For over a month, I’ve been visiting exotic islands beyond the pale of any surfacer’s imaginations, and what do I say to commemorate it? Practically nothing. Instead, I talk about what I do, admittedly important, but certainly not the whole story. For instance, Frostfound. Did I go at all into detail about the twin spires of ice that seem to reach almost to the roof of the Neath? Or the fact that the massive complex is apparently hollow, and store to a great variety of things the crew urged me not to encounter (as did the squatters)? No. The scene was not set properly, and it’s a mistake I’ll work to fixing in the future of this log. However, there are some places like Irem, the city of answers that is, was, and will be that might prove harder to explain for reasons of time and tense. Instead, I’ll just say the locals seem to have a fascination with snakes (Note: Snakes and strange answers? Possible connection to the biblical story of Adam and Eve?) Either way, I will do my best to set the scene when first visiting a port.

Jan 3, 1888

After waking up, my first order of business was to submit my collection of port reports to the Admiralty. The dark-spectacled admiral was pleased with the number of reports and that I managed to visit the funging station. I’ve received quite the windfall AND my next commission. He wants me to get a report from Frostfound, and while I’m happy to go there and work on finding my missing navigator, I also have a hold full of fuel and an itch to see what’s south of London. Frostfound can wait until next time. Before leaving the Admiralty, I made sure to sell off my navigator’s rather revelatory chart (after taking my own rough notes on the location of Zee islands. They can’t drift that much). The admiral was suitably impressed, and I made more than a few echoes off it.

And with those echoes, it’s time we made some well-deserved upgrades to the Bathory. She’s been trudging along nicely with her old engines, but the magician says he’s almost positive we can equip a larger engine without worrying about the vibrations shaking the ship apart, so we bought the best engine money could buy. Correction, we bought the best engine our money could buy, which translates into the Leadbetter and Stainrod Boadicea. At the shipyards, I ran into a rather irrepressible individual discussing all the various cannons for sale and how they were all utter garbage. When they heard about the cannon I had on my ship, they simply insisted on joining me, swearing they were the only one who could make it do more damage than an angrily thrown feather duster. I relented, welcomed him aboard, and ordered the crew to take us out of London. And nothing happened. I gave the order again, and several members of the crew just looked at me.

“What seems to be the problem?” I asked, looking around.

“Excuse me, madame,” my magician said, leaning in close and whispering in my ear. “We have a small problem. You sold our old engine, and the Boadicea has yet to be installed.”

“Well, why not?” I asked, keeping my voice down as well. The crew didn’t need to hear about all this. It certainly wouldn’t help their opinion of their captain. The survivors of the last expedition already doubt me after my despondence, and the new zailors don’t need their faith shaken before we leave port. “I purchased it.” I reached into my pocket and pulled out a slip of paper. “It’s right here, see.”

My genial magician took the slip and nodded. “Ah, I believe I see the problem. This slip isn’t a receipt, it’s a form asking which berth to deliver the engine too. I’m sure numerous captains have made the same mistake.” Somehow, I don’t believe his claims, but they make me feel better as I walk back to Leadbetter and Stainrod and correct the issue. Thankfully, they prove reasonable and cart the engine over to the Bath where the crew installed it with haste.

As they work, I hear a crewman talk about the layabouts of Leadbetter, and that of course they’d be late on the delivery. It seems the magician made sure everyone knew about how Leadbetter and Stainrod were completely at fault. Before we depart, I make sure to thank him.

Jan 4

Despite the trouble installing them, the engines proved to be a wonderful success. We cut through the black water like a knife, and the new engine doesn’t rip our ship apart in a cacophony of tearing metal. Triumphs all around. As we leave London, the thickest fog descends on us, and we’re forced to navigated with essentially zero visibility. A strange crab-type creature attempts to attack us in the fog, but we make quick work of it. A dark crag of rock rises up in front of us, jutting out from the fog. I slam the ship hard to starboard, and we manage to miss it. I check the navigator’s notes. Mutton Island. Why don’t they have any lights on the north side of the island? Any inattentive captain could lose their whole ship on the island’s rocks. Fortunately, we manage to sail around and dock on the island’s southern port. I lodge my complaint with the harbormaster and he sagely nods his head. “You’re right,” he says, looking quite apologetic, I think. “They could.” Well, at least he sees reason.

Mutton Island is the very model of a picturesque fishing village, or as close to one as you can get in the Neath. The locals are nice enough, and I take a stroll up above the village near the top of the island while the crew gather information for our port report. As I ascend, I hear a wail that pierces my skin and gets stuck in my head, seeming to reverberate endlessly. My first, second, and third instincts are to flee in terror, but I manage to keep my composure. I saw what looked like a network of cave systems while sailing around the island. If wind got caught in them just right, they could probably produce a soul-chilling wail. That’s it entirely, and certainly nothing diabolical. I nod, contented that I solved the mystery and quickly walk back to ship and set sail. Yes, it’s just the caves, but I’d still rather get back to Zee. Not out of some silly fear, just… It’s better to keep sailing.

Jan 5

The wail still haunts me. Just a trick of the wind, but I hear it whenever I close my eyes, feel it cutting through the Bathory. Ha ha, amazing how inventive the mind is. How desperate it is for something to terrorize it. Thankfully, we spend little time on the Zee and soon slide into a familiar harbour. Gianotti Harbour, to be precise, the first port I saw in the Neath and the gateway to the Cumaean Canal and the surface. I spend some time sitting around the harbour, listening for what gossip I can and noting the port’s movements.

Since I left, there’s apparently been a massive rebellion in India. Natives are rising up against their British overlords, and the warring France and Germany scramble to aid them before the enemy can, racing troops to aid the remnants of the former British Empire, and trying to claim the jewel of India for themselves. Thankfully, Russia is proving uninterested in the conflict, instead focusing on its own Asiatic adventures. Someone will pay handsomely for this information. After departing, I spend some hours speaking with the magician in my cabin about the new engine and some possible improvements. The conversation then wanders towards our pasts, and I tell him about what it was like growing up in Russia. He’s incredibly polite and well-spoken, but did his gaze linger longer than proper at some points? Perhaps it did. Even more shockingly, perhaps I don’t mind.

Jan 6

Docked at the Iron Repub

No.

Jan 7

We’ve continued south after departing the Republic – which I will not speak of beyond noting we purchased fuel there – and when I awoke the next morning, well, it was actually morning, with strange sunlight rising in the south. The crew spoke in hushed whispers on that unearthly dawn, and refused to go investigate. Instead, we docked at an old Admiralty station, the Grand Geode. We dock in Zelo’s Town and I speak with the commodore about the nature of the installation here. He’s certainly pleasant, and when his explanation is finished, I feel satisfied. I just can’t remember what he said. Perhaps I’ll ask the admiral when I see him again. As we prepare to depart and sail east, a woman approaches, asking if we perhaps need a navigator. She says she needs to leave in a hurry, and knows more than a bit about the Neath. We need a new first officer, so I welcome the exile aboard, and ask her where she’s from.

She says she’s running from Port Carnelian.

