Rishmond had been running from an unusually tenacious press-gang that'd been pursuing him for the better part of the day and into the evening.  Usually they gave up after a few hours and a few good slips, but this group seemed to be particularly interested in him. He’d doubled back, hidden in alleys, climbed rooftops, even waded through sewers—yet each time, they'd found him again.

He made for the cargo docks hoping to lose them in the tide tunnels carved beneath the quay—a good place to hide at low tide. Just his luck to run headlong into a short, stocky sailor puffing on a pipe at the edge of the pier, waiting to cast off.

"Sorry, sir," Rishmond muttered, head down as he backed away. He glanced over his shoulder—no sign of his pursuers. “Really sorry.”

"Damn it, boy! You'se oughta watch where yer goin' kid, not ery'one 'round here would be so nice as to let that go without a good beatin' ya know."  The short, older man picked himself up off the ground, brushing his short coat off. A single, piercing eye studied Rishmond beneath the light of the flickering dock torches.

.  Rishmond kept his head down and tried to look smaller and filthier—a proven method for keeping most people from looking closer or caring to take more than a swift kick at him as he scurried away. He turned to slip away, but the sailor's voice stopped him.

“Hey, wait! Where ya off to in such a hurry? You’se OK, kid?”

The sailor reached out with the hand still holding his pipe. “You in some kinda trouble?”

"No sir, just fine, just in a bit of a hurry, so..." 

The sailor cut him off. "Come on son.  I seen hurry and I seen gettin' away from somethin’.  You, boy, is doin' the gettin' away part." 

His tone had shifted—from annoyed  to concerned. 

Why would a stranger care about some street rat—running or not? Maybe he thought there was a reward for turning him in.

Rishmond considered bolting. Then, just as quickly, changed his mind.

“A gang’s after me,” he said. “You know how it is on the street. They think I owe ’em something I don’t. I just don’t wanna take a beating if I don’t have to, mister.”

The sailor glanced up the wharf—toward the warehouses and the alley Rishmond had come tearing out of.

Rishmond frowned.

Didn’t think he saw me until I ran into him. But… did he? If he did, why didn’t he move? Or yell?

Was he waiting for me?

Rishmond kept his head down but studied the man through lowered lashes. Stocky, not tall—but heavy enough that even at a full sprint, Rishmond shouldn’t have knocked him over.

Unless he’d let it happen.

The feeling in his gut twisted. This was starting to stink like a setup. That little voice in his head that had kept him alive all his life was telling him something wasn't quite right.

A faint sound—boot leather scraping wood.

Two men emerged from the shadows up the berth, big and broad, much larger than the one-eyed sailor. They moved into position, casually blocking Rishmond’s escape route.

The torches guttered in the sea breeze, casting long, shifting shadows across the dock.

This wasn’t luck.

They’d herded him here. This was the play.

Were they working with this sailor? If he even was a sailor?

“Look, kid—this can be hard, or it can be easy. Life 'board a ship’d be good for ya. Damn sight better 'n' scratchin’ around the streets in this piss-hole town.”

The man stepped closer, pipe tucked away now, hands raised in what might’ve been a friendly gesture.

“Ain’t sayin’ it’s all sunshine and sugar, but you get fed. That’s somethin’, ain’t it? For a kid with no family. No ties. Just come with us. No one gets hurt.”

This man knew more about Rishmond than he should.

This was definitely a setup. Giving up might be easier, but Rishmond's experience so far in life made it clear that those like him were used and thrown away by those in power. Street life was hard but it was mostly on his terms and that meant something to him. He didn't fear death, he feared giving up.

Rishmond bolted—straight for the edge of the quay, if he could make it into the tide tunnels and the sewers beyond, he could easily lose these men there and make his way to the edge of town and out to the caves near the old church.  Unlikely they'd follow him that far. 

Shouts rang out behind him.

Then—a whir, a metallic snap.

Something struck his calves. Hard.

Heavy ropes whipped around his legs, weighted ends slamming into his shins. He hit the ground face-first, skull cracking against the dock.

For a heartbeat, he saw stars. Heard the blood thrum in his ears.

He tried to roll, to sit up, to free his legs—

Too slow.

