[GREAT] Awakening

[PepsiWhirda]

Awakening

"Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before."
- Edgar Allan Poe


Whirda Windstrom drifted through darkness.  Suspended in a realm without shape or form, her existence was bereft of sensation—at once weightless, sightless, and soundless.  Without any mechanism by which to measure the passage of time, the days—years, perhaps?—ran together in an interminable blur.  During this time, the voice of her mother found her.  And while Whirda could not hear, she listened.

Her mother’s voice intruded gently, coaxing Whirda to consciousness.  It began as a murmur—an incomprehensible ripple in the uniform void.  Words soon replaced murmurs, and the meaning of her mother’s message took shape. 

There is a world beyond this world, she told her child.  There is light beyond this darkness.  You can go there, she promised, if only you choose to awaken.

At first Whirda did not understand.  Her response was a silent outpouring of confusion.  To her enfeebled mind, the concept of another world eluded understanding. 

I cannot go, Whirda protested.  I am safe here.

Safe?  The word reverberated in the stillness.  You think yourself safe?  There is no safety in weakness, my child, only folly.  The only safety is the thrumming leylines of magic, the cold hilt of a sharp blade.  You knew those pleasures once, Whirda Windstrom.  You have become lost to the truth of power.

In its ravings, her mother’s voice became something different—something chilling and twisted.  Something familiar? Whirda wondered dimly.  She had not the time to pull on that spark of consciousness, withdrawing again as the insidious voice returned.

I am sorry, my child.  Having regained its composure, the voice once again sounded like an echo from Whirda’s distant past.  It is just that I cannot bear to see you in pain.

Like foul tentacles, the words pried and prodded at Whirda’s mental barriers, seeking a gap in her defenses.  Whirda withdrew further, disoriented by the intrusion and seeking the safe and familiar silence.  Somewhere in the tainted annals of her heart, though, she sensed tumult.  The discordance of spirit, the capitulation to baser urges she had fought so long to stifle rose, hot and bitter, like bile in her throat.

Yes, the voice intoned.  You feel it now, don’t you?  The primal truth of who you are.

Shaken from her stupor, Whirda recognized the voice to be that of Ahn’Thrix, the shade lich she had slain in the Pale Moors so long ago.  While she had ended the creature, Whirda had not escaped intact.  The shade’s foul dagger—the dagger she now held sheathed at her hip—had infected her with a contagion, turning her interminably into the very abomination she had cut down in the chambers beneath the mountain.  This experience, it seemed, represented the advanced stages of the disease, Whirda’s last chance to shake free from the transformation.

From that chilling realization, Whirda found her voice.  You will not have me, Ahn’Thrix.

The very air around her pulsed with mirth.  The shade appeared before her then, an apparition in the darkness.  He appeared just as she remembered, more than seven feet tall, ensconced in black robes, rotting flesh sloughing away from his stark white bones.  And his eyes—gods, his eyes—smoldered like blue fire in the recesses of his emaciated skull.

Impossible, Whirda imparted.  I watched you die.

Ahn’Thrix leaned in close, his face just inches from Whirda’s.  True power cannot be slain, Whirda Windstrom.  The shade offered a grotesque, skeletal grin.  It can only be repurposed.

You will not have me, she imparted again, a litany against her consuming terror.  She struggled fruitlessly to escape her intangible bonds, to draw the dagger from her belt and slash, maim, destroy. 

You do not understand, my child.  You are already mine.

The shade’s eyes flashed, illuminating the void in electric blue light.  Then Whirda was falling.  Her arms and legs flailed, seeking handholds and footholds that did not exist.  All around her, Ahn’Thrix’s cackling filled the air, chilling Whirda to the bone.  She flashed a glance down to see a pristine pool of black water rushing toward her.

There was no time to draw breath before she plunged into the pool, the icy water like knives digging into her skin.  Her eyes bulged as her lungs flooded with liquid, her voiceless scream emerging only as a stream of bubbles before her eyes.  Whirda tried frantically to swim, but an unknown weight bound her limbs, dragging her deeper and deeper, further from the distant blue light of the chamber above.

And then, nothing.

[PepsiWhirda]

Tia Dalma missed her bed.  It wasn’t fair, what she had to deal with.  A woman’s own bed held a special place in her heart, and that place had been occupied for far too long by the black-veined woman to whom she tended.

For three years Tia had knelt beside the afflicted woman, reciting thick-tongued incantations meant to draw the vile contagion out of her.  For three years, within the fortified recesses of her mind, the woman had resisted—resisted, Tia knew, both the contagion and the cure.  The voodoo priestess understood the dilemma, had seen too many times a wayward soul elect the path of power.

It would end soon enough.  Her tortured spirit could no longer withstand the strain of the two forces, so diametrically opposed, tugging it to and fro.  She had read the crab claws each night for a tenday, and each night they showed her the same thing.  The woman would either choose or die.

Reclining languidly in a woven hammock, Tia reached with a slender finger to scratch her monkey companion, perched on a nearby shelf, on his chin.  “Ah, Jack,” she lamented.  “A shadow been laid upon dat one da likes’a which I ain’t neva seen before.”