Jan 8

We docked in Port Carnelian today, much to the consternation of our newest crew members. I can’t see past her smokey sunglasses, but I don’t need to see her eyes to know the disapproval on her face. She refuses to leave the ship, and instead heads below decks to work on something else. She won’t say much, and I head to port, patrolling the Blue Bazaar, apparently a hub of local activity.

It’s funny I mentioned India a few days ago, and in many ways, Port Carnelian reminds me of the land in miniature. A bustling diverse city, where various cultures interact and exchange ideas would be the polite way of putting it, but it’s truthfully all about Londoner hegemony. There’s a ruling British class and oppressed natives. At least, I think they’re oppressed. It’s hard to tell how much power the tigers actually wield. After spending some time with them, it’s entirely possible that they’re toying with their London overlords. However, any grasp on power in the port seems tenuous, with three different factions working to achieve dominance. There’s London and the tigers, already mentioned, and the Khans, who are rather inscrutable (and according to my exile when I return, quite xenophobic). Still, the tension lends a strange sort of vitality to the city, and there’s always movement. And heat. Oh, lord, the heat. How can people live in this? How is it so hot? There’s no sunlight, unless you ignore the strange light we saw previously? Is it that glowing mountain in the distance?

Growing up in the Russian, you learn some things. How to control the serfs, for instance. However, I also learned a bit about information gathering. For instance, if you want to know what’s happening in a place, you don’t talk to the man on the top (almost always a man), you speak with the men and women on the ground, the people working day in and day out. Keeping that in mind, I approach the port’s indigenous population, and learn what I can from them. They seem amused to have someone speaking with them like equals, and track my every movement with their large slitted eyes. I fear I know what the mouse sees when it looks at the cat.

Jan 9

After leaving port, we headed north and left the coast behind us, to find another island port: the Fathomking’s Hold, which appears as a single massive piece of carefully sculpted coral rising up above us. The exile whispers in my ear that this is only the tip of it, that his whole palace sinks deep into the ocean before pointing to several smaller formations of coral. “The turrets to his parapet. Don’t even bother trying them, though, the port’s the only way in. Above the water, at least.”

I try to gain entry to meet the king, but the guard’s insistent that only those with an offering may enter. “A story about the zee,” he says, when I ask what the king wants. Strangely enough, I don’t have any of those the guards find acceptable. Defeated, I take a few notes about the port report and sail on.

Jan 11

We’ve been sailing for several days with no safe harbor to dock and no lights but the light of our lamps. Again the dark becomes oppressive, and I hear that damned wailing coming off the sea. “It’s just in my head,” I tell myself, but it does little to calm my nerves. Instead, I try to ask more about the exile and learn just where she’s from, but  she proves evasive. There’s more to her than she lets on, and sometimes… I wonder what I’ll find under those glasses if I ask her to take them off. I doubt she’s fully human, for what little that means in the Neath. The sailing’s been mostly uneventful, not counting an encounter with zee-bats, that the adventuress handled easily enough. She simply laughed when I told her how much trouble the d____d things gave me earlier. We continue zailing, and I spend more time speaking with the magician in the later hours of our sailing.

Jan 13

We finally make landfall at Shepherd’s Isle. Four days at sea, spent sailing, desperate for land. After twenty-four hours at zee, the dark of the Neath becomes an entity in its own right, malevolent and oppressive, and I’ve already written enough about that d____d wailing. Why am I talking about the dark wailing? Oh, yes, to say what a relief it was to finally step foot on solid ground. Like a shock running from foot to head and clearing some of the fear that’d descended upon me us.

Shepherd’s Isle is mostly uninhabited, it’s harbor really more of a wharf with a few buildings attached, and the locals are… odd. Their stories strain credulity even for the Neath, including one about a man from Irem who planted three pillars the size of fingers in the ground, that have been growing ever since. While there are indisputably three pillars on the island, I don’t believe they’ve grown. The bit about Irem feels true, though. Hailing from the Sea of Pillars, he lands and plants three fingerling pillars to grow and one day pierce the ceiling of the Neath. The… people from Irem are certainly strange enough. Irem’s certainly strange enough, and considering the islands of the Zee, that’s saying something. Perhaps we could start measuring the pillars? If they’re growing at the rate the old man suggested, it shouldn’t take too long to ascertain whether they’re growing or not. Perhaps London has a university that would be interested in investigating such things. I also found another potential navigator on the island. Strange markings are on his head, and I doubt they’re a tattoo. Just looking at them makes my head hurt, and he’s pained as well. In fact, he says the only time he feels slightly better is when he’s at Zee navigating. How can I say no to such a plea? I welcome him aboard to join the rest of my crew.

From the isle, it’s only an hour’s sailing to reach Abbey’s Rock, an apparent convent with rather stern sisters. They only agree to speak with me (and still refuse to let me see the inside of their convent) if I can tell them of London’s recent happenings. I tell them what little I remember from my carousings, and it seems to satisfy them as they offer a blessing for me and my crew. I’m not sure what exactly they worship in the Zee, and I doubt it’s the God of my youth (he seems to have very little say here), but it calms the crew, and I find solace as well. At least something’s watching over my ship, even if I’m not sure what it is… If I believed in such superstitions, of course. At least the crew’s comforted.

Another quick jaunt and we’ve reached our third port of the day. There’s no information on it beyond a placard reading “Station III.” I’d write more on it, but outside the placard, all I encountered was an iron gate that refused to part for me. I took note of a strange indentation, made something for the port report, and stormed off, sailing to the east.

Jan 14

After the frustration of Station III, docking in Port Cecil is welcome relief. For one, there are actual things to do and people to interact with. Second, it’s… quaint, almost reminding me of Mutton Island, if not for the fact that it’s located on a large outcropping of faintly-luminescent coral. “It’s rich in scintillack,” the new navigator whispers in my ear as we approach the harbor, while the exile sits at the bow of the ship, staring at things I can only imagine. “Be careful around it, and whatever you do, don’t break a piece of coral off the reef. It’ll eat you alive. If you want to collect scintillack, look for bits that already broke off. It’s safer.” I nod, joining my exile and following her gaze. Her head’s down, and I see jagged cracks of coral illuminated beneath the sea by our lights.

“They should be deep enough,” the exile said. “Should. We’ll find out.” I give her command of the ship and order her to take us into harbor before returning to my cabin, and away from the things just beneath my hull. The port is a triumph of aesthetics. The buildings aren’t made out of coral, and stand out distinctly on their own, but they’re also snugly folded into the coral outcroppings. It manages to be both eye-catching without being ostentatious, and seems an example of man living in harmony with nature instead of dominating it. I suppose that tends to happen when you live on a coral reef that could cut you to ribbons if you offend it.  

