05-22-2018, 01:04 PM
Below deck, Tia Dalma’s hands wove furious patterns above the feverish Whirda. One after another, the might of the contagion rebuked the medicine woman’s spells, the incantations dying on her lips with each attempt. Tia struggled to narrow her focus, to dominate the contagion through sheer will and drag Whirda back from the brink of death.
The thunder of cannons and screams of dying men filled the corridor as the battle above continued unabated. As another healing spell sputtered and fizzled at Tia’s fingertips, the voodoo priestess spat and growled her frustration into the empty air.
“Come back ta me, child,” she pleaded, placing a hand on Whirda’s torrid skin. “Help us.”
“Second ship!” The cry from above alerted Tia to the encroaching danger. Unsure if the crew of the Sea Sprite had even dispatched the first of the marauding vessels, the voodoo priestess’s blood ran cold when she heard the warning. Already, Captain Deudermont’s ship listed to one side, likely taking on water in the ballast chambers of the lower holds.
Not for the first time in the last several minutes, Tia cast an anxious glance up the corridor. For how long could she tarry here, wasting valuable energy in her futile attempts to revive the plagued woman? Would her hesitance to abandon her friend cost Deudermont his ship, perhaps even his life? And if Whirda did indeed regain consciousness, what assurance did Tia have that it wouldn’t be her throat the unpredictable woman’s blade sliced first?
In the end, the voodoo priestess’s uncertainty was resolved for her.
“Tia Dalma!” came Deudermont’s call. “We require your aid!”
“Never shoulda left my island,” Tia grumbled, standing. She cast a final, sidelong glance at Whirda’s twitching form before starting off toward the battle.
Again, Whirda found herself in the fevered dream-state of the contagion, suspended in a void of impermeable darkness stretching endlessly in every direction. As if by instinct, the embattled woman erected her mental defenses against the sudden barrage of the shade’s voice.
Whirda Windstrom, the hissing voice cackled. You return to me so soon?
Whirda retreated deeper. The psionic tentacles of the foul shade poked and prodded at her barriers, seeking entry to the innermost sanctums of her mind.
You tasted it, didn’t you? On the beach, against those slithering creatures. You tasted your true potential. You tasted power.
No! Whirda protested. I do not desire your perversion, shade. I am not yours to command.
Of course not, Ahn’Thrix imparted cryptically. I am dead.
Then begone from me!
Again, the rasping, chilling cackle filled her mind, nearly splitting her skull with agony. Your resistance plants the seed of its own undoing. You only imagine me to distance yourself from your true nature. There is no Ahn’Thrix--not anymore. There is only Whirda Windstrom, in all her might and majesty.
Whirda did not understand the shade’s meaning. She could not find the words to respond to the implications, the unthinkable notion that the voice in her head was not Ahn’Thrix, but rather Whirda herself, or at least some part of her who sought to embrace the contagion rather than fight it. Such a profound split in her personality struck the embattled woman as impossible, and so she denied the possibility outright.
Trickery, she replied. It is well-known a lich of your power can survive even death itself. I am not a pawn in your evil game.
The shade’s frustration was palpable, but so too, it seemed, was its patience. Very well. You will learn soon enough the truth of who you are. For now, though, this conversation has reached its end. It is time for you to awaken.
Like the last time she dwelt in this cursed place, Whirda fell. The sheer velocity of the plummet stole the breath from her lungs, but this time she did not struggle against the inevitability of her descent. The pool of dark, placid water rushed up to meet her, and then she was gone.
Through the jagged hole in the starboard side of Captain Deudermont’s private quarters, three pirates from the second ship swung from long ropes to land on the plush carpet. The first, a barrel-chested man, his thick arms knotted and gnarled with muscle, promptly sheathed his curving scimitar when he saw the room was empty. He turned to his companions, a man and a woman, and raised a finger to his lips to indicate they should be quiet.
As if to illustrate the absurdity of the gesture, a new round of thunderous cannon fire echoed throughout the chamber as the Sea Sprite and the second marauding ship joined in battle.
The three pirates spread out to search the room for valuables. The woman unfurled scrolls, peering at writing she could not read before tossing them aside. On the other side of the room, the barrel-chested man flung the drawers of the mahogany desk open, pocketing trinkets and baubles.