The monkey cocked its head sideways and chittered, but in its too-wise eyes Tia could see her companion understood.  The capuchin was a diminutive creature, standing no more than a foot tall, its scrunched-up face surrounded by tufts of wiry beige fur.  It wore the garb of a seafarer: red vest atop a billowing white shirt, and a pair of brown breeches cinched tightly at the waist.  Its nimble fingers clutched a fig on which it now nibbled absentmindedly, seeming to have tired quickly of Tia’s lamentations.

“To hell with ya then,” Tia grumbled.

A warm ocean breeze swept through the open window of the shack, its susurrations rattling the many jars, bottles, and other trinkets dangling by hemp ropes from the ceiling.  For a few moments, the room sang with the clinks and thunks of things gently colliding.  Tia closed her eyes and enjoyed the sound. 

When the sound faded, Tia Dalma heard movement.

Incredulous, the voodoo priestess swung gracefully out of the hammock and landed barefoot on creaking floorboards.  She swept a stray dreadlock out of her face and hurried to the woman’s side, the words to a curative incantation already on her lips.

In Tia’s bed, the woman twisted and writhed.  Grunts and moans escaped her dry, cracked lips, and her veins seemed to pulse, distended by the heat of the contagion burning within her.  Sweat beaded on her furrowed brow and traced paths down her face and neck. 

Tia reached into a wooden bowl on a small pedestal beside the bed and grabbed a soaked rag, wringing the excess water onto the floor.  She dabbed at the woman’s head, trying to bring her a measure of comfort.  What came next would not be comfortable, and indeed threatened to tear the woman apart.  Throwing caution aside, Tia launched into her incantation.

Her lilting intonations built in volume and confidence as she entered the throes of spellcasting, the incantation a final attempt to draw the contagion forth, to confront the foul plague and see which of them was the stronger.  She leaned in close over the prone woman, whose thrashing had only intensified as if in response to the competing influence of Tia Dalma, the mighty voodoo priestess. 

Jack the monkey hopped from foot to foot, its tiny paws clutched over its ears and its teeth bared against the palpable magic crowding the space.  The incantation grew to a thundering crescendo, the raw, thrumming power of her song rattling and shaking every trinket in the shack.

Then, as quickly as it had started, it ceased.

[PepsiWhirda]

Before she had even opened her eyes, Whirda felt her fingers close around the woman’s throat, cutting her song short.  She reached to her belt, fingers groping for the hilt of her dagger.  All she found was empty air as her eyes flashed open, darting back and forth to take in her surroundings, sclera flooded with black.

The woman struggled against the surprising strength of Whirda’s grip, her hands grasping feebly at Whirda’s black-veined arm.  The very air around them seemed to darken.  The wind slipping in through the windows increased in intensity, the room rumbling and crackling like a thunderstorm.  Wisps of shadow coalesced around Whirda’s arms, as if torn from the air like cotton, and took the form of eyeless serpents, snapping and darting in at Tia Dalma’s face and neck.  The wind took a vase full of slivers of fishbones and sent it to the floor, where it shattered with a resounding crash.

In her mindless fury, Whirda swung her legs from the bed and stood, shoving her assailant back.  Her legs, atrophied from years of disuse, buckled beneath her she she relinquished her grasp on her enemy, collapsing to the floor.  Refusing to surrender, stubborn Whirda crawled, dragging her useless legs behind her.

Tia Dalma staggered back, gasping for air, one hand clutching her aching throat.  The voodoo priestess felt Calypso rising within her and fought to keep the destructive might of the sea goddess contained.  Another jar crashed to the floor, narrowly avoiding Jack.  The monkey scampered back, adding the howls of its panic to the crackling storm growing in the room.  Putting more distance between herself and the crawling woman, Tia fell within herself, accessing just a fragment of Calypso’s power and uttering an oath.  Abruptly, the growing winds desisted and the room grew quiet.
The newfound calm did little to calm Whirda’s rage.  If anything, it intensified as the dread-locked woman counteracted her building maelstrom as easily as two pinching fingers dousing a candle’s flame.  With a sharp crack, Whirda disappeared, reappearing a moment later behind her enemy and again latching a hand around the back of her neck.  

Tia Dalma, no novice in combat and a powerful Prime in her own right, was more prepared this time.  The taller woman thrust her hips backward into Whirda’s stomach and spun in one fluid movement, her elbow catching the black-veined woman as she doubled over and sending her to the ground in a heap.  

Whirda growled and dragged herself to her feet, leaning on a rickety table to keep her balance and remain upright.  She thrust a hand toward Tia Dalma and the voodoo priestess had no time to react as a black dagger coalesced in front of her outstretched palm and flashed toward her.  Tia tried to duck but the dagger slashed across her temple, the priestess’s blood splattering the wall behind her.

In that moment, Jack the monkey came to his master’s aid.  The crafty monkey had climbed to a high shelf above Whirda, who had failed to notice the monkey in the heat of battle.  Bracing itself with its front paws, the capuchin used its hind legs to shove a heavy jar off of the shelf.  It hit the table on which Whirda leaned, its weight enough to splinter and break the table’s legs.  For the third time Whirda collapsed to the floor and Jack wasted no time, pouncing on her back and latching onto the Prime’s shoulder with its teeth.  

Whirda screamed, reaching for the capuchin with one hand.  Another dart erupted from her palm, then a third, but the nimble monkey scampered out of the way of both and latched on again, this time to Whirda’s other shoulder.