A second impact knocked the breath from his lungs. Hands grabbed at him pinning his arms. A knee drove down on his chest. His head bounced again—back this time. Harder.

All the air driven from his lungs. His imbs useless.

The last thing Rishmond saw before everything went black was the old sailor lighting his pipe, calm as still water.

Service aboard a cargo ship wasn't nearly as bad as many things he'd endured before.  The captain was definitely hard, and not at all fair, but Rishmond learned quickly to accomplish tasks before he was told and then get out of sight if he could.  He expected neither praise or reward and received neither even though he put in twice the work of most of the young deckhands, conscripts and volunteers alike.  His diligence wasn't all in vain as it did save him half the lashings others got.

All in all, much better than the starvation and abuse he'd taken as an orphan on the streets of Mott. On board the Dutchess' Teat he was fed and had a place to lay his head that wasn't under the open sky or in a rotten sewer. The work was hard and hours long, but no one had tried to kill him since he came on board.

The only person on board who showed him any kindness or interest that wasn't undesired was a younger kid called Toby. He was only 12 turns old.  Young for conscripted ship work, but here he was.  He taken to Rishmond right from the start. Toby'd been on board a few weeks already by the time Rishmond awoke in the fo'c'sle below the main deck.  Toby had taken it upon himself to wipe the blood from Rishmond's head and ensure he was as comfortable as he could be while chained to a fitting in the floor and dumped on a low slung hammock. 

Toby had greeted Rishmond as he came to and fetched him water from the small bucket by one of the posts from which the hammocks were hung.

"Hi." Toby's voice was soft and concerned.  "Ya'ight? Looks like they hit yur head pretty hard."  Rishmond couldn't place his accent, not one he'd heard around Mott, not even among the sailors and riff raff of the street.

Rishmond had taken to the kid despite his misgivings about people in general. The kid had a surprisingly upbeat personality for a down trodden wretch. It went well with Rishmond's pragmatic outlook.

Rishmond endeavored to teach Toby what he could and keep him out of trouble as much as possible. It worked for the most part. The kid was a willing student and a hard worker, but more than once Rishmond took a lashing for something Toby did, or forgot to do.  Not that Rishmond really minded, beatings were just a part of life really. Even many of the officers on the ship took at least one beating during the voyage. The first mate had taken a lashing after two recruits had gone overboard during a storm, apparently the Captain didn't appreciate being short handed at all.

Worse punishment was to be had in the form of missed meals as far as Rishmond was concerned, even if the meals were as bad tasting as any he'd ever had. The only flavor to any of the meals was the sharp, sour dill pickles that accompanied every meal—a preventative measure against scurvy, or so they claimed.

The only sailor besides Toby that showed any interest was one he he went out of his way to avoid, the ship's cook, Plug. A bent and scarred cripple that made Rishmond's skin crawl for some reason. He gave Rishmond an uneasy feeling, not because of his deformities but something colder and darker. Malice clung to the man like sweat. Rishmond wasn't the only one to feel it, most of the crew kept their distance.

Rishmond had woken more than once in the night to catch the man staring across the berths at him. He seemed to be the type of man who would torture small animals just to see them suffer. Why he'd want to befriend Rishmond was a mystery—and not one he wanted solved.

Being conscripted on to the crew of a cargo ship got him out of the country of The Arrangement of Peace and it's capital city of Mott.  He'd most likely be dead by now if he hadn't stumbled in to the recruiter from the Dutchess' Teat. Of course, death was still a very real possibility shipboard. Two other street urchins from Mott, 'recruits' the crew called them, that had come aboard at the same time as Rishmond had been swept overboard in a storm on the twentieth night of the voyage. They'd not been recovered.

The Dutchess' Teat had been making good time before a following west wind. That morning, the captain had ordered her tack adjusted to run due east, directly ahead of the driving gusts. Many among the crew grumbled—quietly, of course, and well out of earshot of any officers or priests. Their current heading would take them dangerously close to the cursed Shattered Islands.

Storms and sea monsters were said to dwell there, among the isles torn from the mainland during the years of upheaval after the Blessing. Every sailor knew better than to sail too near; the storms there could swallow a ship whole, or worse—Demon-spawned horrors could rise from the depths and drag her under. Only those who lived among the Shattered Islands—Demons themselves, if the stories were true—dared to sail those waters.