However, it was the third pirate, a slender, swarthy man whose eyes seemed always to dart back and forth nervously, who uncovered the real booty. With practiced fingers he inserted a lockpick into the lock of a large, wooden chest, flicking his fingers and twisting the thin piece of metal until, with a satisfying click, the chest sprang open. The pirate’s eyes widened as he surveyed the small mountain of jewels, silks, and gold pieces. The pristine plunder twinkled and sparkled even in the ambient light, reflected in his hungry gaze.
So entranced was the pirate, he did not notice his own sword slip from its sheath, nor did he protest as the cruel blade slipped between two of his upper ribs and into his heart and lungs. The only sound that emerged from him was a gurgle as pinkish foam came to his lips. Then he keeled over, quite dead.
Whirda straightened, allowing the pirate’s bloodied sword to clatter to the ground, alerting the dead man’s companions to her presence. When the barrel-chested pirate saw her, his eyes veritably bulged from his head. He groped clumsily for his cutlass with one trembling hand, backing into the bookshelf behind him.
The scrolls and trophies from Captain Deudermont’s many adventures cascaded down on the pirate’s bald head, but the man seemed not to notice. His attention was focused fully on the black-skinned woman who approached him, its every movement partially obscured by a cloud of ash. Her dagger? The pirate shook his head vigorously. Where the woman’s hand had been empty a split second before, it now held a wickedly curved dagger, from which opaque ash poured like water from a spigot.
Behind Whirda, the barrel-chested pirate’s female counterpart crept forward, foolishly believing the noise of the battle above had allowed her to go unnoticed. Whirda never broke eye contact with the barrel-chested pirate as she disappeared, blinking back into existence behind his companion. The wicked dagger glinted as Whirda dragged it across the woman’s throat, hot blood spattering the walls and floor.
Having no intentions of engaging the woman, who he now supposed was some manner of demon summoned from the depths of the Underverse, the last surviving pirate bolted for the gaping hole in the Sea Sprite’s side, leaping for the relative safety of the ocean’s depths.
Whirda, unwilling to let her prey escape so easily, strummed the leylines of shadow crisscrossing the space around her, lining up a series of spells. With a crack, she vanished, reappearing crouched on the back of the falling pirate. The man had just enough time to release a terrified yelp before both he and Whirda disappeared once again.
By the time the pirate felt the plush carpet beneath his prone form, he knew it was too late.
The thunder of cannons and screams of dying men filled the corridor as the battle above continued unabated. As another healing spell sputtered and fizzled at Tia’s fingertips, the voodoo priestess spat and growled her frustration into the empty air.
“Come back ta me, child,” she pleaded, placing a hand on Whirda’s torrid skin. “Help us.”
“Second ship!” The cry from above alerted Tia to the encroaching danger. Unsure if the crew of the Sea Sprite had even dispatched the first of the marauding vessels, the voodoo priestess’s blood ran cold when she heard the warning. Already, Captain Deudermont’s ship listed to one side, likely taking on water in the ballast chambers of the lower holds.
Not for the first time in the last several minutes, Tia cast an anxious glance up the corridor. For how long could she tarry here, wasting valuable energy in her futile attempts to revive the plagued woman? Would her hesitance to abandon her friend cost Deudermont his ship, perhaps even his life? And if Whirda did indeed regain consciousness, what assurance did Tia have that it wouldn’t be her throat the unpredictable woman’s blade sliced first?
In the end, the voodoo priestess’s uncertainty was resolved for her.
“Tia Dalma!” came Deudermont’s call. “We require your aid!”
“Never shoulda left my island,” Tia grumbled, standing. She cast a final, sidelong glance at Whirda’s twitching form before starting off toward the battle.
Again, Whirda found herself in the fevered dream-state of the contagion, suspended in a void of impermeable darkness stretching endlessly in every direction. As if by instinct, the embattled woman erected her mental defenses against the sudden barrage of the shade’s voice.
Whirda Windstrom, the hissing voice cackled. You return to me so soon?
Whirda retreated deeper. The psionic tentacles of the foul shade poked and prodded at her barriers, seeking entry to the innermost sanctums of her mind.
You tasted it, didn’t you? On the beach, against those slithering creatures. You tasted your true potential. You tasted power.
No! Whirda protested. I do not desire your perversion, shade. I am not yours to command.
Of course not, Ahn’Thrix imparted cryptically. I am dead.
