— 𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑.

—

“Don’t stand up, Dowling. It’s only me. I come bearing news.”

Silence. In the space between the bottom of the floor and the door, Malachy’s silhouette shifts. 

“Too much of a coward to face me, Estrada?” Ragged voice tears through the air like a dagger, muffled through the door. “State your peace and leave.”

“Is that an order, captain?” A humorless, hollow laugh. “This is a gesture of goodwill, Dowling. I’d mind yourself until I’ve said what I’ve come to say.” He pauses. Perhaps to hide his own disbelief. Perhaps to spite Malachy. “We’ve fucking crossed it, Dowling. We think we’ve found the passage and we’ve found a way through. Hell, we might have already crossed it. We’ve got a city in sight and we’re making plans to dock in their harbor.”

A long pause. “No. No, that can’t be. It’s far too soon. A week, that’s not enough.”

“Say it as much as you want. By the time we lay anchor, you can come see for yourself. I reckon, see, that it won’t even be a day. As a truce, I’ll let you out—supervised, of course, and never too far from my sight. But freedom, Dowling. You’re to partake in it as well.”

“Thrilled, are you?” A soft thump on the other side of the door as Malachy leans against it. “How neatly this all transpires for you as soon as you seize the helm. Should’ve mutinied sooner, I bet you’re thinking.”

“Not here to question it. For your sake, I hope you don’t either.”

— 

Up close, the mist that cloaks the city shifts with every step taken. Appearing transparent once, then cloudy with a thin, greenish film next, then shimmering with an opalescent, abalone sheen. It is cold, but not cold enough for the thick coats that have proven imperative for standing outside in the Arctic. A strange humidity permeates the air - it is thin and thick, at once, and one feels a shortness and a swelling in every inhale - not painful, nor is it natural. The luster visible from the sea is procured from shells embedded into the foundation of every building, in between the stone and plaster - old and weathered, they glint in the light that parts through the mist. Perhaps the first thing that can be glimpsed, like a maroon carpet of colour, is the red sands on the eastward beach. Ground to a fine point, blanketing uniformly around the village until the paved streets begin to stretch on, it resembles a carpet of leaves or clipped gems as much as a natural phenomenon.

No other ships are docked at the silent harbor. Cobblestone lines the path up the crumbling seawall and into the city where townsfolk mill about in the marketplaces and town square, a vast space eclipsed by grand, towering edifices - a spindly cathedral demarcated by an unfamiliar brass symbol of the very tallest of its spires; an ancient, squat tavern; an inn with patrons streaming in and out like shoals; a surfeit of various shops of every variety, marked not by words or names, but by images painted into the overhanging signs. As the sun begins to dip below the horizon, one realizes there is an absence of gas lamps that dotted London in abundance. Instead, white wax candles spill over every ledge, every crook and cranny, their bases melted into the stone and bedrock and wood. 

Townsfolk cast strange, curious glances at these newcomers, but their gazes never linger long before they carry on with their businesses. The accents are implacable, though they speak English - not even a mishmash of any known dialects, but entirely unfamiliar. Not even the Promethean’s most well-traveled guests can narrow their tongue or the origin of their accents down. 

The shops and inns here refuse currency - one takes what they need, and they carry their debt with them until it's repaid, metaphorically or literally. 

— 

Malachy emerges from the boiler room a fragmented man, gaze trained on the multiple barrel ends that follow his every movement. Every breath he takes lifts his entire body in a heaving pulse-thrum. Hair unkempt and eyes wild with animal fury, his lips lift into a sneer as he finds Marcus in the crowd of muskets.

“Is this where I’m supposed to thank you for your mercy, Estrada?” He appraises the armed crew. “And your lackeys, for their restraint?” 

“Chin up, Dowling.” The vice-admiral’s lips curl into a grimace. “Even you cannot deny this good fortune. Certainly this justifies some of the trouble.”

“It justifies nothing. If you’re wise, you’ll not let me out of your sight.”