All the seasoned hands aboard would have preferred a more southerly route, far from even the sight of the islands, adding days to their journey but avoiding the dangers that lurked there. But the captain scoffed at superstition, and the Priests were unwavering: the Gods protected all ships consecrated by the Church.

In the late afternoon hours the call came from high in the crow's nest, "Land ho!" as the first of the Shattered Islands came into view. As if in response to the call, the west wind died and a sudden chill filled the air. The Dutchess' Teat foundered and slowed, her sails suddenly slack, her flag limp against its mast.

The sound of the ship cutting through the water—the wind in her sails, the shouted commands of the crew—vanished in an instant. A hush fell over the Dutchess' Teat. Tough, seasoned sailors exchanged uneasy glances, their superstitions rising up to smother reason.

Rishmond stood at the port railing, eyes fixed on a barely visible speck of land far across the sea.

The moment stretched unnaturally long. Then came a murmur—soft whispers among the crew, hushed talk of the Curse of the Shattered Islands. The spell broke as experienced sailors began barking quiet orders, nudging the rest of the crew into action. The mainsail was struck, the ship prepared for the wind's return.

Rishmond stepped away from the rail, dread heavy in the still air. He found Toby and leaned in close.

“Stay near,” he said, quietly. The two returned to their work, staying within sight of each other.

A nervous charge seemed to hang in the air, invisible but palpable. Even as the crew resumed their duties, men kept casting wary glances northward—toward the cursed isles.

Hours passed without the wind's return. Each time Rishmond looked up, the island seemed closer. It had grown from a distant speck into a distinct rise of browns and greens above the horizon. The Dutchess' Teat was drifting slowly, almost imperceptibly, northward—toward the Shattered Islands.

To make matters worse, dark clouds had begun to gather above the isles, like a shadow stretching out from the island itself. As the sun dipped low in the west, its light flared blood-red across the waves. The air turned colder.

The storm descended on the ship with sudden, brutal force as night fell around them. The magical lights—normally a comfort, casting a gentle glow across the deck—now flickered uselessly against the howling wind, crashing waves, and the oppressive dark.

Lightning split the sky, illuminating the sails still aloft just before they caught the wind. Moments later, the gusts rose to gale force, and the crew scrambled to strike the canvas before it could tear free.

A great boom of thunder cracked across the sky, as if the heavens themselves were splitting apart. Cold, hard rain followed, driven sideways by the whipping winds—each drop a stinging punishment from above.

Waves tossed the ship like a toy, swamping the deck and threatening to sweep men overboard. The first mate ordered safety ropes strung along the railings and lines for the deckhands to keep themselves tethered as they fought to keep the ship afloat. All hands were called to the deck—except for Plug, who remained below to secure the galley. Toby and a handful of crew sent to stabilize the cargo and man the bilge pumps.

Rishmond found himself on the main deck, a rope tied around his waist and fastened to a trunnion near the stairs to the poop deck, working to lash down anything that wasn’t already secured.

Wave after wave broke over the rails, water surging across the deck. Twice in just minutes, he’d lunged to catch men nearly swept away. More than once, he himself had been knocked off his feet, caught only by the rope tethering him to the ship. Rain and darkness turned everything more than a few feet away into a blur of shifting shadow. Lightning flashed frequently, offering brief glimpses that seemed to hinder more than help.

A barrel broke loose, crashing past him and slamming into the base of the stairs before rolling toward the port rail. Rishmond released his coil of rope and let himself slide across the slick deck. He collided with the barrel and wrapped himself around it, clutching the rope in one fist. In moments, he looped the line around the barrel and the nearest baluster, anchoring himself with his legs as he worked. He made several passes with the rope, looping it over the top rail for good measure, and tied it off.

Pressing his face close, squinting against the rain, he inspected the knot.

It would hold.

The barrel still rocked with the ship’s motion, bumping wetly against the railing. Rishmond decided to secure it further. He shifted to reach the next baluster forward, fighting the movement of the ship and the slick wood beneath him.

