The scent of brine and exotic alcohol hung heavy in the air as Captain Crowe steered the Viper from its usual berth behind the island of Mythralis.
Captain Crowe, his nerves jangling with every passing moment, couldn't stomach the delay any further. He felt a primal urge to escape the island, a desperate certainty that his life depended on it.
Lucia, Marcellus, and Finn were taking an eternity. He couldn't wait for them any longer. He was going for them.
The once-bustling docks became uncharacteristically quiet, with no welcoming shouts or lines cast from the docked vessels. An unsettling premonition tightened Crowe's gut.
As a Sequence 9 Jinx, a cold dread seeped into his bones.
He secured the Viper with practised ease ordering the crew, the familiar ropes and knots offering a fleeting sense of normalcy.
Suddenly, a deafening screech tore through the sky!
It wasn't the first time. The first time it pierced the air, he couldn't pinpoint the source, his gaze sweeping frantically across the empty clouds above. Now, with the sound splitting the air again, his heart hammered a frantic double-beat in his chest.
He left his men...
Stepping onto the deserted dock, he found the usual hustle and bustle of the port town replaced by an eerie stillness. Doors hung ajar, merchandise lay scattered on the cobblestones, and the air vibrated with a heavy silence.
In the distance, the charred skeleton of the Chapel loomed, a monument to the battle's fury. Cannons lay silent, their cold muzzles pointed accusingly at the sky. But the most unsettling sight was the soldiers.
Soldiers, not soldiers. Figures sprawled motionless, some impossibly pristine, untouched by the carnage. Unconscious, he thought with a jolt, not unconscious. The chilling realization settled in his gut – perhaps these were the dead, laid out peacefully in a grotesque parody of sleep.
He leaned closer, his heart hammering against his ribs.
These figures, scattered across the battlefield, were eerily still, laid out unconscious. Unlike the carnage around them, they were untouched – no blood, no visible wounds, just an unnatural peace in their sleep.
Unconscious, not unconscious.
Crowe's heart hammered frantically against his ribs as he ascended the familiar path towards the Salty Siren dock tavern. He threw open the creaking door, the sight that greeted him extinguishing any lingering hope.
The salty siren was dilapidated not entirely burnt down.
Inside, patrons slumped over tables, tankards of ale spilling onto the worn floorboards. Barkeep Boris, a man known for his boundless energy, lay sprawled behind the counter, his weathered face slack, an axe stuck to his head as flies buzzed about his blood.
Dread coiled around Crowe's throat, icy and suffocating.
He rushed back to the docks, his boots echoing hollowly on the deserted stones.
The streets were a scene of utter chaos. Debris littered the ground, and the grim evidence of a recent conflict lay scattered everywhere – bodies of civilians, some still clutching belongings, others contorted in poses of finality. It was a chilling tableau that spoke of a sudden and brutal attack.
Where were the Governor's guards? This wasn't a soldier's battlefield – this was a civilian massacre. Crowe criticized.
There, on the deck of the Viper, lay his crew. Master Dobbs, his axe a forgotten sentinel by his side. Randy, his bow slack in his hand as if she'd mid-draw when the slumber struck. Even young Noah, ever restless, lay motionless at the helm.
Disbelief morphed into a cold certainty.
An unseen force, as potent and silent as the looming shadow of Mythralis itself, had ensnared them.
The rhythmic lap of waves against the hull was the only sound that dared to break the oppressive silence, a haunting reminder of the mysteries that unfolded.
Crowe gripped the railing, the rough wood offering a sliver of comfort in this unsettling scene. His seasoned crew, men who had stared death in the face countless times, were now vulnerable, their fates tied to an enigmatic slumber.
A single, chilling question echoed in his mind: why? Who had they offended for such a misfortune to befall them, a fate woven from threads of insidious spell?
The weight of the unseen curse pressed down on him, a suffocating cloak that choked any hope of understanding. Desperation gnawed at the edges of his reason, threatening to unravel everything he thought he knew.
Then as if the very air was oppressive, a sickening realization slammed into him.
Wait, why am I awake to witness this? Shouldn't the curse have taken me too?
A sliver of fear, sharper than any blade, pierced his heart. Could he be the only one spared, destined to watch the insidious spell devour everything he held dear?