Chess is strangely popular on the Principles of Coral, and I find myself watching two strangers play with pieces that catch the light in the most peculiar way (Light? Where does it come from in the Neath?) I lean in closer to investigate. Scintillack, the same thing those cavies gave me. What is it, exactly? Why is it so alluring? What makes it so? Without thinking, I find myself opposite a stranger on the chessboard, making my first moves. Moves. Moves. It’s all moves. More and more moves. I laugh. Of course, the black king is the Fathomking, how obvious could it be, but what does that make my king? The Bazaar? The Masters? Something worse? The more moves unfold, the more I see the story of the Zee reflected in them. It’s all simple allegory, and how does the game end? With my victory. The next game is different, but not very. The pieces whisper to me when I touch them. Scintillack? What is it? They tell me their dreams as I move them, and I do my best to fulfill them. I do not truly win, just reflect what the pieces tell me. My opponent is an empty chair. I’m empty too, just directing signals. Zugzwang. I blink. Another game and I’ve lost. How did that happen? I don’t remember, but my hands are bleeding. Enough chess, time to make some money and collect scintillack.

I move outside the port to harvest what loose scintillack I can with my crew. We pan through broken pieces of coral, careful not to break them ourselves, searching for it. I see it everywhere, and know it’s watching me. It’s eyes are always on me. Of course, my parents hired them to keep an eye on me, to track me down to the Neath and drag me back to the surface, but I won’t go. The pieces wail in my refusal, and I toss them all into the sack, where they can’t see me. Another scream interrupts me. A zailor is thrashing on the ground, ranting about… I shake my head. The scintillack isn’t spying on me, it’s just… Enough harvesting for today. It’s time we depart and head for saner environs, wherever they may be in the Zee.

Jan 15

Saner environs turn out to be Godfall, a fallen stalactite now claimed by monks, who seem to worship it. I’m not sure why, exactly, but they make decent company, and I try not to press them for details on their god or gods. Surely, though, there must be more to it than just worshipping a rock. As I prepare to leave, one of them, perhaps their leader expresses a wish that I return with wine. Enough wine for all of them. Considering how much they drink, that’ll prove to be a challenge. Hopefully, they’ll be more forthcoming when they’re in the cups, let slip the secrets they’ve seen. Of all the religious institutions in the Neath, they seem the friendliest, though I use the term loosely. A nice reprieve from the rest of the Zee’s madness.

Jan 16

We’re back into the fire with Polythreme. The exile told me tales about the mad city as we made our way around the island, but they couldn’t have prepared me for the truth. When she said everything on the city was alive, she meant everything. Clothes walk around without owners, doors scream when you shut them too hard, and the cobblestones groan with every step. This is where the clay men come from. Obedient golems that do anything they’re bidden. I agree to take a crew of them on board and leave. As I do, I step on a knot of wood and it wails and howls. I walk faster and the crew unslips the Bathory from its moorings in record time. At least the clay men should sell at a decent rate in London. Between that and the port reports, maybe coming back here will be worth it.

Jan 18

It’s my birthday today, and it was mostly uneventful. I dined with the officers, they toasted to my health, and each told stories about the Neath. This was all after we left Wisdom, of course. Oh, yes, Wisdom. Well, it’s not the khanate, no, we saw it’s lights as we left Polythreme, and as much as I wanted to go, our fuel supplies are dwindling dangerously low. We don’t have enough left to get back to London, so instead we’re heading towards Mount Palmerston, but it’s still a day from here at least.

Wisdom is a strange… I hate to call it a port. Yes, we can dock there, but the only thing you can do on the island floating amidst a sea of lilies is drop off prisoners, which the wardens apparently pay quite well for. Why they pay to hold prisoners, I don’t know, but I’m suspecting that behind its thick walls, the prison is more than it appears. It’s something best not thought about, especially on my birthday.

Jan 19

I’m overcome.

It happened when we were leaving Mount Palmerston. Without a gift for the deviless, I decided to stick to the port town instead of venturing up the volcano and purchased the zzoup the venturer requested as well as just enough fuel and supplies to complete our quest. I would have purchased a larger cushion, but after the zzoup, our echoes were almost all gone. Hopefully, the venturer pays as well as he promises. The exile assures me we have enough fuel, and I defer to her. As long as we took a straight line back to London (permitting a small stopover at Cavaria), we’ll be fine. I nod, and as we depart, I hear the wailing. The wailing that’s pursued me from Mutton Island has caught me, and now, I hear the words beneath it.

“You will drown,” it tells me, words howling past and through my ears “Water fills your lungs. Light slips away. All is Darkness. All is Darkness as water fills your lungs. We beckon, we beckon. You will drown, you have drowned, you are drowning.” It repeats itself, refusing to be quiet, and I fall to my knees sobbing in a moment of failing. I should not in front of the crew, but I cannot restrain myself, and there is a catharsis in letting it out. When my eyes dry, I’m not on the deck, but in my cabin, and the howling has faded to nothing. I fall to sleep. London is before us. Home is before me.

Home. I swish the word over my tongue like it’s a fine mushroom wine. It is true. Too much has changed, my skin has grown unnaturally pale in the dark, my body and soul reshaped in a thousand miniscule ways. There’s no way back. London’s stake on my soul is now indelible. The Zee’s claim, even stronger.

Jan 20

We land at Pigmote Isle, or as the locals now call it, Cavaria, and I am welcomed openly, with the cavies asking for the assistance of their hairless adviser in another matter. In the interest of decorum, I refrain from pointing out I have a whole head of hair, and would, if all hair were shaved from our bodies, leave the bigger pile of hair by virtue of size. Instead, I listen to their problem. It seems the rats have taken to brewing some ale, that’s become immensely popular with the citizens from all walks of life. Rats and cavies alike spend their paychecks on it, and the manufacturer has grown wealthy. Despite the boom in one particular industries, concerned citizens point to falling productivity in all economic sectors as more of the population shows up to and leaves work drunk. For the sake of their industry, the bottle must be banned, they say. Others point to the sharp decline in complaints and protests as more citizens turn to the bottle. Morale, they say, has never been higher, and rat and cavy alike pass out in the same puddle of vomit. Not the most romantic metaphor, but an accurate one, I suppose.

And so, it falls to me to resolve this split. Well, I can certainly see the harm in losing productivity, my merchant argues, but considering the fact that I’m about to start a run between London and Godfall to keep the monks in the proverbial cups, I can’t really argue for prohibition with a straight face. Instead, I urge them to takeover the rat’s business and enjoy the profits. At the very least, they can keep their coffers as full as their morale. They agree, and the streets flood with ale as I walk back to the ship as citizens drink anything in a mug One particularly small guinea pig, sitting in a human-sized cup, squeaks happily as I pass. Perhaps they already heard the news or perhaps it’s just happy hour. I have a sip of the drink before departing. It’s too strong for the London sensibility, but I’m sure the crew will like it during a long night.

Jan 21

The zailor in the bat’s nest reports a jillyfleur (something like a giant jellyfish) chasing after our wake. I order all power to the engines and turn off the lights as we make the last few miles to London. I grip the rails tight in my hand, as the water churns beneath me, precious inches of metal keeping me from whatever’s beneath and outside us. In the distance, dull London lights rise, burning like the sun in the dark – No, not the sun above or to the south that burns too bright, a safer sun, a muted sun, viewed through the darkest shades – and the crew give a shout. At first, I hear cries of celebration, but no, alarm.