A flickering burst of lightning lit the sea below. Rishmond froze.

Something massive moved beneath the surface—a purplish-grey shape gliding just under the waves, followed by several long, sucker-covered tentacles. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be natural.

For a moment, he couldn’t move. Then a wave smashed into him, slamming him against the rail and snapping him out of his incoherent fear. Whatever it was, as long as it stayed in the ocean and he stayed on the ship, it didn’t matter.

His heart pounded and his stomach knotted. He ripped his eyes away from the water. Shoving the vision from his mind he turned back to the task at hand.

He reached for the safety rope strung along the rail, trying to steady himself—but the line went slack in his hand.

His gaze snapped to where the rope should’ve been anchored, just yards away. He could see next to nothing through the sheets of rain—only shifting shapes in the dark. A flash of lightning silhouetted the scene for a single, harrowing moment.

Figures. At least three, struggling on the deck. Was one of them missing an arm?

A wave crashed over Rishmond, blinding him. He shook his head furiously, blinking through the rain and sea.

A bright blue flash of light from the struggling shapes.

Another lightning flash—and two figures tumbled over the side, vanishing into the sea.

Rishmond scanned the darkness for the third.

Nothing.

The ship heaved hard to starboard, and the deck tilted beneath his feet.

Rishmond was thrown sideways. His line snapped taut—then snapped.

He slammed into the railing and went over.

The sea swallowed him whole.

Cold black water enveloped him. He spun in the dark, lungs tight, limbs flailing.

Up. Which way was up?

He kicked, thrashed—reached for anything—but the pressure closed in. Panic clamped around his chest like iron.

He shut his eyes.

A flash—lightning? No… something else.

He screamed inside his own head, a cry no one would hear.

I don’t want to die.

Then—something surged against him.

A shove.

Water rushed past his skin. His body lurched upward like a shot from a sling.

His lungs were on fire.

Then, all at once—air.

He exploded out of the sea and slammed back onto the deck with a splatter and a gasp, coughing seawater and rain.

Like the ocean itself had rejected him.

Gasping, trembling, he crawled toward the stairwell alcove, toward what little shelter it could provide. He collapsed against the wall, bracing his back to the cold, soaked wood.

Breathing. Just breathing.

Alive.

What had he just seen?

Nothing was clear in the inky storm—but it looked like Plug had been fighting with two other men. Had he actually seen them go overboard? Had Plug gone too?

Rishmond felt numb, his thoughts reeling.

He pulled himself to his feet, clinging to the stair rail. Someone had to know. The captain or the first mate—they’d be at the helm.

He started up the stairs.

The storm shifted without warning. The rain still fell—hard and cold—but now it fell straight down in dense, heavy sheets instead of lashing sideways. The near-constant thunder faded to sporadic rumbles echoing from far away.

The violent bucking of the deck eased to a steady, heaving roll. Waves still broke over the sides, but no longer threatened to swamp the ship and drag it to the ocean floor.

Rishmond burst up the stairs, slipping on the wet boards, and screamed at the figures barely visible through the rain—“Man overboard! Man overboard!”

"Bosun! Man overboard!” the captain’s voice rang out, sharp and immediate. The bosun’s whistle shrieked from the main deck, quickly echoed by another from the bow. The call rippled through the crew: Man overboard!

"Where?!" the captain barked.

"There!" Rishmond turned and pointed to the port railing just beyond where he'd tied the barrel. "Two men, Captain! Maybe three!"

Men rushed to the rail, peering into the sea, straining their eyes against the rain and dark.

Buoys and ropes were tossed out into the black water.

No one was found. 

The storm abated to a light drizzle. The magical lights once again cast their glow upon the decks. The Charge Priest conducted a count of the crew.

"Two of the new recruits missing, Captain."

The wind returned, steady and strong. The captain gave the order to raise the sails. The Dutchess' Teat lurched into motion, cutting through the heavy swells—leaving the lost behind.

Rishmond made no mention of Plug—except to Toby. Together, they agreed it was best that way. 

Plug's quiet observation continued but from a distance now.