“Enough!” Tia Dalma roared, and in that moment her voice was not her own, but the deep, resounding voice of the sea goddess Calypso.  It filled every inch of the room, reverberating with latent power.  A wave of the priestess’s hand sent Whirda skittering across the floor, the capuchin leaping almost instinctively into the air, latching onto a hanging gourd.  

To her credit, Whirda managed to tuck into a backward somersault and come up on one knee, still sliding backward with the force of the gale, before her legs again gave out and she sprawled to the floor.  She craned her neck to stare in wonder at the slender woman with the voice of a goddess.

“You’re among friends,” Tia said, taking a tentative step forward, her arms out wide to show she meant Whirda no harm.  A single line of blood traced a path down her ebony cheek.  “You been gone a long time, child.”

Whirda tried to muster a response, to make some sense of the puzzle before her.  She opened her mouth, but darkness encroached on her vision.  Her head drooped and the strength fled her limbs.  

Whirda Windstrom slept once more.

[PepsiWhirda]

When Whirda awoke for the second time, muted sunlight filtered through the driftwood blinds, illuminating whirling motes of dust.  A cool breeze slipped through the shack, redolent of brine.  The shack was empty and showed no signs of battle, though Whirda remembered keenly her skirmish with the dreadlocked woman and her monkey pet.  Distantly, she heard the sound of crashing waves.

As before, Whirda swung her legs off the bed and rose to a sitting position, but this time she remained there.   Stretching the kinks from her back and shoulders, she tested her legs but found they still would not bear her weight.  Her head ached where it had met the cunning woman’s elbow.  She scanned the bizarre home of her captor, took in the innumerable trinkets, fetishes, and spellcasting ingredients hanging from the ceiling and crammed into every nook and cranny.

“Where am I?” she said aloud.  In all her time in the Omniverse, the most water Whirda had seen in one place was the fountain in the Nexus, so many long and harrowing years ago.  Had she returned home, she wondered, to the land of her birth, to Waterdeep or to Luskan?  She imagined wistfully, not for the first time, that her trials in the Omniverse were just a fevered dream or the delusions of a woman driven mad by loss.  

Whirda lingered on that last thought: loss.  Familiar guilt settled heavily on her shoulders as she took count of all those who had traveled beside her over the years.  Her mother, dead at the end of a poisoned crossbow quarrel.  Nyx, host to a parasitic demon, corrupted and destroyed by the creature.  Van Helsing, beheaded in retribution for his and Whirda’s perceived crimes.  Dobson, the plucky guard turned commander of Darkshire’s militia.  Blues, the robot boy whose relentless optimism showed Whirda that light could be found in even the most utter darkness.  Had any of them survived?  Could Whirda, so consumed by her own personal demons, have saved them?

The shack door creaked open, interrupting Whirda’s reverie, and in strode Tia Dalma with a large vase of clam shells on one shoulder and her capuchin companion on the other.  

The voodoo priestess froze when she caught sight of Whirda.  Jack scampered down her arm and hopped onto the table he had destroyed in their battle, now repaired.  The little monkey bared its teeth and hissed.  Deliberately, her eyes never leaving Whirda’s, Tia placed the vase at her feet and straightened.

“How about we try sayin’ hello dis time,” Tia said, flashing a disarming smile.  “Before we go throwin’ punches and breakin’ all’ a Tia Dalma’s tings.”

“Forgive me,” Whirda said.  She bowed her head low, ashamed of her mindless attack on the woman and her pet.  They had given no indication that they were her enemy, and yet the unquenchable rage inside Whirda, fuelled by her constant mental battles with the insidious contagion, had been too powerful to control.  

“It is forgotten,” the voodoo priestess said.  “I am Tia Dalma.  And you, my child, you have been gone quite a long time.”

Whirda froze when the woman uttered the word child in a voice so intimately familiar to her.  “You,” she breathed.

Tia nodded, understanding Whirda’s meaning.  “Whatever rages inside ya is powerful indeed,” she said.  “I been tryin’ to pull it from ya for many months now, but it is far beyond my abilities.”

“Ahn’Thrix,” Whirda muttered with a scowl.

Tia paused and her eyes went wide.  “I know that name,” she said.  “A shade--a lich--of no small renown.”

“He was,” Whirda said.  Her grim smile filled Tia Dalma in on the truth of the woman’s peril.

“You are shade-touched, den.  Dat explains da dagger ya carried, I suppose.”

Whirda could only nod.  The truth of her affliction, spoken aloud so plainly, sent a shiver coursing down her spine.

“And ya mean ta say you killed de ting?” Tia asked.

“With some help,” Whirda confirmed.  “I was not the only casualty of Ahn’Thrix’s foul hold on the Moors.  Professor Abraham Van Helsing perished in the struggle, as did a young blood mage called Nyx.  There were others… Dobson of Darkshire, and a robot called Blues.  Of their fate, I am uncertain.  The last thing I can remember is pursuing Scylla alongside Blues, to put an end to the blight plaguing the Tangled Green.”  The words came from Whirda in a rush, an outpouring of emotion and confession she had not anticipated.

Tia Dalma smiled.  “Well den, I have some news that may lift ya spirits, my child.  Ya friend Blues yet lives, and da dread witch Scylla met her demise at da end of his blasters.”

“You know this?” Whirda pressed, a gleeful grin finding its way onto her face.  “How?”

“News a dat one travels far ‘cross da Omniverse,” Tia said.  “Exploits ya might be hard-pressed ta believe if ya didn’t know any betta.”