Something’s knocking. Beneath us, something’s knocking, and in it are echoes of that chill wind. Knocks. Knocks. Knocking on our graves. The hull will break, water floods in. I will drown. Am drowning. I take a breath to calm myself and order the crew to sail on and keep their eyes away from the Zee. Eyes on the deck or on the London lights. Nothing else. They comply, and as the city grows, the knocking fades. Soon the gangplank’s down and the crew hurries off, with me as their leader. I sigh. Safe. Or as safe as you can be in the Neath. I look back over my shoulder and swear I can hear the echo of the wind. I shiver and walk into London with my fellow officers.

A night of carousing to celebrate safe harbor ends with me in the Clathermont Tattoo Parlor, sketching out designs. An eye. I want an eye, for all the things I’ve seen and will see. My eyes shall record all the wonders of the Zee, and so it seems only fitting. As the ink seeps into my flesh, some of my horror fades away. Too taken in with zailors’ superstitions. Sometimes, the wind is just the wind, and a knocking on the hull is… I take in the finished eye. It takes me in in equal measure. I pull the sleeve of my shirt down to keep it from looking at me.

The usual unloading happens the next day. Clay men are given to their new masters, I collect echoes. Port reports are delivered, and I collect more echoes The report from the Republic was blank, which is… Yes, I suppose it’s better that way, and the Station III report was unceremoniously destroyed. They said not to bother with more reports from there and also gave me a rather… hefty sum for my trouble. I wouldn’t call it a bribe, of course – Others might – but I wouldn’t.

Voyage II (December 16, 1887 to January 2, 1888)

I will be trying to write my thoughts down at each stage of my journey. For such a lengthy trip as this one, it’s important I keep a running record, and in the case of emergency, I’ve prepared the ship’s Zeebat to travel to London with a copy of my manuscript. Not that I’m expecting the worst to happen, but it’s better to err on the side of caution, a phrase that’s become my mantra for this trip.

First, I sell off any superfluous cargo. It takes up space better used for storing food or fuel, and I’d rather survive the journey than hold on to my supply of prisoner’s honey until I can find someone willing to pay above London’s sell price for it. It was free, anyways.

I then debate the merits of buying a better engine. Yes, we could go faster, but that would leave us with only two-hundred echoes to make our trip, and once we pay for the supplies and repairs, that number would quickly dwindle down to near zero.

“Speakin’ of repairs, though,” my navigator says as we fill our ship with the fuel and cargo necessary for the voyage. “The Admirality owes you a few favors. Maybe you can talk with them, and they’ll ‘elp ya fix your ship up. Ain’t sayin’ it’ll be scott free, but it’ll be cheaper than ya can find elsewhere.” I sigh. Yes, that would all probably be for the best. And who knows, maybe we’ll find that damned Funging Station along the way. “Also, if ya want to conserve fuel and sneak by nastier’ folks on the sea, ya can always turn off the ship lights.” Even better. Well, the crew won’t like sailing in the dark, but I’m sure they’ll like being dead even less.

While the ship’s in drydock for its repairs thanks to the Admirality and the navigator oversees, I run into a rather genial magician as I grab my things from the attic I’m still calling home. Maybe once we’ve fixed up the ship, I’ll see about getting a proper sort of home like something I had back in St. Petersburg.

“Excuse me,” he says, bowing. “You wouldn’t happen to be that new captain I’ve heard about, the one flooding London with sphinxstone? I heard she lived around these parts.”

“Yes, I’m her,” I say, glancing up at the street clock for the time. The ship should finish being repaired soon enough – the Admirality works fast – and I’d like to be out of London the minute it slips into the water. “I’m sorry, is there something I can help you with? We’re really busy at the moment, and I can’t chat.”

“Oh, capital. You see, I was wondering if you perhaps needed an engineer. I’m something of a marvel with engines and am also quite adept at concealment. I dare say that with the right improvements, I can make your ship slip through the Zee like it was never there to begin with.”

I blink. If I wasn’t so desperate for good help on this journey, I’d be suspicious of my good fortune. Instead, I give him a few echoes and tell him to meet me at the dock as before the hour chimes. He’s as punctual as requested, and once the Bathory’s repairs are finished, we slide out of London’s harbor, our heading north east as fast as we can, the dark of the Zee quickly swallowing up our ship as London fades away. We head into the dark and unknown. We head into the Zee.

December 17, 1887

The first leg of our voyage wasn’t so terrible. There was always some little light to inspire us as we sailed, and our path took us shockingly close to the ruins of the Salt Lions. As we journeyed, I spoke with our magician every chance I could. He’s a charming enough fellow, and more importantly, he was willing to tell me how to damper our engines in exchange for a few secrets I’d learned at Zee.

We found safe harbor to rest for a few hours as our path led almost directly back to Pigmote Isle where the Cavies were hard at work mining scintillack and dealing with pirates. They asked my advice, and while my initial thought was to have them fight the pirates, I again decided to err on the side of caution, and suggest they increase the size of their military by conscripting whoever they could. It was, perhaps, prudent, but my soul wept seeing those young Cavy children marching off to be made into soldiers. Did I betray my principles by advising them so? They were a gallant people, alight with chivalry when I met them, and I urged them to modernize, to conscript, to settle and compromise instead of doing what their soul burned them to do. Is it truly better to sacrifice your principles and live than die with honor and dignity? I turn the question over and over as our ship leaves harbor.

December 19, 1887

Stygian.

Up until now, I never truly understood it. Understood that type of darkness. I thought I knew it, but there’s something blacker than black. When you sail through the Zee with your lights off, with no ports around, the darkness becomes more than just the absence of light. It becomes an oppressive malevolent entity, bearing down on you, threatening to crush everything you love. My hand hovered so many times on the switch for the torches, but I endured. Unfortunately, I fear the crew is beginning to feel the strain. As we reached the spires of Gaider’s Mourn, a white Zeebat circled overhead, and a crewman babbled that he was marked for death. That the god Salt had selected him. I tried to play along, to engage in a ritual to help earn Salt’s mercy in the hopes it would calm him and the rest of the crew down. I thought it worked, but the next morning, Sailor Jenkins was dead.

How did he know? Is there more to these stories than just superstition. When we reach Gaider’s Mourn, I ask my navigator, and he encourages me to investigate the temple at Whither. Says he’s seen enough things to make him a believer. Speaking of Gaider’s Mourn, it’s a pirate alcove. A giant spire reaching almost up to the ceiling of the Neath and filled with corsairs. I spent my evening climbing the spire just to see the view from the top, but was distracted by a vendor offering strange exotic foodstuffs. I decided to sample one of the safer options, and it was fine enough. Nothing to truly write home about, but I suppose it deserves a space in this log. Perhaps next time, I’ll try something more robust.

More death. We were preparing to leave after yesterday’s excursion, and I sent a few crewman to scout out the island, thinking the Admirality would appreciate a report from the pirate haven. Unfortunately, the pirates had different ideas, and the party was ambushed on their way back, with one of the souls slain. My decision. I should have gone with them, but instead I opted to oversee the ship. Now, a man’s dead and his blood’s on my hands. I turn control of the ship over to my navigator and retreat to my cabin.