The Charge Priest of the Church of Peace held a funerary service for the two men the day after the storm.  Typical to the Church, the funeral was as much an admonishment to all on board to cease sinning as it was any sort of acknowledgement of the dead or comfort to the living.

The priest instructed all to follow the rules and ways of the Church, and to spread the Word of the Church as far and as wide as possible, bringing all into its fold so that the Gods would return and expel the demons from the mortal world.  He also spoke about how the deaths of the two men were likely punishment from the Gods for lives lived in sin. 

The Church's stance on hardships was they were brought on by a life not lived in accordance with the Law of the Gods.  In Rishmond's experience, the law had a funny way of rewarding the rich and punishing the poor.

Rishmond spent the next two weeks scrubbing empty pickle and water barrels, swabbing decks, and learning everything he could about sailing. He kept his head down but never missed an opportunity to listen, observe and learn. No one was keen to teach anything, but it was of no surprise that a number of sailors were willing to show Rishmond how to do a task if it meant Rishmond would do the task for them. 

Arrival at port meant that all of the new and untrusted crew were confined below decks.  The Church and the country of The Arrangement of Peace did not want its citizens exposed to the sinful, ungodly ways of foreigners, unless the exposure was to attempt to get those same foreigners to convert to the Way of Peace and join the Church. Rishmond wouldn't have been able to recognize a place not under control of The Church, he'd been born and lived all of his young life under its influence.

He glanced about the darkened fo'c's'le where many of the crew were chained to beams or irons in the floor. Those not needed to actively dock the ship or unload its cargo were not permitted to disembark at foreign ports. Those that were allowed were closely watched by crew loyal to the Church and the Church sub-priests while in any foreign port. The Church and The Arrangement of Peace did not want its congregation and citizens escaping their control.

Cargo was being unloaded.  The sounds of crates, boxes, and barrels being moved about and the muted sounds of men and women shouting reached the quiet fo'c'sle.  The crew had been told to be quiet while the ship was in port on fear of lashings at the Captain's mast.  A few priests and several guards watched over the untrusted crew.

The grimy, skinny kid next to Rishmond leaned close and whispered, "Where does ya s'pose we are?". Rishmond shook his head and shrugged slightly giving Toby a significant look.  They'd been told to be quiet and Rishmond meant to be.  No reason to earn a lashing if it wasn't warranted.  Toby glanced away from Rishmond toward the guards at the door.  Were they likely to lash or beat someone here in the port where they wanted everyone to be quiet? Maybe. Probably. Toby seemed to come to the conclusion that perhaps it wasn't worth finding out.

They'd been confined below deck even before entering the harbor. 

The moment land had been sighted they'd been ordered below, chained to the decks and supports, and been told repeatedly to keep quiet.  The priests instructed them in no uncertain terms that attempting to escape off the ship, or sneak up to the deck to take a peek at the godless, heathen place they were about to dock would result in severe punishments to include plenty of time in the Cage.

The new recruits had been shown the Cage on the first day at sea.

It sat at the lowest point in the ship—down in the bilge, against the keel. Not one cage, but five: narrow iron boxes with doors that locked on one side. Each barely large enough to cram in a grown man if he hunched over and kept his limbs tucked in. Which, Rishmond guessed, was the whole point. The bilge water ran two or three feet deep, so anyone locked inside had their feet and legs submerged constantly in freezing seawater.

The cages were spaced four feet apart, probably to keep the occupants from grabbing at each other if more than one was down there. The only light came from the lantern held by the crewman tasked with showing the new recruits what awaited rule-breakers. The priest explained that the cages were enchanted—no sound could pass in or out once you were inside. That part had struck Rishmond as excessive. Unnecessary, even. But there must have been a reason.

Rishmond had never been sent to the Cage himself, but one of the new recruits had—a thin, sharp-faced man with a permanent scowl who claimed to know a priest in some town called Stormend. He talked constantly about his devotion to the Church, as if that might elevate him above the others.

It didn’t.

On the second day of the voyage, he shoved a deckhand aside to help himself to a second serving of stew. He was beaten, dragged below, and vanished for several days. When he returned, he was sick, hollow-eyed, and silent. They gave him one night to recover before putting him back to work. He’d caused no trouble since, and now sat curled on the deck, head bowed, arms clutched tightly around his chest.