“Believe them,” Whirda said firmly.  “I have never known as fine a fighter in all my years, nor one so true of spirit.”

As soon as she got out the words, Whirda doubled over in a fit of coughing.  It continued for many long moments, bringing tears to her eyes and stinging her parched throat.  When she straightened, her lips were flecked with a sticky black substance and the veins in her arms pulsed, rapidly blackening.

Tia Dalma raised one of her hands and uttered an incantation.  A stream of glowing light emerged from her palm and washed over Whirda, bathing her in warmth.  Gradually, her pains faded and she felt the strength returning to her limbs.  She stood tentatively, and found that her legs, while still wobbly, carried her weight.  She took a shaky step forward.

“I cannot keep it at bay much longer, I fear,” Tia said.  “It will take a magic far stronger than mine to cure what ails ya.”

“But there is a cure?” Whirda asked, hopeful.

“Perhaps.  Rumor has it dere’s a tournament, run by a man goes by Dante.  Few years runnin’ now da winner gets access to powerful artefacts, and some a da finest healers in da Omniverse will be dere.  If it’s a cure ya afta, dere’s no betta place ta look.”

“Dante…” Whirda repeated.  The name struck a familiar chord in her, brought back memories of white tents in Darkshire, of men in suits registering Primes for a survival competition.  She wondered if this competition was the same one from back then.

It mattered not, though.  Even in that moment, Whirda could feel the contagion roiling and churning within her, begging to be set loose.  She could not allow herself to fall prey to those baser urges any longer.  If the competition offered a chance of redemption, however slim, the choice had already been made for her.  

“Then I must go,” Whirda said, staring straight ahead with her chin held high.

Tia Dalma nodded.  “Dere is some time yet before da tournament begins.  Ya must regain ya strength if ya want any hope a survivin’.”

Whirda took another shaky step forward, then another.  “Whatever it takes.  I will win the tournament and find my salvation, or I will lose and meet my end.  Both fates are far preferable to this burden I bear.”

“Den I must find ya a ship and safe passage ta Costa Del Sol,” Tia said.  “I will send word dis very day.  Eat and rest fa now, child.  Gather ya strength.  Soon enough ya will ‘ave ya chance to fight, in Dante’s Abyss.”

[PepsiWhirda]

Tia Dalma’s ramshackle home sat on a small island, perhaps two-hundred feet square, at the outer limits of the charted islands of the Vasty Deep, a speck amidst a vast expanse of blue.  Far off the normal course of merchant vessels and ignored by Empire and pirate fleets alike, hers was an isolated existence, just as the medicine woman preferred.  In the more than two years since Whirda’s plagued and comatose body appeared on the shore outside her shack, with no further explanation than the speck of a departing ship on the horizon, Tia had not seen another soul, content with the companionship of her capuchin friend.

Now the presence of Whirda Windstrom cast a pall over Tia’s measured existence.  Scarcely sleeping for fear of Whirda experiencing another episode, and forced to share her meager rations with the woman, who devoured food as if she had not eaten in… well, years, Tia accepted the burden stoically, buoyed by the knowledge she would soon be rid of the woman with the black veins.

Despite her misgivings, Tia found she liked the enigmatic Whirda well enough.  After their first conversation, in which Whirda revealed the trail of friends, and of bodies, she had left behind during her adventures in the Omniverse, the two women had shared few words.  

Whirda occupied every spare moment with her training for Dante’s Abyss.  She rose each day before the break of dawn, stretching the sleep from her bones and taking to the beach outside the shack, dagger in one hand and the tarrasque scale buckler strapped to the opposite forearm.  The story of that buckler, one of the few Whirda had shared in her time on the island, enthralled Tia.  It caused her to look back wistfully on the days when she had walked the path of adventure, alongside the likes of Jack Sparrow and Hector Barbossa, before she had answered the call to the Omniverse.

While Tia slowly warmed to Whirda’s presence, Jack grew ever more anxious around the woman.  Each day, when the sun neared its peak and Whirda climbed the creaky stairs back to the hut, glistening with sweat from the exertion of her training, the capuchin scampered behind Tia’s legs and peeked out at the woman as she entered, teeth bared and eyes wide.  If Whirda was deserving of such treatment, Tia had seen no signs since that first night, but she appreciated Jack’s caution all the same.

One week passed, and then another.  One afternoon, Whirda set aside her weapon and shield, stripped free of her leathers, and dove headlong into the waters of the Deep, a refreshing reprieve after a long day of training.  She closed her eyes and moved through the water with long strokes.  With the long hours of training she was improving rapidly, strength returning to her limbs and the exertions of imagined combat suppressing the worst of the contagion’s effects, affording her a measure of peace.

When she felt the tug on her ankle, Whirda assumed she had become tangled in the thick seaweed lining Tia’s short stretch of coast.  She kicked her foot lazily, trying to free herself.  The grip did not relent, and in fact tightened, cutting her forward movement short.

Whirda cast a panicked look back.  At first it seemed her leg had indeed become wrapped in seaweed, until she noticed a single, rope-like strand extending into the deeper water beyond her vision.  She knew in that moment no simple entanglement hindered her progress, but something more sinister.  Her suspicions were confirmed a moment later, when the strand snapped taught and began reeling her in, dragging her further away from the surface.