No more is exchanged between the two men before Malachy is ushered up the main ladderway, up to the upper deck and onto the dock, one armed escort in front and behind him. The rest of the crew begin to disembark, all who aligned with Malachy closely followed by another who wasn’t. 

The dock creaks beneath their feet, and the procession is slow, tentative, upon reaching this new port. Everything is familiar, and yet nothing is - not even the screech of a gull to announce their arrival.

Then, a scream, feral and hoarse. 

Behind them, Jules takes advantage of the momentary awe and sweeps the legs of her captor, knocks them into the harbor waters. A musket fires. The narrow dock doesn’t allow much in the way of room, and those who have not yet made it out of the ship clamber back on. Captors shout for their captives to STAND STILL, MOVE BACK down into the lower deck, but the chaos and the overlapping shouts overpower them. Smaller squabbles break out as the rest milk the opportunity given to them by Jules’ commotion. Ahead of them all, Malachy slams himself into the guard in front of them, tackling them both to the ground. His second escort scrambles for a clear shot, musket trembling - only to lurch back, struck in the shoulder. Behind him, Ephraim had broken free and wrestled the gun from his warden, his aim true then and now as he holds it steady on Malachy’s escort, who wordlessly surrenders his own weapon to Malachy. 

On the boat, chaos descends. Roi has easily overtaken his guard, pinning them to the side of the boat. Before he can hurl them into the water, Mariah throws himself onto his back, pinning the steward’s neck into the crook of his elbow. A flash of silver in his free palm - but then Laurents is on him, twisting their arm back until the knife drops to the ground with a clatter, and drives his fist into the mercenary’s gut, allowing Roi the chance to break free. Elias dives for the dagger and slashes at the ankles of Fahra’s guard, who had her wrists firmly in their grip. He cuts deep, cuts an unthinkable and irreparable gash over both calves; enough to maim, perhaps, if another one of Estrada’s hounds had not stepped in. The second man, bigger, wrangles the steward into a deathgrip. They both take the fall, tumbling several paces across the teak. In the somersault, the snowfall of movement and limbs, Ayla Dowling steps in with a lifeline. A physical rope, no time for metaphor, no time for anything but the hard gnashing of the present. The doe loops the rope around the guard’s neck, and, with a vicious tug that no one would’ve wagered on, pulls him off Elias and onto the planks. She waits no second before helping Elias up, and together they join Jack, the sergeant’s dagger blocking Violet’s aim on August.

Some paces away, Noemie leads the rest of the Agathe survivors through the skirmish and off the ship - they start down the docks, but Katja blocks their way, and it’s her musket to their none. She grabs Tristan by the arm, presses the musket to his stomach - if you want him alive, you’ll do as I say. A gun close by goes off, causing all of them to flinch. In that instant, Nyima breaks from the hostage group to lunge at Katja. The two scuffle, until Nyima gets a grip at the barrel of the musket, shoves it into the air - it goes off. Tristan tries to pin Katja down, and she hisses, points the gun at him - Nyima yanks the barrel back. It goes off again - whether by accident or as a result of the scuffle or by intention, it finds its mark. 

A wail cuts through the air, and for a moment, the bedlam stills. Nyima clutches a weeping wound on her chest, collapsing into Tristan’s arms. Ever the protectress, she is restless still even with her grievous wound, tries to force herself before the rest of the Agathe survivors as they fall to her side. This is one of the last attempts, the last slingshots of action in her muscles and spirit: to interpose between her friends and Katja. The translator backs away, wide-eyed, but still in possession of her wits - weapon poised to fire again if they tried to seek retribution. 