December 21, 1887

We arrive at Mount Palmerston in my sleep, dreams haunted by visions of drops of crimson spreading out across the Zee’s inky black.

I’m pulled from my slumber by the navigator, saying we’ve found Mount Palmerston, an enclave for exiled devils. He asks if I wish to look around, but I’m far too despondent. He asks if we can chat with the locals to see about recent happenings and resupply, saying it’s the cheapest place for fuel outside the Iron Republic and I agree. As he leaves, he mutters something about the mountain being too far west. Says it needs to be farther out, closer to Irem. I’m asleep when we leave port.

When I awake from the latest nightmare, we’ve docked again, this time at Frostfound. I emerge from below decks to see two twin spires of ice. A cold seeps into me as I gaze up at them and I take a step back towards the threshold. Back towards warm. “Sure is somethin’, isn’t it?” my navigator asks from my side. Where did he come from. “Got some squatters up in that camp there, reckon you’ll want to talk with them. See what they know, and maybe have a bit of tea. Could cheer ya up.”

I nod dumbly and head back into the cabin, not to sleep but throw on the heavy fur coat I brought with me. It might be cold, but that’s something I know how to deal with. “Are you coming with me?”

“Nah,” he says, waving a hand. “Figure I’ll do some explorin’ while we’re here. Always wanted to see the place for meself, and, well, it sure is somethin’. Like one o’ dem stories ‘bout faeries and castles. The ones with riddles. You don’t mind, do ya?”

“No, no,” I say, shaking my head and walking down the gangplank to the squatter camp. “I think you’ve earned it.”

“Thanks, Cap’n, and ya shouldn’t be so ‘ard on yerself. Yeah, Seamus died, and that was a right shame, but bein’ captain, it’s about makin’ them hard calls and livin’ with ‘em. I ‘on’t know if I’ll be around forever, so ya gotta keep yerself together when e’rything goes tits up. Somtimes ya make a mistake, but ya try not to make that mistake again.” He shrugs as we reach the fire. “Anyways, I’ll see ya when we’re done here.” He shouts to the squatters. “And you lot better not be any trouble. The Bath’s got enough guns to turn this ‘ole camp into rubble, so be good.”

Perhaps it’s the threat, or perhaps the squatters have a genial nature, but our tea is pleasant, and when we’re done, they give us a bit of extra fuel and supplies for the journey. I even find another engineer who wants to join our journey. The magician isn’t thrilled about the new addition, but he takes it all in stride, and I promise he’ll stay the head engineer. For now, at least, although that part’s unspoken. I might change my mind once I get to know the two of them better. Unfortunately, that’s where our good news ends.

After our lunch, the hours tick by and there’s still no word from our navigator. I go to investigate what I think is his path, and quickly find his coat and a few of his possessions tucked inside. Unfortunately, no investigation produces him, and I’m left with the unpleasant decision. Do I leave him on Frostfound to his fate or stay looking? The crew’s morale is already sinking precariously, and if we stay much longer searching, we risk running out of supplies. There’s no telling how far away Irem is. I stand on the bridge with my officers and order crew to start shovelling coal. I am the captain. I make the hard decisions. To do anything less would be to discredit his memory. We sail on his charted course and I keep his chart close as we continue sailing east through the dark.

December 22, 1887

Oh, God, it’s not where he said it would be. In his charts, he was so sure where Irem would be. Had it circled on his map, but it’s not there. Instead, we find a chapel illuminated and reports of a gate to the far north. Not what we came for. Not what we came for. I have no other navigators to aid me, no one else who knows the Zee. I sit with the priests of the chapel, eating and conversing. We are in uncharted waters, our destination uncertain and supplies low. I take a breath to try and calm myself, and the priests say there’s an island further east, that I haven’t yet reached the edge of the Zee. I exhale. The crew didn’t see my panic. That’s good. They still trust their captain. Or at least, they didn’t lose more faith in their captain. We’re so close, now. Soon, we’ll be in Irem, we’ll unload the cargo, and we can begin limping home. I allow myself the detour to see the north gates and we leave the chapel behind. Their feast leaves a strange taste on my lips though, and I think about it on the journey to Avid Horizon.

December 23, 1887

The Horizon proves harder to find than expected. Instead, I find myself docked in Irem, unloading load after load of sphinxstone. Men in silk robes direct us to a breach in the walls where the stone forms a perfect fit, although any cursory inspection will reveal the differences in the type of stone used. For my efforts, we’re rewarded with one thousand echoes, and the riddlefishers as the men like t call themselves tell me the nature of Irem. It’s a place where history washes up, they say, that that is the birth of riddles. My delivery will one day form its own riddle. For my help, they offer me a bit of bark with an answer to an unknown question on it. I bring it to my room and contemplate it as we depart the city and sail back towards London.

December 25, 1887

Light. Without the sphinxstone weighing down our cargo hold, we can have the lights on. Once we reach Mount Palmerston, we’ll be able to purchase enough fuel to be comfortable, and with the mountain so close by… we all agree that having the lights on will provide a welcome relief after our dark voyage up. The lights turn on and burn away the oppressive stygian black that hounded us for so long, but I send a crewman up to the crow’s nest to keep an eye for monsters or pirates. The second we see anything, we go dark. Better to be safe than dead.

For being the gate to a frozen sea even darker than our own, Avid Horizon is surprisingly uninteresting. There’s a gate, it’s closed, it’s cold, and there are strange glyphs engraved on everything that seem to stay on my eyes even after I’ve looked away from them. Mostly uninteresting. Still, I take my report and head east. The crew wants to go to Mount Palmerston to resupply. I want to go back to Frostfound and send Christmas  searching for the navigator and have some more tea. It seems a better way to spend the holiday than breaking bread with devils. Speaking with the squatters and sharing dinner with them manages to calm my nerves and ease my fears about the voyage. Why, I can’t say, but between the supplies, fuel, and the company, it’s enough to justify the stop, which is good, since another round of searching fails to reveal the navigator. As soon as Christmas dinner’s done, our ship departs.

December 28, 1887

The trip to Mount Palmerston is prolonged by the most dreadful blizzard. The strange ‘snow’ clogs the engines and they wheeze under the strain. The crew keeps their eyes peeled for any signs of ships and my hand hovers over the switch for the lights. If we’re spotted, we have no hope of outrunning them in this storm. Thankfully, no ships appear, and we’re soon docked in the comparative city of a mountain filled with devils.

I decide to see more of this island while we’re here and take to the town. Soon after, I take to the path towards the volcano. I admit to not being the most devout church goer, and perhaps like my famous ancestor, the idea of forbidden knowledge proved too great a temptation to pass up, as I marched to the diabolic enclave.

My path was stopped by a shockingly charming deviless. I have no idea if most devils are so refined, but she was certainly pleasant company to pass an afternoon with, and we spent the hours sipping sherry while the crew refilled the ship. Soon, we parted, but she invited me to visit again the next time I’m on the island. Perhaps I’ll even bring a gift like she suggested. The crew and I elect to spend a night docked in the harbor before venturing out again. A belated Christmas present.