A cold sweat slicked his brow. Shouldn't the curse have claimed me too?
Why am I awake?!
Suddenly, a searing pain erupted in his chest, a white-hot inferno that radiated outwards, consuming his entire body. He screamed a raw, primal sound that tore through the oppressive silence.
The world blurred, colours bleeding into a swirling vortex of light.
A sickening crack echoed as his knuckles rearranged, bones reshaping to accommodate the transformation.
He crashed to his knees, the earth cold and unforgiving beneath his hands. His once calloused fingers were elongating, morphing into razor-sharp talons.
A guttural growl escaped his throat, no longer human, but a sound that echoed with raw power and primal instinct.
His clothes ripped and shredded as his form contorted, muscles bulging and twisting beneath newly formed, shimmering scales. A horrifying transformation unfolded before his own terrified eyes.
He looked down at his new form, a primal instinct coursing through his veins. A terrifying realization dawned: he couldn't control it.
There was nothing he could do to stop this transformation.
His legs fused, stretching and lengthening into a slender, scaled tail. His vision shifted, the world appearing in a kaleidoscope of vibrant colours unseen before. A pair of massive, leathery wings erupted from his back, catching the now golden sun and casting an ominous transparent shadow, the deck groaning under the sudden shift in weight.
The pain subsided as quickly as it began, leaving him raw and exposed. He let out a deafening roar. weeping perhaps? Captain Crowe was gone, replaced by a magnificent, beautifully unique creature, unlike anything the world had ever seen.
A primal instinct surged through Crowe, he lunged, the deck groaning under the sudden shift in weight. Landing on all fours, the unnatural gait felt strangely familiar. He looked down at his new form - a hulking creature with sky-blue hide and a slender build. A hairless head, vaguely reminiscent of a sea harpy, sprouted from his shoulders.
Despair threatened to drown him.
Was this it? Was this the fate he'd witnessed, not as a victim, but as the very monster he'd feared? A guttural cry ripped from his throat, a sound that echoed across the churning sea, a mournful lament for the man he once was.
But amidst the terror and confusion, a spark of defiance flickered in Crowe's newly formed mind. He wasn't entirely lost.
H-It could still feel a sliver of his humanity, a yearning for control. It locked eyes towards the sky, the flicker of recognition now a burning plea. "Lord of Storms..." a raspy voice, barely recognizable as its own, rasped from its hideous face and concluded the prayer. "Help me..."
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Moments ago when Marcellus, Finn and Martia had chased down Severin, Aulus's mind raced, the pain in his chest a throbbing counterpoint to the frantic thoughts.
Suddenly, a deafening screech tore through the sky!
Aulus, though hardened by years, couldn't crane his neck skyward to search for the source of the screech. The searing pain from the sword embedded in his back held him fast, a brutal reminder of the conflict he sought to escape.
The sword, he remembered, its chill steel slicing through his ribs.
He pictured it there now, a dark stain blooming on his leather jerkin, mocking his hubris. He dared not move, not with the blood draining from his core.
Yet, the silence outside gnawed at him, a predator circling a wounded stag.
Was the battle won? Or were they all about to meet their end, Death his only companion?
A tremor ran through his body, not from the wound, but from a primal fear clawing its way up his throat. The quiet wasn't the absence of battle, it was the prelude to something far worse, he feared.
Aulus's thoughts drifted to Severin, the man who had become his nemesis, a constant thorn in his side, a literal sword in his chest.
He wondered, with a mixture of resentment and grudging respect, how Severin had managed to best him once more. It was clear now that underestimating the Swindler's cunning could prove fatal.
No, Aulus did not underestimate him; he knew all too well the depths of the man's viciousness and manipulation. It was precisely this awareness that had prompted Aulus to maintain a cautious distance. Though Aulus possessed a reasonable aptitude for close-quarters combat, and perhaps even surpassed Severin in physical strength, there was simply no need to take such a risk.
Years stretched between their last meeting. A glint of something unfamiliar flickered in Severin's eyes. What if, buried beneath his notorious reputation, lay a depth of cunning Aulus hadn't anticipated?