They had all been warned: even if you escaped the ship and ran into this foreign land, the Church would find you. Every recruit had been marked with a tattoo on the neck—the symbol of the Church of Peace. Through it, they said, the priests could track you anywhere. No nation would offer shelter. The Arrangement of Peace, they were told, was respected everywhere. You’d be hunted. Shunned.

Rishmond wasn’t sure he believed all of that.

If the Church really held such sway, why wasn’t it the dominant faith in every land? Still, he wasn’t eager to test the claim. Too many unknowns. And there would always be someone willing to trade a fugitive for a pouch of silver.

Coin.  You either had it, or you didn't. 

Those with it did what they wanted. Those without were at the mercy of those with. 

Not really the best arrangement as far as Rishmond was concerned, especially since getting coin if you didn't have it was damn near impossible. 

The goal for most people seemed to be to get coin, by hook or by crook.  The means didn't matter to most. Rishmond couldn't recall anyone in his life getting enough coin to raise themselves from the ranks of the poor to that of the rich. 

He was pretty sure it had never happened and never would.  Not for him or any of those he knew.

Rishmond strained to hear the sounds from outside. 

He wondered what this port was like.  What the people who lived here were like.  He listened as voices were raised outside on what he thought might be the end of the gang plank. The voices grew louder, an argument had started.  He listened, the voice of the first mate he recognized.  The words clarified as the voices got louder.

"You've no right or authority to board this vessel!  She is the property and under the sov'rent o' the Church and The 'Rangement o' Peace!!"  The First Mate's voice was loud and firm with certainty.  

A second voice, much quieter than that of the First Mate, deep and sonorous answered, "We have reason to believe you have received illegal cargo here at this port.  We only request a look at your hold to ensure you have taken on no illegal cargo."

"We haen't taken on any cargo that ain't been loaded by your dock crew and stamp'd and 'proved by the 'arbor master."  The first mate seemed a bit calmer and the two speakers sounded as if they had mounted the gangway and were near the top deck of the ship now.

The two sub-priests and two of the 6 guards here in the fo'c's'le moved to the steps up to the deck, one of the priests telling the others to keep an eye on the chained sailors here.  "Keep 'em quiet," he whispered harshly as one of the guards opened the door at the top of the steps.  Sunshine spilled into the fo'c's'le, causing Rishmond to turn his head and blink hard for a moment.  The sun was cut off as the door closed behind the exiting guards.

"What seems to be the problem here?" came the Captain's voice from above. His voice always carried, a raspy baritone made to project across the ship above the sounds of the sea and a storm. "First Mate Thompsiat, what's going on?"  The captain had an educated way of speaking and when he used a formal title, it was a good indicator the person he was speaking to was about to catch his ire.

"These soldiers wanna come a'board an' check our cargo, Cap'in." The first mate sounded sure about his refusal, expecting the Captain to agree with him and turn these intruders away.

"By all means then, let them.  We haven't anything to hide now, do we?"  Captain Talisan's voice was pleasant but carried with it a promise that if there was something hidden that he didn't know about, there would be definite hell to pay.  "Good sirs, welcome aboard!  What would you be looking for and how can I help?"

A new voice answered. A quiet tenor that Rishmond had to strain to hear. "My apologies, Captain...?", the voice paused... "Talisan," answered the Captain, voice quieter now causing Rishmond to lean toward the door of the fo'c's'le. He caught sight of Toby's face looking up at him curiously. 

"Talisan.  Yes.  My apologies for the slight deception. We are representatives from the Malminar Wizard's Society and we are here looking for a Warlock brought to our shores on your ship."

Rishmond glanced hurriedly around the poorly lit room to see how the others were taking this news.  A Warlock?!  On board this ship?! The Church would never allow such a thing!

No one else in the crowded room looked shocked. In fact, every gaze was fixed on Rishmond with a kind of wary fascination—like he’d just grown horns. Or a second head.

Rishmond glanced down. Toby was staring up at him, eyes wide with fear.

He didn’t remember standing.

The boy looked at him like he didn’t recognize him.

And there was something strange—an odd shimmer of light outlining Toby’s face, throwing faint shadows across the floor.