January 1, 1888

From Palmerston, we sail south. Past Gaider’s Mourn without stopping. I will not stop there again with so little to gain and so much to lose. Maybe later. A later voyage. When we’re better supplied and crewed. As we move through the Corsair’s Forest, spires surrounding us on all sides, our lights draw the attention of a pirate frigate. They give us chase, and for a moment, I fear we’re doomed, but we kill the lights and manage to lose them by maneuvering around one of the stalagmites that crowd the forest. They lose sight of us, and we slink into the darkness, and it’s all thanks to our magician who keeps the engines running silent.

To thank him, I invite him to dine with me in the captain’s cabin. We spend an evening discussing his past as a magician. He changed from magic to engineering when he lost his hand, says they work on roughly the same principle. I’m not entirely sure I understand, but he seems to believe it, and he certainly works magic in the engine room. According to him, it all has something to do with mirrors. Perhaps they have different properties in the Neath? Are used for more than just reflecting. So many things are different in the Neath. Towards the end of a dinner over too quickly, he alludes to how he lost the hand. He doesn’t go into specifics, but he says he needs a weapon, and if we find it… Well, he might have a favor to ask me afterwards.

Dinner ends and I hear a commotion upstairs. New Year’s Eve has snuck up on me, but not the crew. 1887 is drawing to a close, and the sailors stands on the docks, eager to celebrate. As we count down the last hours of the year, an island looms up over us. Finally! The Funging Station. In the first hours of 1888, we slip into the harbor and I give the crew the day off. I speak with the Factor, give him the Admiralty contract, and we have a dinner overlooking Demeaux Island. He mentions a restaurant in Venderbight – apparently, the proper name for the Tomb Colonies – and I make a note to visit it next time I’m in the colonies. Speaking of which, there’s still a woman expecting mushroom wine.

January 2, 1888

The morning of the 2nd, after a day spent celebrating, we sail away, our course set for London.

On our return, we stop by the Salt Lions to see if there are any interesting scraps to pick over. There aren’t. We make our report and leave.

The Salt Runs (December 8, 1887 to December 15, 1887)

I woke up one morning and realized I’d become a merchant.

It was a most distressing realization: A woman come to the Neath to carve a grand destiny turning into a merchant more concerned with minding the pounds. I didn’t mean to, I’d simply listened to my first mate’s advice after our night of revelry. “Listen,” he says, beer sloshing over the edge of his pint. “I get that ya wanna go off and do a big sea adventure, but if yer gonna do that, ya gotta do it smart. No point rushin’ off to the far east right away. There’re all sorts o’ monsters out there. Giant flukes that can spear a ship like ours in a second, and to the north, there’s big ol’ icebergs that ‘ould just plow through us and not even notice. Our ship can’t handle that. It can barely handle bats. No, what ya wanna do is spend some time doin’ safe work, then when you got a good nest egg goin’, you can spend some coin, upgrade the Bath or maybe just buy a new ship completely, and [i]then[/i] we get to adventurin.”

I think and nod. He makes a fair point, and rather a cautious captain than a dead one.

He leans across the table, dropping his voice down. “Good, now since yer thinkin’ right, that means maybe you’ll consider doin’ the salt run. All ya gotta do is sail over Badstevener’s Abyss, pick up some sphinxstone, bring it back here, and we make a tidy profit. Ya keep doin’ that, and pretty soon we’ll make enough echoes to buy the biggest ship out there, and then, adventure.”

That was… Certainly an enticing plan. The Salt Lions were only a day away, round trip, and give the crew a day off when we dock in London… That’s three to four trips a week, and if the profit is as tidy as he suggests, we could be sailing out into the unknown by the end of the year.

The next morning, we set out and made our first salt run. It was as quick a jaunt as my sly friend suggested, and the profits were even better than I’d imagined. For a simple two-hundred echo deposit, we’d get twenty stones, unload the stones in London, and take five-hundred echoes. Plus, the Admiralty was willing to pay twenty more echoes on top of that and give us a bit of extra fuel for a report on the Lions. I cancelled the crew’s leave and we were off again the next morning.

“Ey, boss lady,” my navigator says as we steam through the dark. I’ve taken to looking at the false stars as we cross the Zee. It relaxes me in our quiet moments and allows me to better grasp our location. At least, I think it will, we haven’t gone far enough from London yet for me to be sure. “Gotta little suggestion for you if you care to ‘ear me out.”

“Of course,” I say, lowering my head t look at him. He leans as casually as he pleases against the railing, breeze not touching his dark greasy hair. “You know I’m always willing to hear out your suggestions.”

“Right, well, I think we gotta pretty solid crew, but maybe it wouldn’t ‘urt to ‘ire a few more officers. You know, like someone to manage the engines or what ‘ave you.”

I frown, running the calculations in my head, the curse of my developing merchant-mindedness. Officers are expensive, and right now, we need the echoes. “But that’s what the crew’s for.”

“Aye, maybe for shovelin’ coal, but we get a break down, and you’ll be wishin’ we ‘ad an engineer with us, and maybe we could ‘ire someone ‘oo knows how to cook. Or maybe man the guns, in case we get in a fight with them bats again. Might be good to have someone who knows more about naval combat than just ‘It ‘em with the gun.’”

Well, that was certainly true. Yes, if we got in a fight again, everyone on board would feel better if we had a professional manning the cannon. I certainly would. “Alright,” I say, waving a hand. “We’ll see who’s interested when we get back to port.”

As it turns out, there were two very lovely women, an adventuress and a young girl with a tattoo, eager to join us for adventure on the high seas. Or at the very least, join us for routine trade runs between London and the Salt Lions. Either way, I’m not about to ignore my trusty navigator’s advice and turn down help. The younger woman says she’s desperate to get off the dock onto the sea, but the adventuress has already bruised one of my crewmembers. I decide to get her onboard first before she can hurt anything else, and when I get back the young woman’s gone. I suppose she really was desperate to get out in a hurry. I give a shrug and head back to the ship to finish unloading our cargo and then head out on the town with my navigator, and to celebrate me becoming a real sailor, he takes me too a tattoo parlor. While the designs look lovely, I’m not quite ready to mark myself with ink. I promise the navigator I’ll get tattooed later, but would also very much prefer it if I saw a bit more of the sea before deciding just what I wanted my tattoo to be of.

Before leaving the next morning, I’m approached by a child who takes me to see a venturer, not to be confused with an adventurer. He says he’s heard of me – I try not to look too pleased with myself – and that he needs someone to bring him a few items from the Zee. For my trouble, he promises to pay well above the market rate and lets slip he’s planning an expedition of his own. Perhaps he’s more like an adventurer than I thought. I agree to keep an eye out for the items he requested, and am soon pointed to Mount Palmerston for Zzoup or Whither for Mutersalt.

Another run passes mostly uneventfully, with the only disturbance occurring when the adventuress fires several rounds from our cannon into Zee-water “Just seeing what your range is,” she says before firing another shot into the dark. “You know, if you’re going to explore the Zee, you should probably invest in some better weapons. I don’t think these guns could hurt a gnat.” I shake my head and walk back to my cabin to work on a poem to commemorate the Rat-Cavy war of Pigmore Isle, leaving to her tests and modifications.