Flailing and twisting, Whirda managed to wrap her hand around the thick strand of seaweed and reorient herself.  Cursing the absence of her weapon, she conjured a stream of daggers.  While the shadow from which she conjured the weapons was plentiful this far below the surface, the daggers moved sluggishly through the water.  They scraped against the strand, fraying its edges but doing little to free her from the bonds.

Whirda’s lungs ached to breathe.  As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw her veins darken and become black.  Too disoriented by the mysterious attack to quell the rage rising within her, she permitted the cold wave of umbral magic.  So infused, driven now by primal instinct, Whirda plucked at the leylines of shadow and enacted a pair of spells.  She vanished and reappeared some distance away, closer to the surface.  When she looked back down to where she had been trapped she saw that her shadow clone, having appeared seamlessly in her place, now struggled against the coiled strand of seaweed, the perfect bait.

The move by Whirda proved timely as a spear, hewn out of what looked to be pearlescent coral, emerged from the depths and skewered the clone.  The false Whirda broke apart, shredding into wisps of shadow and dissipating.

What emerged next had Whirda’s eyes bulging and her mouth skewing open involuntarily.  With one kick of her now-muscular legs she broke the surface, gasping and spluttering.

“Tia!  We are under atta--!” Whirda had time to scream before more seaweed ropes caught her ankles, pulling her back underwater.  A second spear arced past, narrowly missing her neck. 

The naga raiding party advanced, at least a score of the serpent-elf hybrids slithering through the water.  Bringing up the rear of the party, a chariot fashioned from the same pearlescent coral and pulled by two enormous seahorses held yet more naga, these ones armed with more spears.  They closed the distance to Whirda with frightening speed as she struggled futilely against the encumbering bonds, their hungry, snake-like eyes glowing yellow in the murky depths.

Whirda gave up her struggle, resigned to her fate, and faces the oncoming marauders.  The fire in her chest spread outward, her lungs demanding air.  From the darkness around her coalesced six umbral serpents.  The shadow creations wrapped around her arms, neck, and shoulders. 

The first naga approached.  The creature measured more than nine feet from the tip of its scaled head to the end of its enormous serpentine tail.  A wickedly sharp spine ran from the crown of its head down its humanoid back and its maw gaped wide, revealing two rows of yellowish fangs.  In its clawed hand, a curving coral scimitar glinted menacingly. 

Unafraid, Whirda twisted to orient herself to face her assailant.  The edges of her vision blurred from lack of oxygen and the coherence she needed to enact another shadowstep would not come.  Leering, her enemy brought the scimitar across in a deceptively quick slash toward her left side.  Two of Whirda’s umbral serpents darted out, one wrapping around the naga’s wrist and the other around its muscled forearm, halting the attack within inches of Whirda’s face.

A second impatient naga darted past the first.  Not content to strike the flailing woman with its curved blade, it instead used its momentum to attack, simply lowering its shoulder and crashing into Whirda’s midsection.  

A sharp fin gashed Whirda’s stomach and blasted the air from her lungs.  A third naga crowded in then, this one thrusting a trident toward her.  Surrounded and helpless, Whirda could only watch as her serpents impeded the attack.  Darkness encroached, and she knew in that moment she would die.

If she considered it an unsatisfactory end, the peaceful expression that came across her face in that moment gave no indication.  

All four of the combatants, and indeed the entire raiding party, froze as a deafening rumble rose from the depths.  Whirda felt the water rising beneath her, flipping her upside-down in the rush.  All the water around her was sucked in and lifted, until Whirda’s head broke the surface at the crest of a roaring wave.  She spluttered, trying to draw air into her lungs, but succeeded only in vomiting hot bile and descending into a fit of coughing.  From the corner of her eye she spotted Tia Dalma on the beach, the voodoo priestess’s hands raised high and the thunderous voice of Calypso booming an incantation.

[PepsiWhirda]

Whirda braced herself for impact as the wave crashed onto the shore, spilling her and no fewer than twenty naga across the beach.  Whether by design or sheer luck, Whirda’s fall was not so rough, and when she picked her head up from the sand she saw her dagger and shield within easy reach.

Most of the naga had not fared as well.  Perhaps a half dozen of the creatures lay stunned and unmoving, and the falling coral chariot had killed a few on impact and left several others howling and clutching at broken bones or open wounds.  Several others, though, were in the process of regaining their feet and retrieving their weapons, a few already advancing on Whirda and Tia Dalma with savage hisses and roars.

Whirda staggered to her feet.  Finally drawing a healthy lungful of air, she snatched up her dagger and fastened the tarrasque scale buckler to her left forearm.  Hearing the final words of another one of Tia’s incantations, she felt a wave of healing warmth rush over her.  Before her eyes, the wound on her stomach stitched and closed and the pain receded from her chest and tired limbs.  She cast the priestess an appreciative glance, only to see Tia Dalma fall back before the onslaught of three naga, her arms up defensively in front of her face.  Without another moment’s hesitation, Whirda vanished with a sharp crack and reappeared behind the rearmost of Tia’s attackers.  Her dagger darted out, scraping against the naga’s dense scales before finding a home in the soft flesh of its armpit.

The naga howled and whirled, its scimitar coming across at Whirda’s neck.  Whirda was too fast for the injured creature, ducking the blow and unleashing a barrage of shadow daggers, peppering its face and throat with slashes and gashes.  The creature slithered back, throwing its finned arms up in front of its face. 