“Call Jonathan! Casimir! Help her!” Emma begs to no one in particular. She is quick to kneel, had already torn off half the scarves she was wearing, and is pressing dry palms, wet cloth, crimson sash to Nyima’s blooming chest. The petal spreads, swallows the entire front of the amulet’s dress. For all her time spent in gardens, for all that she turned stem and stalk to see the wonders of the world, this is a flower Emma cannot understand. Cannot weed out, or stall, or even conceive of. The blood flows, pours, goes over easy; a swell like the motion of waves, on what was once a ferocious, then a frozen, now an utterly becalmed sea. Nyima’s hand raises to Emma’s cheek, and, like the curl of a gentle claw, wraps around the jawline. Tristan falls to her other side. She whispers something to both of them, a voice that doesn’t carry, a wisp already flattened into velvet by the winds. Then she presses her own face into Tristan’s thigh. Her Judas, her Captain; it’s hardly appropriate, isn't’ it, that he’s the one that has been betrayed again—that he’s the one left behind. Perhaps this is why the cook smiles to him, last. To assure, as much as assuage. To promise there is another turn to this story, even as her own is already fading. 

By now, Malachy and his officers and Marcus and his loyalists have found the source of commotion and gathered, wordlessly. Jonathan weaves through to reach Nyima - there’s shifting, the subtle sounds of men taking aim,  and Ephraim immediately raises his gun to Marcus. It takes his own Captain’s voice to make him lower it, hip level, eyes murderous.

“Let them go. Let her…” Malachy pauses, swallowing through his hoarseness. There is no doubt as to the injury’s severity - the bleeding has not abetted, thick rivulets seeping through Emma’s fingers and pooling on the fallow ground. Malachy Dowling was a man of many wounds; some borne within, some hidden, but most of all witnessed. He knows what a death mark looks like. Nyima’s body is a canvass of carnage.

Not much for Jonathan to do, no, not much for anyone to do at all. Doing has led them here; the rough, loud, prideful fall of it. The impossible tally. The Captain, the former Captain, rises his voice once more. “Let them care for her in peace. You’ve had the upper hand, and now - now neither of us do.”

It’s Tristan’s cry that announces it; the death, the finality. Emma’s face is as white as the sky above them. Hands as rusty as the sands on this beach, on this strange place of salvation. Ayla and Noemie huddle closer to lift her up, lift her away from Nyima, but she won’t go. It seems no one is going anywhere, anymore — the whole possibility of it has been culled. Bones resting as slack as burlap; as unconscious as the flotsam left after a flood. 

Behind him, Edward and Jaya usher those they knew to be aligned with the old command off the docks and into the city. Marcus watches, impenetrable, his own musket held limp at his side, unmoving, unspeaking. 

Then he extends a hand to Katja, like a faraway tyrant, the stone hewn statue of one, calling home its acolytes. He waits until the thief, once-translator, now trembling toll paid in blood, comes into his shadow. Lays a hand on her shoulder, protective and proprietary all at once. Lays a gaze, then, like the snag of a chain; drags it over all of them that remained up deck. Only then he begins to speak.

“So that is how these things end: the pointless brutality of it. Man’s obsession to keep a code of honour that has long stopped serving. Has everyone seen it, looked their fill? Good. I am nothing if not prophetic, hm? Now. Now. Let us make sure no other prediction of mine will see the garrish, gruesome light of day. Have you all had enough of mutiny and cockfights? Are you ready to make something of your life?”

His body turns to the rest of the crew, a full recoil, almost a repose.

“Seems to me this is as good a place to start as any.” 

To his own, Malachy offers his own words. Exhaustion permeates his words, weighs them heavy as lead - the fight is over, all there is left to do is rest. Regroup. Loss, they all know by now, regardless of their alignment, is consumptive. It eats and it steals and it offers nothing in return. “Let us not forget the dangers that have led us here. Betrayals. Mutinies. Guns at our heads as we lived and slept. A beast that knows not of compassion nor mercy. Just because we are alive does not mean we are safe - do not let your guard down. Rest, and we will regather. Salvation, whether it be here, or home, awaits us in unity.”