We return with more stone, but there are no men to greet us. Instead, a smiling woman tells us how the stone is needed to the south at a place of light. My first mate leans in and whispers something about the Dawn Machine, a device designed to bring sunlight down to the Neath. Well, while the sun is certainly very pretty, it has no place down here. The Neath is a refuge, hiding in darkness and offering solace for the disaffected and restless. I will not see the Zee’s wonders spoiled by it. I turn her down and keep walking.

It’s not far before another man approaches us, calling himself Penstock. He says if I love London and wish to see it well, I’ll deliver the stone far away. He clearly has a place in mind, but wants me to agree to help him first. “Of course, I’ll help,” I say, abandoning any hope that the usual men will come and take the cargo that’s filling up half my ship’s hold away. 

He nods and says I must take the stone where dreams become reality. Before I can ask just what he means by that, he’s off into the shadow, vanishing like the whole of London just swallowed him up. 

I turn to my navigator, planning to ask if he knows where we should go, but when I look, I see he’s gone frozen, as pale and stiff as cold as any ice I’ve ever seen. “Irem,” he whispers. “He wants us to go all the way to bloody Irem.”

I blink. I heard him mention that place before. It’s related to Frostfound somehow, and when I ask him if he knows generally just where the city is, he says if you go north until you hit the rocks and east until you’re on the edge of the Zee, you’ll find Irem.

Arrival:

My earliest memory is of London falling.

Strange, isn’t it? That my earliest memory is of something that happened before I was born? But I grew up hearing stories of it in our family’s house in St. Petersburg. I had an uncle who immigrated there, and he and my father kept up a correspondence, where he’d inform us of all the many wonders in the fallen city. Stories of cloaked men who controlled the city, of actual devils cavorting with parishioners, of a city beneath the world, and beyond it, the sea and worlds unimaginable.

Actually, they call it the zee, I learned that shortly after coming down here, but I get ahead of myself.

Yes, I grew up hearing tales of London and the sea that surrounded it – I refuse to call it the Zee, it seems a much less elegant word to my ear – and awoke each dawn with an eagerness of the coming dusk, of my next sleep where dreams of the sea and what lay beyond would once again fill my mind, giving me some respite from my dreary existence in St. Petersburg and allowing me to explore a world unseen to most eyes. To dream of being captain of my own soul, pilot of my destiny, and my parents wondered why I slept so much.

So, I slept, and in my waking moments, I’d frantically scratch down my dreams, desperate to leave some record of the fantasies that played against my eyelids each night, and in this fashion, I spent my adolescence, sleeping through my days and only ever waking when my eyes closed.

It was… a struck of luck that my uncle died when he did, and that he happened to be unmarried and without heir (it is rumored by my father that he moved to London because they were more… tolerant of such things, but it is not my place to judge, I believe my tastes run in much the same vein). I know it sounds terrible to rejoice in someone’s death, but with his passing, his possessions became ours, and it fell on us to retrieve them. With my father’s own health in decline, and I the only child to his name, it fell to me to deal with his estate and travel to the city that filled my dreams.

My father protested, of course – perhaps he knew then that I planned on never returning – said that a woman travelling on her own invited disaster, but I insisted, reminding him of his own ill health and that the damp London air would only exacerbate his cough. After much insisting, he relents and agrees that me going [i]might[/i] be for the best.

The voyage to London was fraught with an anticipation, and the days-long train ride from St. Petersburg through Vienna and onto Naples all blurred together in the most magnificent way. The poems I wrote on the way down are shocks of imagery, bright and blinding and ripe with promise, and the time not spent writing was spent brushing up on my English. Thankfully, English was one of the few subjects in class I gave my utmost attention to, in hopes of one day coming to this very eventuality.

From Naples, it was a short steamer to Avernus, and from there – Oh, just recalling the way the cave that heralded the Cumaean Canal loomed up on us makes my soul and hand flutter and rejoice – we began our descent to the great cavern beneath the world where the very laws of the universe seem to bend and break if the stories are true. Soon, I was stepping foot in London, and it was everything I ever imagined and more. Even if the rumors of its slide into decrepitness are true, the city still dwarfs St. Petersburg, and at its heart sits the Bazaar, towering over everything as the pulsing heart of the city.

I head to Baseborn and Fowlingpiece, to manage close out my uncle’s estate, but quickly find myself lost in my entirety. It seems, London’s renovated somewhat since it fell, and all the maps are out of date. To make matters worse, all the street signs have been changed or removed. Instead of reaching my intended destination, I find myself in a honey den. Honey dens! Never in all his letters did my uncle touch on that marvelous honey that lets you live through your dreams. Oh, had I had it back in St. Petersburg, I would have been positively catatonic. Instead, I’m here, so I suppose it’s not all bad.

Well, after sampling the marvelous stuff and purchasing some more for later indulgences, I perchance upon a sly sort of man who happens to know his way around London. For a bit of the honey I purchased, he agrees to take me to my intended destination and along the way, I tell him of all the marvels I wish to see in the city and my hopes of going beyond its shores to see what marvels the sea has in wait for me. He surprises me by saying he knows of a small junk for sale and confesses his own curiosity for the Zee (it is here where some start correcting my pronunciation.) If I can scratch together the echoes, he’ll see about getting a crew together, and just like that, any fancies I ever had of going back to the surface and St. Petersburg vanish. From that moment, it’s a trifling matter to liquidate my uncle’s estate, purchase the ship, and round up a crew. My sly companion even helps me find a place to stay while I’m in port. It’s not much. Truthfully, it’s just an attic, but for now, it’s home. Or my home away from the Zee. (Damn! It’s starting to catch.) Tomorrow, preparations for my first voyage begin, and I hope to keep this as a log of all my adventures. Perhaps in later years, scholars will scry through this log for knowledge of the lands beyond the sea, and my name will be synonymous with Ulysses. One can only dream.

Voyage 1: (November 30, 1887 - December 8, 1887)

The morning of the 30th is spent speaking to my new navigator and first officer about just what I should do before departing port. He suggests talking to the Admiralty to see if they have need of any services, and gives me a few places in London I can frequent that usually have people in need of a ship.

The Admirality proves interesting. In general, they need reports from the various ports scattered across the Zee (no!), but in particular, they have need of someone to go to the Iron and Misery Company Funging station. I readily accept the commission and ask if they can perhaps give me a navigation chart with the port of interest circled. The clerk just raises an eyebrow and then asks if I’d like to register my next of kin before departure. It seems I somehow committed a faux pas, and when I press my navigator about it, he simply says that charts are… flexible in the Zee and then says he’ll be filling out our own chart as we journey. Ah, then it seems this will be an even grander adventure than I imagined. Ten souls journeying off into the dark, a few thin sheets of iron and some torches serving as the only envelope separating them between the dark and the cold.

After our mixed results with the Admiralty, I move to the locations my navigator suggested and find a bandaged woman seeking passage to a place called the tomb colonies. It seems that down here, so far beneath the sun, the rules of life and death break down, and people go on living far longer than they naturally should. In fact, they have a serial killer, Jack something or other, who goes on these murderous rampages, but after he’s done, most of his victims just get up and walk on.