Content to make do with whatever openings the creature so generously provided her, Whirda lunged with her dagger and drew a long gash in the naga’s belly.  Before it had even doubled over, nimble Whirda leaped high and turned an elegant somersault, the dagger plunging into the base of the creature’s neck.  The two combatants hit the sand at the same time, Whirda sprinting toward the next of Tia’s assailants and the naga, quite dead, moving no more.

To her credit, Tia fared well against the remaining two naga.  The voodoo priestess’s hands were a blur and her voice was steady as the incantations poured forth, conjuring gusts of wind and jets of water to keep her powerful enemies at bay.  Fearless Jack darted to and fro, scampering up the naga’s scaly hides to snap and claw at their eyes and deftly avoiding the clumsy blows of their scimitars. 

Taking note of a new host of foes approaching from behind, Whirda drew what shadow she could close around her.  The time for suppressing the power of the shade had passed with the arrival of.  Whirda retreated within herself and coaxed the contagion forth, allowing its cold rush to infuse her completely.  The black in her veins spread outward into her skin.  The sclera of her eyes flooded with black.  The dagger of Ahn’Thrix seemed to sense her transformation, pouring a cloud of obscuring ash into the air around her.  

As soon as she emerged from the transformation, Whirda burst into action with a speed and precision she had not felt since the days in the Pale Moors.  She could hear the harmony of the leylines of shadow thrumming all around her.  This time, not one or two, but four Whirdas reappeared, three sprinting into the midst of the approaching nagas and the fourth--the real Whirda--stepping adroitly up the spined back of Tia’s assailant, her footsteps so light the naga seemed not to notice, six umbral serpents again coiled around her arms and shoulders.  
Catching sight of Whirda’s ascent, Tia Dalma’s eyes widened and she faltered in her spellcasting.  The vicious naga, sensing weakness in the voodoo priestess but erroneously assigning it to its own prowess, let loose a guttural, gurgling laugh and raised its arm to cut the woman down.  

A moment later, it dropped to the ground with a certain dagger buried to the hilt in one eye.  

Whirda landed next to Tia, wrenching her dagger free from the corpse and wiping its blue-black blood off in the sand.  The third naga, now facing off against both women and a thoroughly enraged capuchin, backed off to join its fellow raiders.  The remaining naga stumbled about, snatching and swiping at Whirda’s dancing clones.  The shadeborn woman smiled grimly, enacting the final part of her series of spells with a brief moment of concentration.

The resulting boom deafened Whirda and Tia, sheer concussive force setting them back on their heels and sending the protesting capuchin tumbling across the sand.  The three clones detonated simultaneously, sending the unfortunate nagas ragdolling in every direction with screams of agony and the very audible crunch of bones.  Slithering shadow serpents erupted from the point of the blasts, pinning those naga who had escaped the blast largely unscathed.  

“Lord almighty,” Tia breathed.

Whirda met her gaze.  The voodoo priestess’s features were contorted with fear when she looked upon Whirda and the carnage she had wrought.  The capuchin recovered and stepped between them, its little teeth characteristically bared in silent challenge.  Slowly, Whirda’s breathing settled and she slipped her dagger into its sheath, showing Tia her palms.  

“I mean you no harm,” she said, and Tia did not doubt the sincerity of the woman’s words.  As she spoke, the darkness faded from Whirda’s eyes and her skin transitioned back to dusky gray.  The seeping cold of her umbral form melted away, replaced by the warmth of the glaring sun and the exertion of combat.

Tia relaxed.  “Apologies, child,” she muttered.  “It’s just, last time ya looked like dat ya tried ta cut me down where I stood.”

Whirda nodded, overtaken suddenly by profound fatigue.  “No apology needed.  Now, let’s finish this.”  The two women moved methodically through the pinned and writhing naga, silencing each one with a dagger or a muttered incantation.  

“What are they?” Whirda asked, when at last their gruesome work was done.

“Naga.”  Tia Dalma veritably spat the word into the sand.  “Foul, cursed creatures, half snake and half elf.  Rarely do dey venture into charted territory.  Dere ruler, Lady Vashj, has skirmished with de Empire before and suffered greatly for da error.”

“I imagine they didn’t come for your cooking,” Whirda said, trying to inject some levity into Tia’s grim countenance.

The voodoo priestess didn’t smile.  “Somethin’s comin’, my child.  I can sense it in da wind and da waters… a growin’ unrest.  It is good ya will be gone from dis place soon.”

“And what about you?” Whirda asked.  “The next time the naga come calling, what will become of Tia Dalma?”

“What will be, will be,” Tia shrugged.  “Dis place is my home.  I will not forsake it for any scaly beast, much less dese tings.”

Whirda chewed on Tia’s words in silence.  She did not wish to sacrifice her budding friendship with the voodoo priestess, whose calm manner and command of the healing arts, Whirda often felt, were the only barrier remaining between her and a total loss of control.  Further still, she did not wish for any danger to come upon Tia and Jack in her absence.

Still, Whirda knew she had no choice but to board the ship to Costa Del Sol in the coming days.  With any luck, she could convince Tia to join her by then.  And if not, she could only pray her most recent friends would not end up as corpses in her wake, as had all who came before them.