Rishmond turned in place, heart thudding.

The four guards had drawn their cudgels. They held them low, but ready, like men preparing for a fight they didn’t want but were prepared to finish.

The lone priest had retreated toward the stairwell, one hand up, sketching frantic holy symbols in the air. Every face was on Rishmond. Watching. Waiting.

That was when he noticed: the light in the room had grown stronger. Not from the lanterns.

From him.

He looked down, and his breath caught.

His body glowed—faint, golden-white, the light pulsing from his skin like heat from a furnace. Disbelief gripped him, then fear. His limbs trembled.

And then, as suddenly as it had come, the glow vanished.

A rattle of chains cracked the silence.

Rishmond's gaze snapped to the back of the fo’c’sle.

A filthy, skeletal man stood in the shadows—once hunched and harmless-looking, now risen to his full height. He was impossibly tall—easily over six and a half feet—and lean like something starved for too long.

His left arm ended in a mangled stump, and the entire left side of his face was a latticework of burn scars, twisted and gleaming in the lamplight.

And he was grinning.

A wide, savage grin—teeth missing, lips cracked, eyes blazing with an unnatural gleam.

A low sound spilled from his throat—half growl, half laughter—and it crawled down Rishmond’s spine like ice water.

The man’s name was Plug—or at least that’s what everyone had called him since Rishmond first found himself aboard the Dutchess’ Teat.

Rishmond had avoided him from the start. Plug had tried, over and over, to strike up conversation, flashing his gap-toothed grin, but something about the man made Rishmond’s skin crawl. He carried the air of someone who hurt small animals for fun.

Now, that same man stood tall and wild-eyed in the corner of the fo’c’sle.

Plug raised his only arm and pointed directly at Rishmond, his fingers twitching. A string of guttural, animalistic noises spilled from his mouth—jagged, broken things that almost sounded like words. Then his hand flared with red light.

A tendril of blood-colored energy snapped out like a whip and wrapped around Rishmond’s chest, coiling fast around his arms and legs. His breath caught as he was slammed to the deck.

The chains around Plug’s wrist burst apart in a shower of sparks, clattering against the boards.

Red and black shadows danced across the walls as an unholy glow bled from Plug’s body.

Rishmond lay helpless, bound in pulsing cords of crimson magic. Panic clenched his chest. His breathing grew shallow and ragged. Around him, sailors shouted, stumbled, and scattered—no one wanted to be caught between him and the lunatic.

Sounds became thick, like trying to hear through pudding. Chains rattled. Boots thudded. Someone screamed.
Rishmond could taste bile—and pickles.

He tried to turn his head, to see where Toby was. Nothing moved. His eyes locked forward, fixed on the horror before him.

A guard burst into view, cudgel raised high, charging at Plug.

Plug barely twitched. A flick of his fingers—A beam of red light lanced from his hand.

The guard exploded.

Blood and bone sprayed across the room, painting the walls. Rishmond gagged as the metallic stench of gore filled his nostrils.

Then Plug opened his mouth.

A silent scream. His lips stretched impossibly wide.

The sound rose—

A screech—

A howl—

Like something dragged from the bowels of the world.

The deck groaned beneath Rishmond.

Wood splintered.

A jagged crack opened near his side—a black crevice tearing itself wider, like a mouth in the floor. The air turned hot. Heavy.

The smell hit next—sulfur and ash.

Two chained crewmen fell in, screaming all the way down. Their restraints snapped taut—then went slack with a sickening snap.

Something writhed in the dark.

Tentacles.

Thick, slimy, glistening red-black appendages, slathered in mucous and lined with pulsing suckers, slithered up from the pit.

They reached. Groped. Grabbed.

One man. Then two. Then more.

The tentacles coiled around them, squeezing hard, dragging them toward the waiting maw in the deck. Chains popped free from the wood—or tore through flesh.

Screams filled the hold.

Real screams.

Terror.

Pain.

The final shriek of someone knowing they were about to die.

The air reeked of blood, shit, and piss.

And Rishmond couldn’t even move.

Rishmond spotted Toby—only feet away—held fast by a writhing tentacle slick with mucous and blood. The boy dangled in the air, arms pinned, his face twisted in terror.