But I digress, this woman wishes me to take her to the tomb colonies. She offers to pay, and since I only have seventy echoes to my name, I eagerly agree. She loads herself up with the rest of the cargo (I offer her regular board, but she protests, instead preferring to sleep in her little coffin). Before we depart, I do one last inspection of our ship – the Bathory – and my navigator gives a box with a little present he purchased for me.

It’s a cute little ferret, yes, it barely moves, and only the faintest of breaths separate it from the living and the dead, but what it lacks in energy, it makes up for in unadulterated adorableness. I give my navigator a hug, put the ferret in my room, and we’re soon off, sliding into the sea.

Only an hour or so after departing, an island looms up to our right. My navigator dubs it Hunter’s Keep, says it’s a strange place, and we’ve soon altered our course to dock there and greet the inhabitants. They’re three lovely ladies, with a penchant for piano playing, and I get to spend the evening supping with one of them, Phoebe, she calls herself, and she tells me of great loves parted by the black sea. I hang on her every word, and what seems like mere seconds, I’ve finished my meal and their maid is showing me to the door.

Resuming our journey north, I set to sleep for the night, but am soon woken up by my first mate knocking on the door. It seems we’ve encountered pirates, and less than a day’s journey from London too. I do my best to issue orders, but the extent of my tactical knowledge is “hit them with our guns.” Well, it’s sound advice, and we manage to win the day. For our trouble, we get a firkin of prisoner’s honey. I only take a few drops for myself before putting the rest in cargo. Hopefully, we can find someone willing to pay a decent price for it, and if not, I now have a lifetime supply of prisoner’s honey.

Early dawn of the next morning, we slide into the docks of the Tomb Colonies (it seems capitalizing them is the proper style), and unload our guest. She’s apparently quite unhappy, and thinks some wine will liven the place up. I tend to agree with her assessment as the citizens of this place are… well, rather drab. I suppose it largely can’t be helped, considering they live in thousand year old ruins, waiting to eventually dissolve into dust, but at the same time, it might do them well to remember that age is largely a state of mind. Still, the issue of the wine can wait, and I take to exploring the city. In my walk to the Grand Sanitorium, a woman rushes past me, ranting of how she refuses to wither away into nothingness, and saying she prefers death. Before anyone can stop her, she pulls a sword and swiftly removes her own head.

The severed crown bounces gaily down the cobbled streets and nests itself against my feet. Looking down, I see a rotted smile looking up at me through heavy bandages. Well, it’s certainly a grisly lamentable relic, but it’s also quite the story. I quietly pocket it in my satchel, and though I’m sure some saw me, none commented. In the land of eternal life, death becomes shockingly cheap.

At the Grand Sanitorium, I meet the manager of the place, who’s… Well, he’s gone quite past his last legs, and now’s making most mummies look like the essence of vitality. He says he’s month’s away from dissolving, and would like a captain to collect the colours of the Neath for him. Before he can even finish his proposal, I readily accept his suggestion and take his book on the Neathbow.

Departing from the Tomb Colonies and sailing east, hoping to find our station, I flip through the book’s pages, storing my new relic somewhere… rather out of the way. While it makes for quite the story, I’d prefer not to have the ghastly thing staring at me while I sleep. For the second night in a row, we’re attacked while I sleep. This time, it’s by a cloud of… bats. Yes, bats. It’s true. I know I must sound like a madwoman, but a cloud of bats really did descend on us, and managed to do quite a bit of damage to our hull before we could gun them down. Who would have thought that bats would prove a greater threat than pirates. After killing them, we collect their corpses to extend our own supplies.

On the 2nd, we reach an old island, uninhabited by man, with a single rotting port. Despite my crew’s protests at the waste of time, we dock our ship, and find the most incredible thing: a war waged between guinea pigs and rats! This is the adventure I came to the Neath for, the types of tales that would strain the credulity of surface dwellers and seem like the most fantastical fiction.

The Chief Engineer of the rats and the Seneschal of the Cavies (that’s what the guinea pigs call themselves) both vie for my aid. The rats are mean and unscrupulous, but admittedly technologically advanced, while the Cavies are like knights of old, with tales of chivalry and gallantry. Their Seneschal even greets me with a poem. It takes little time for me to decide who to ally with, and I’m soon led through the Cavies’ camp. It seems the rats have stolen a great treasure from them, and without it, the Cavies are starting to waste away. If I needed any proof that I was on the side of justice, that doubt’s now wiped clean.

After the tour, I’m led to meet with their king, and I bow before him as is only proper fitting a pig of his stature, and we prepare for war. I offer to lead a stealth attack to steal back the great light that was stolen from them. It fails. Then, I offer to lead a direct assault, using the guns from our ship as cover. It fails, too. I try the stealth again. Failure. Finally, on the second direct assault, I come up with the most brilliant pincer attack, and we manage to turn the tide. The Rat Republic is soundly trumped, and the Cavies reclaim what’s theirs.

Unfortunately, war makes savages of them all, and without my gentle wisdom, the Cavies would have almost certainly enslaved the rodent population and turned them into food. I put a stop to such barbarism and something like a trade deal is worked out between the two peoples, with the Cavies soundly sitting on top of the deal. It’s good to be a peacemaker, and as thanks for all my efforts both in war and peace, the Cavies grant me a supply of something called scintillack and send a guinea page to accompany me and chronicle all my adventures. Well, I suppose it will be good to have a second account, and he does know a deal about the Neath and the Zee already. Plus, he’s even more adorable than the ferret, and he soon becomes the ship’s unofficial mascot. Of course, we tell him he’s our culture advisor.

A brief excursion to the north for the Funging Station yields no positive results, and we’re forced to head south before we run out of fuel. We try one last location, but instead of finding the Station, we find two twin sphinxes rising out of the ocean. “The Salt Lions,” my guinea page whispers in my ear after climbing atop several precariously stacked boxes. As we dock, teams of men work to excavate them, quarrying stone for various purposes. My navigator proposes that there’s fair trade to be made between London and the Lions with the two so close together, and I’m inclined to agree. Unfortunately, it requires a money to buy the damned stone, so we return to London with only a few pieces of scintillack and some information. The information we provide the Admirality offers decent return, and we pocket our share of echoes as well as some fuel and favors. I’m not sure what we’ll use the favors for yet, but at least now we have enough supplies to launch our next trip. To make things even better, the scintillack is immensely valuable to the Londoners, and we manage to make 280 echoes for our troubles, giving us more than enough money to start trade with the Salt Lions.

Celebrating our good fortune, my navigator and I head out to spend a night carousing around the streets of London, dropping quite a few echoes in the city’s seedier bars, and along the way he gives me some tips on how to look at maps and navigate the seas in exchange for a secret of my own. He also tells me of a desire to visit a place called Frostfound, a city of ice, riddles and answers, torn between the towns of Whither and Irem. The whole thing sounds dreadfully exciting, and I promise to take him there someday. He’s delighted in my promise, and after our night concludes, I sink into the bed of my attic room, already plotting out the next expedition and imagining what lies beyond the Salt Lions