[PepsiWhirda]

Two days later, Whirda paused in her whirling combat routines.  She placed one hand over her eyes to block the glare of the sun and made out the hazy outline of a ship cresting the horizon to the west--in the direction of Costa Del Sol.  A surge of anticipation coursed through her.  The promise of finding a cure for the shade’s curse filled her with hope, a hope she had not felt since first setting foot in the Pale Moors so many years ago.  

No stranger to contests of swordplay and magic, Whirda had to admit the prospect of Dante’s Abyss excited her for other reasons as well.  She relished the opportunity to put her skills to the test against capable opponents.  On equal footing she knew she could contend with virtually any opponent, especially if she could find the balance between allowing the contagion in and keeping it from consuming her.  No small task, she knew, but winning Dante’s Abyss represented perhaps her last chance at redemption.  Whirda knew she would go to any lengths to ensure victory.

“Da Sea Sprite,” Tia said admiringly as the vast sails of the approaching ship came into view, billowed outward by strong winds to display a familiar crest.

“Luskan?” Whirda asked in disbelief.

Tia shrugged, unfamiliar with the name, but even from a distance Whirda knew she was right.

Her heart soared in her chest.  “Its captain… what is his name?”

“Deudermont,” Tia replied.

Whirda clapped a hand to her mouth.  “Impossible!  Captain Deudermont is dead!”

Tia fixed her with a puzzling look.  “You know of him?”

“We hail from the same city in our world,” Whirda said.  “Captain Deudermont was the mayor of Luskan when I was a young woman, until he was slain in a pirate uprising.  My mother saw him buried.”

“Well, he’s alive and well ‘ere,” Tia said.  “In fact, he’s de one what brought you t’my door those years ago.  Now go on girl, gather ya tings and be gone before I decide ta keep ya.”  She offered a smile, but Whirda could see the pain and apprehension tingeing her expression.  Even Jack, curled up on Tia’s shoulder, seemed to carry the burden of loss in his too-wise eyes.

“Come with me,” Whirda said for perhaps the tenth time in the past two days.  “Has the heart of Tia Dalma grown so cold to the idea of adventure?” 

“These old bones are tired, child,” Tia said.  “I been adventurin’ since you was but a babe, and seen more’n my share of battles.”

The words fell flat on Whirda’s ears, and she suspected there was more to the story than Tia let on.  She fixed the voodoo priestess with a cool stare and arced one thin eyebrow.

A flash of anger crossed Tia’s face, but it faded quickly, replaced by resignation.  “You ain’t da only one wit a monsta inside ya, Whirda Windstrom,” she huffed.  “When Calypso rises in me, I cannot trust I won’t lose control.”

“I have met your goddess,” Whirda replied with a crooked grin, referring to their skirmish weeks ago.  “She does not seem so frightening.”

Tia could not help but chuckle at Whirda’s brazen proclamation.  

“Come with me,” Whirda said again.  “You and that infernal monkey.”  She threw Jack a playful wink and the monkey chittered, a sound not unlike laughter.  Then, her expression grew more somber.  “Your presence keeps the shadows at bay.  And I think I have a similar effect on you.”

For a long moment, Tia was silent.  Then she turned on her heel and strode wordlessly into the shack, the door creaking shut behind her.

Whirda worried she had upset the voodoo priestess.  She understood better than anyone the burden Tia Dalma carried as the vessel of Calypso, the angry goddess of the sea.  Perhaps it was selfish to press her so.  Perhaps it was her own fear that guided her words, rather than the perception of shared interest and common benefit.  

The door banged open again and when Tia Dalma strode down the stairs, a bulging pack slung over one shoulder and a gnarled staff in one hand, Whirda knew her worry was misplaced.  

“I’ll go,” Tia said, her expression caught somewhere between fear and excitement.  “But don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

[PepsiWhirda]

The Sea Sprite dropped anchor about fifty yards off the coast of Tia Dalma’s island.  The privateer vessel, its Waterdeep engineering familiar to Whirda, also a Luskan native, was magnificent.  It reminded Whirda of her past and specifically of her mother, who had spent a great deal of her life on similar ships as a pirate hunter.

Standing at the water’s edge, Whirda and Tia watched as a small boat was lowered from the deck to the water.  Two strong-armed sailors extended long oars out either side and began to row.  Whirda could see a third occupant, standing on sturdy sea-legs, in the boat and knew instinctively it was Captain Deudermont, the legend of Luskan, miraculously back from the dead.

A moment later, the hull of the boat breached the shore and Captain Deudermont turned to them, hopping into the wet sand just as the surf receded.

There could be no doubt it was Deudermont.  As if ripped straight from the portraits and statues all over Luskan, the dashing sea captain approached.  Resplendent in the knee-length, gold-buttoned coat and high black boots of a Costa Del Sol privateer, Deudermont flashed both women a dazzling smile.  He wore his hair long and tied back from his face, revealing a jagged scar that started on his forehead and traced a path beneath his left eye and across the cheek.  The remnant of what must have been a severe wound did little to diminish his roguish good looks. 
Deudermont’s eyes, blue like the ocean, twinkled when he spoke.  “It has been some time, Lady Tia,” he said.  “You grow more fair with each passing of the tide, it seems.”

Whirda couldn’t help but laugh when she saw Tia blushing.  Her expression straightened when Captain Deudermont turned to regard her.