Aulus's mind raced, the pain in his chest a faithful reminder of the sword in his chest. He dared not move, for fear that the slightest motion would bring about a swift and unforgiving end. Instead, he lay there, his breathing shallow, each breath a Herculean effort against the weight of his injuries.
The silence pressed down on him like a physical force. In the distance, the sounds of battle had dwindled, replaced by an eerie quietude that seemed to envelop Mythralis in a suffocating embrace.
The quietude, however, was not peaceful, Aulus could feel it. It was pregnant with something else entirely, something dark and malevolent that twisted in the air like smoke.
Age, a cruel taskmaster, wouldn't allow Aulus, the seasoned sequence 7 Bone caster, the simple act of surviving such a wound. He was too old. The sharp tang of blood filled his senses, and with each ragged breath, a wave of drowsiness washed over him.
Aulus forced his eyes open, his vision blurry and tinged with red, he was bleeding out from his orifices.
The world had tilted on its axis, and the once-proud village of Mythralis now lay in ruins around him. Shattered house scraped at the golden sky, and the stench of death hung heavy in the air.
But it wasn't the devastation that chilled him to the bone.
His gaze fell upon the source of his horror. The enemy that had attacked him, the one who had plunged the sword into his chest, was nowhere to be seen. Instead, there was only a gaping maw in the earth, a swirling vortex of darkness that pulsed with an unearthly light.
After a night darker than the abyss itself, a cold wave of terror, more chilling and profound than the harshest of winter's bites, cascaded over Aulus.
The vortex before him pulsated with a sinister rhythm, birthing a tendril of the purest onyx from its unfathomable depths. It twisted and convulsed in the air, a serpent aiming for its prey with malevolent intent. Aulus's heart sought to escape, to cry out for salvation, but his voice was a prisoner to the oppressive silence enveloping him.
Paralyzed by a fear that clawed at the very essence of his being, he stood transfixed as the shadowy appendage inched closer, its caress heralding an abyss far worse than the embrace of death, Aulus feared.
Then, piercing the veil of despair, a voice, mythical and imbued with an ancient power, thundered from the heart of the vortex.
"The sacrifice is deemed worthy. The gateway stands unsealed."
A cacophony of otherworldly cries responded to a macabre orchestra of malevolence that frayed the edges of Aulus's sanity. A dread realization dawned upon him; he faced not merely a foe, but an ancient, Mythical adversary, an entity that should have remained ensnared in the chains of oblivion.
As the tendril made its final lunge, a luminous eruption cleaved through the shadows. From this brilliance emerged a figure, garbed in silver armour, its visage shrouded by a visor.
With a gesture of command, the figure unleashed a tempest of energy with a slash, repelling the tendril back into the chasm from whence it came. Turning its mysterious gaze upon Aulus, its eyes blazed.
"Perhaps your fate is not sealed this day, elder," the figure proclaimed, its voice a tapestry of valour and solemnity. Gazing into the distance, it addressed another unseen presence, "Have the shadows been purged?"
Adrift on the currents of the air, another arrived, garbed not in the regalia of armour but in the subtlety of leather, his features obscured as if by mist, "Two shadows escaped."
The armoured sentinel nodded in acknowledgement, "Then we stand as defences against the darkness until our task reaches its end."
The second figure, clutching a sack from which the blood seemed to drip, made a gesture towards his visage, a sign of assurance, "The one who leads will not delay."
A newfound vigour coursed through Aulus, dispelling the shadows of pain and despair. Grasping the hilt of the blade buried within him, he mustered a Herculean effort and withdrew it, indifferent to the crimson that painted his flesh.
These were Stormseekers, warriors of legend, their presence no mere coincidence but a preordained by the Lord of Storms Aulus thought, yes Aulus was a man of faith one who believed in the Lord of Storms Providence.
Their words were a stratagem not solely for their benefit but a beacon for Aulus, a call to arms, a testament that not all was lost, and a battle yet remained to be won.
With a gaze that shifted between his enigmatic allies and the swirling maw of darkness, a resolution of iron forged within Aulus. he was going to die today, but he was going to be of some service to the Lord of Storms.
And so it was that Aulus, a seasoned Sequence 7 Bonecaster, alongside a powerful Sequence 6 and another skilled Sequence 7, resolved to hold back whatever monstrosity threatened to erupt from the depths.