OOC: We hope you enjoyed today’s plot drop, lovely members and lurkers! The Promethean has landed in strange new lands where nothing is at it seems, with tension aboard boiling over into a chaotic climax. The crew has mostly dispersed into the city, with each side of the mutiny looking to gain their bearings and regain control. 

A poll will be posted in the discord so that you can choose if your muses retreated with Malachy Dowling or stayed anchored with Marcus Estrada. Please remember that everyone who helped Mal/Jules stage the insurgency is no longer a crew member. However, if your character has motives for staying (a loved one, a status as double agent, suddenly undecided etc.) you are welcome to have them remain on the Promethean. Just be sure to keep us up to date if any major loyalties have shifted, and, as always, to have a blast writing & plotting through these little rats’s conflicts. 

There is, of course, much to explore in this nameless port city, including NEW LOCATIONS, listed below, and new NPCs with which to interact as sideblogs. These will be ran by the admin team: K., Venli, and Rhi, and will be strangers to the rest of the crew, each bringing their own motives, mysteries, and intricacies into the interaction. Keep an eye out for the follow post within the next few days! More locations will also be added as the plot and exploration of the area progresses. As of now, THE CAPTAIN is an active muse and may interact with the rest of the characters. Have fun, and happy writing!

AT HANGMAN’S TRINKETS.  

At the other end of the port, pushed far enough from the seaside that it almost looks like any other village, splays the tight, narrow venue of the store. If most buildings on the docks look comely, a peace that alludes to most corners of the world where the ocean laps the shore, this one has a marked touch to it. It draws the eye, the firm painted a gaudy russet, as red as the sands that litter the eastward beach. Despite its hue, the sign has been battered into something closer to dried blood by the gale, and the marks on it are illegible. Could be any human language, or not at all. Perhaps what makes the shop stand out even more is the absence resounding in the harbour. The maroon posts are entirely devoid of any other ship, not even small fishing vessels anchored at half-length on the wharf. It should make the Promethean loom, but instead it diminishes it; could be soothing, could be dangerous, the way the quiet waves knock it about, with very few inhabitants coming to stare at it, to help tie it to the pier, or even to barter. Yet there is plenty of bartering to be done further inland. The rest of the expanse might be barren, but the shop is bright and bundled up, like an old woman sat by the fire. A string of fairy lights are hung over it in a diagonal row, the sash of it lolling slack enough to catch a taller sailor’s head and dapple it with warmth. At the counter, a young, plucky clerk spreads their arms in welcome. Behind them, vials, jars, and tinkling bottles litter the entire front wall. It is such a kaleidoscope of size and color that any customer might be more dazzled than tempted to purchase. From camphor oil to whale teeth necklaces, from silk handkerchiefs  to beads of black glass, everything seems ready to be displayed, bartered, and doubted. The clerk is nothing but exhilarated to have someone to talk to at last. Their bronze face is dappled with the hanging lights, and a nose ring stretches from their septum to their ear. That golden chain makes them look both older and younger at once — as they chuckle and lapse into chatter, already ready to soak up all the information visitors might bestow, it becomes more and more difficult to gauge their age. Or their intentions…. How much will you share?

HIGHWAYMAN’S REST.