Another thick tentacle coiled around Rishmond’s own chest and waist, lifting him from the deck, dragging him toward the gaping wound in the floor.

He could see into the pit now. Fire churned deep below, its light dancing across walls that weren’t made of wood at all, but black molten stone that pulsed with infernal heat. Dark waves shimmered along the sides of the shaft, like veins of burning oil, leading down into smoke and shadow.

From that depth, the tentacles came. From that hell.

Rishmond tried to scream. Tried to thrash, to break free.

He had to reach Toby. The boy must be terrified—

A blinding flash.

Light, golden and pure, exploded through the fo'c'sle like the sun itself had shattered inside the ship.

Rishmond crashed to the deck, landing hard. He gasped—air finally flooding his lungs. Sunshine poured through the doorway above, the one that had moments before been closed and dark.

The noise of the room hit him like a slap.

Screams. Shouts. Boots on wood. Steel clashing. He blinked hard. The world spun, reeled, then snapped back into view.

The red tentacle still wrapped around his middle had changed. It was no longer magical light—it was flesh, slick and fading, twitching weakly. Whatever force had animated it was draining fast.

He turned his head. The hole was gone.

The deck where the infernal fissure had opened was solid once more—no sign of fire, no smell of sulfur, only the deep gouges left behind by embedded chains. A few broken links still clattered across the planks.

Rishmond rolled over, gasping—

And found himself at Plug’s feet.

The man loomed, monstrous and glowing, surrounded by a violent halo of light and sparks. Arcs of energy flashed around him like jagged lightning, ricocheting off a shield of warped air.

Plug growled something unintelligible, snarling like a beast mid-ritual.

He raised his arm again—

With a sharp gesture, a massive section of the ceiling above them tore free with a groan and crashed down forming a wall, sealing them off from the rest of the room. Dust rained from the exposed beams of the deck above.

From the far side of the barrier came the sounds of chaos—

Shouting. Pounding. Something—or many somethings—striking hard against the makeshift wall.

It sounded like an army trying to batter its way through.

Plug continued to growl and half scream in an unintelligible salvo of sound.  

Plug reached down and seized Rishmond’s arm, yanking him violently to his feet. Pain shot through Rishmond's shoulder as he staggered.

Without a word, Plug jerked his chin toward the hull. The wood there began to twist—slowly at first, then faster—spinning into a dark, swirling vortex. A passage to somewhere else.

A thunderous crack echoed behind them.

The makeshift wall Plug had conjured—gone. Splinters hung in the air like frozen birds mid-flight.

Plug snarled and turned in a crouch, shielding Rishmond with his body. The hammering noise had stopped. Someone—or something—stood in the opening.

“Fuck you!” Plug howled, voice ragged with rage.

He spun back toward the swirling hole, dragging Rishmond with him. His grip tightened like iron, and with a sudden wrench, he pulled.

There was a sickening pop as Rishmond’s shoulder dislocated, and he screamed as his feet left the deck.

Then a beam of white light sliced through the air—straight through Plug’s chest.

Blood sprayed across Rishmond’s face.

Time slowed.

Plug's grip didn't loosen.

Rishmond didn’t understand what had happened—only that Plug had been hit, and that they were both flying, flung toward the black, swirling hole.

The world exploded into light.

Suddenly—sunshine.

Open air.

A blinding sky of blue.

The chaos of the ship was gone. The screaming, the darkness, the tentacles—gone.

Rishmond tumbled through the air, disoriented. He couldn’t breathe. His vision blurred with light and blood.

A detached part of his mind noted: Plug’s hand still clutched his left forearm. Plug’s head and chest were there too—his face twisted in frozen fury.

The rest of him… wasn’t.

Then the sea met him.

A flat, brutal slap of cold.

The impact knocked the breath from his lungs.

Everything vanished in a blur of bubbles and blue. He sank, limbs useless, the water wrapping around him like a shroud.

Darkness crept in at the edges of his vision. The pain, the sunlight, even Plug's grip began to fade.

The water wrapped around him, cold, but comforting in some small way.

Only a shrinking pinpoint of light remained above him—

And then, blackness.