Then begone from me!
Again, the rasping, chilling cackle filled her mind, nearly splitting her skull with agony. Your resistance plants the seed of its own undoing. You only imagine me to distance yourself from your true nature. There is no Ahn’Thrix--not anymore. There is only Whirda Windstrom, in all her might and majesty.
Whirda did not understand the shade’s meaning. She could not find the words to respond to the implications, the unthinkable notion that the voice in her head was not Ahn’Thrix, but rather Whirda herself, or at least some part of her who sought to embrace the contagion rather than fight it. Such a profound split in her personality struck the embattled woman as impossible, and so she denied the possibility outright.
Trickery, she replied. It is well-known a lich of your power can survive even death itself. I am not a pawn in your evil game.
The shade’s frustration was palpable, but so too, it seemed, was its patience. Very well. You will learn soon enough the truth of who you are. For now, though, this conversation has reached its end. It is time for you to awaken.
Like the last time she dwelt in this cursed place, Whirda fell. The sheer velocity of the plummet stole the breath from her lungs, but this time she did not struggle against the inevitability of her descent. The pool of dark, placid water rushed up to meet her, and then she was gone.
Through the jagged hole in the starboard side of Captain Deudermont’s private quarters, three pirates from the second ship swung from long ropes to land on the plush carpet. The first, a barrel-chested man, his thick arms knotted and gnarled with muscle, promptly sheathed his curving scimitar when he saw the room was empty. He turned to his companions, a man and a woman, and raised a finger to his lips to indicate they should be quiet.
As if to illustrate the absurdity of the gesture, a new round of thunderous cannon fire echoed throughout the chamber as the Sea Sprite and the second marauding ship joined in battle.
The three pirates spread out to search the room for valuables. The woman unfurled scrolls, peering at writing she could not read before tossing them aside. On the other side of the room, the barrel-chested man flung the drawers of the mahogany desk open, pocketing trinkets and baubles.
However, it was the third pirate, a slender, swarthy man whose eyes seemed always to dart back and forth nervously, who uncovered the real booty. With practiced fingers he inserted a lockpick into the lock of a large, wooden chest, flicking his fingers and twisting the thin piece of metal until, with a satisfying click, the chest sprang open. The pirate’s eyes widened as he surveyed the small mountain of jewels, silks, and gold pieces. The pristine plunder twinkled and sparkled even in the ambient light, reflected in his hungry gaze.
So entranced was the pirate, he did not notice his own sword slip from its sheath, nor did he protest as the cruel blade slipped between two of his upper ribs and into his heart and lungs. The only sound that emerged from him was a gurgle as pinkish foam came to his lips. Then he keeled over, quite dead.
Whirda straightened, allowing the pirate’s bloodied sword to clatter to the ground, alerting the dead man’s companions to her presence. When the barrel-chested pirate saw her, his eyes veritably bulged from his head. He groped clumsily for his cutlass with one trembling hand, backing into the bookshelf behind him.
The scrolls and trophies from Captain Deudermont’s many adventures cascaded down on the pirate’s bald head, but the man seemed not to notice. His attention was focused fully on the black-skinned woman who approached him, its every movement partially obscured by a cloud of ash. Her dagger? The pirate shook his head vigorously. Where the woman’s hand had been empty a split second before, it now held a wickedly curved dagger, from which opaque ash poured like water from a spigot.
Behind Whirda, the barrel-chested pirate’s female counterpart crept forward, foolishly believing the noise of the battle above had allowed her to go unnoticed. Whirda never broke eye contact with the barrel-chested pirate as she disappeared, blinking back into existence behind his companion. The wicked dagger glinted as Whirda dragged it across the woman’s throat, hot blood spattering the walls and floor.
Having no intentions of engaging the woman, who he now supposed was some manner of demon summoned from the depths of the Underverse, the last surviving pirate bolted for the gaping hole in the Sea Sprite’s side, leaping for the relative safety of the ocean’s depths.
Whirda, unwilling to let her prey escape so easily, strummed the leylines of shadow crisscrossing the space around her, lining up a series of spells. With a crack, she vanished, reappearing crouched on the back of the falling pirate. The man had just enough time to release a terrified yelp before both he and Whirda disappeared once again.
By the time the pirate felt the plush carpet beneath his prone form, he knew it was too late.
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