Perhaps the most striking front belongs to the port’s hotel, a polished three-tiered complex that occupies the main street. Oddly enough, despite the fact that the port seems all but deserted, the building has the most upkeep in the area. The outer walls are painted olive green, in a stark contrast with the houses’ cream-colored front and the greyed, saltwind-bitten outstretches of wood along the pier. The double doors allow a glimmer of light to cross the threshold, since its glass panels are painted with scenes that resemble the stained glass on churches and temples all over the world. Once inside, the vista opens on a waiting room decked with paintings and sculptures, with works of art that don’t seem to resemble anyone in particular. In order to ring the receptionist’s bell, you have to wrangle your hand through a number of small statutes. One bust on the receptionist’s counter, reads king sylvester stuart. Another, an effigy that seemed carved in filigree, depicts josephine robespierre.  On the usual, there is no one in the waiting room, and no noises pour from above. For all intents and purposes, it feels as if the entire establishment is deserted; or perhaps never used in the first place, simply spruced, polished, and displayed for the hollow beauty of it. On the fourth clanger of the bell, the receptionist finally walks into view. A door in the wall opens, and they step through with a merry gait, not allowing anything to be glimpsed behind them. At once, they are ready to sort the visitor with the best sets of chambers for their disposition. They try to strike up a conversation, one hand already on the ledger, and do not even presume to ask for money until after the end of the stay. Their demeanor might almost foster the sense of a homecoming; only their remarks, and the parental, proprietary style of their speech, makes it feel more like a transaction instead. For all the luxury that defines the hotel, a visitor may wonder if, in fact, they’re being sold something else underneath. However, after such a long journey of darkness and water, who can say no to even a few hours in an ivory bedroom—for a dalliance, a tumble into unconsciousness, or just to experience the decadent beauty of those who’ve had easier lives?

THE SIREN’S SORROW. 

Jonathan and Emma manage to collect a few soil & vegetation samples. Iskender takes a moment to chastise them both, while he is quick to write down as much as he can from the physical impressions of the party.

Ayla and Pippa are scattering lamplight every which way, working to illuminate the path of the other three. Jaya has her guns cocked, and her feral frown down pat. Everything is in place. Now all they have to do is wait for this creature, or one of its manifestations, to make its demands known, to make contact.

What happened instead is that, ever so slowly, in the seamless mapping of one’s own dreams and fears, the crew starts to experience slips of visions. Or so they called them, because one must call the unspeakable something. Yet they were not external; they were not projections coming from without. Rather, this was an immersion to something inward, something always waiting but never trodden before. A realm and a shoreline. Some of the trekkers can later be heard claiming they were actually transported. That the sightings were born from their own selves, and no other possessed them. That it led them to different places, gaps in the fabric of the earth and sky.

They were awake for all of it... and yet they were not, because all their senses, anything they might wield to engage with the other world, existed in another place. 

Jonathan saw: A creature trapped in this place, hungering for help, its head nested in a bed of soft flowers. In his mind, he was approaching to save it, to save them all; the stillness of a statue was actually the urgency of a child in a meadow.

Ayla saw: Green rolling hills, an endless undulation of grass and movement, that when they tried to touch it withered below their feet. Seaglass skies, seaglass human faces. They try to stick their own mouths to them, but only meet death and dearth instead.

Emma saw: A savage garden teeming with thorns, with plants that have grown not only teeth, but claws, pincers, and mouths, all crooning in the voices of dead friends. Is this what led her to walk to Philippa? To lead all of them by the brook, the river of soot?

Iskender saw: Stepping through a valley of sand, a valley of dead kings, and wading in a river. He knew the river was blood that belonged to him, to people like him. Its warmth had more of home than he’d ever felt before. He remembered wanting to go under.

Jaya saw: A finger floating in a barrel of brine, a pair of eyes torn from their sockets. The inside of ship’s hull, no hatch for its closings, no stairs for the exit. The trapping of wood, of salt, of things that have grown stale and untouched inside the darkness.

Philippa saw: A furl of white dress, linen on a round shoulder. She had the weight of a hand in hers: nothing has ever carried so much presence for her, such tangibility. She thought it was a child’s hand - the child she once was, the child she’ll never have.

The dreams spool on, the closest thing to endless the mind can endure.

Emma kills Philippa by the small stream. Her eyes are focused, attuned, turning sharp over the bones. Bending down in her blood, she begins to watch. 

Iskender and Ayla kneel for the ritual, kneel for the things that wait in the sky.

Jonathan speaks to creatures that have never needed forgiveness, never needed song. He is begging them to come here, come back. At one point, he begins to cry out apologies, cry out to names both human and inhuman. It lasts for hours before everything falls silent.