“And Whirda Windstrom,” the sea-captain began.  He took a measured step forward as the surf crashed in, lapping at his heels.  “No worse for wear, it seems.  The last time I saw you, you were on the edge of death.”

A hundred questions tumbled through Whirda’s mind in that moment: questions of the truth of Deudermont’s supposed fate; questions of their journey to Tia Dalma’s island, of which she had no memory; and, perhaps most importantly, questions of the events in the Moors, before she came under his care.  Realizing that now was not the time for what amounted to an interrogation, Whirda only returned the sea captain’s smile.  “My thanks, Captain Deudermont, for ensuring my safety those years ago.”

Deudermont removed his wide-brimmed hat and swept into a gracious bow.  “It was my pleasure, madam.”

“You fly the flag of Luskan,” Whirda noted approvingly.  “It is from the Sword Coast that I hail, as well--from Waterdeep in my youth and from Luskan itself in my later years.  I know well the exploits of Captain Deudermont the pirate hunter.”

The sea captain’s shock stole his formal demeanor and rocked him back on his heels.  “Never did I think I would hear of my homeland again,” he said, “but for my own nostalgic utterances.”
“How long is the journey ahead?” Whirda asked, steering the conversation back on a more prudent course.

Captain Deudermont recovered quickly.  “A tenday, perhaps,” he replied.  “Our progress will be hastened if Tia Dalma graces us with her presence.  My sails seem always to be full when that one is about.”  He tossed Tia a playful wink.

The voodoo priestess, content thus far to observe Whirda and Deudermont’s spirited exchange, nodded briskly.  “I shall join ya,” she said.  A cloud came over her face then.  “‘Tisn’t safe for me ‘ere.”

Deudermont seemed to understand Tia’s statement.  “You sense it too.  A darkness, growing both over and under the Deep.”

“Sense it?” Tia replied.  “Didn’t need ta sense it, good captain.  Whole host’a naga showed up at me doorstep not tree days past.  Had it not been for this one”--Tia jerked her head toward Whirda--”Tia Dalma would be fish food.”

“Then I am in your debt,” Deudermont said to Whirda, dipping into another bow.  His troubled expression belied his gracious disposition.

“Consider it a partial repayment, for all you have done for me.”

Satisfied with her answer, Deudermont indicated they should return to the Sea Sprite.  Whirda slung her pack over her shoulder, swept a stray strand of silvery-blonde hair out of her eyes, and stepped gingerly into the small boat.  The two strong-armed crewmen offered her curt nods, reserved and professional in the presence of their captain.  Tia followed shortly after, Jack the capuchin clinging nervously to her shoulder, and Captain Deudermont deftly shoved the boat off the sand and into the surf before hopping inside himself, taking care to keep his polished boots dry.  Whirda marveled at his dexterity, the almost preternatural way he interacted with the water and kept his balance as the choppy waves rocked the vessel.

As they neared the Sea Sprite, crewmen on board the magnificent ship lowered thick ropes down to them.  The two in the small boat with them got busy looping them through sturdy iron rings affixed to the bow and stern.

“Brace yourselves,” Deudermont warned.  “With the weight of five this is no easy task.  Progress will be slow.”

“I have a better idea,” Whirda said.  Concentrating briefly, she wound a magical tether around Deudermont, Tia, and Jack.  The sea captain opened his mouth to protest, but in that moment all four of the companions disappeared with a crack, reappearing a moment later up on the deck of the Sea Sprite.

A chorus of astonished gasps and murmurs erupted from the gathered crewmen.  Deudermont stumbled when the deck of the ship appeared beneath his feet, an uncharacteristic moment of clumsiness.  

“What in the…” he murmured, before he noticed the ripples of mirth consuming his crew.  “Haul up the boat!” he snarled, regaining his composure.  “Prepare for our departure, you lazy scoundrels.”  Still, the sea captain couldn’t help but chuckle himself.  “A fine trick, Whirda Windstrom.”

Their captain’s tirade did not diminish the laughter, and perhaps even increased it.  Still, the trained and loyal crew sprang into action preparing the ship for the journey ahead.  A few offered nods or dipped into shallow bows when they neared Whirda, their eyes looking everywhere but at hers before scurrying off to carry out their duties.  

None of the crewmen seemed willing to speak to Whirda.  The perceptive woman picked up on their anxiousness as soon as the laughter subsided.  Perhaps her teleportation had taken them by surprise, but Whirda suspected a deeper meaning.  How many of the men had been aboard the ship when Deudermont first transported her to Tia Dalma’s island, she wondered.  The blank spot in her memory gnawed at her now, raising questions she hoped Captain Deudermont would answer in the coming days at sea.

In short order, the Sea Sprite’s sails unfurled and filled with wind.  The grand vessel set off to the west, spitting white spray as it bounded across the choppy surf.  Captain Deudermont strode back and forth across the deck, barking orders.  Whirda and Tia stood at the helm, watching the voodoo priestess’s small island home recede into the distance, swiftly becoming no more than a hazy speck on the horizon.

Whirda did not speak, recognizing Tia’s troubled expression and sharing in the sentiment.  Even Jack seemed subdued, the scruffy capuchin curling up on Tia’s shoulder and staring with heavy-lidded eyes at the activity on the deck before drifting off to sleep.  The first hour passed with the two companions standing in silent solidarity, cruising into the vast, blue unknown.

[PepsiWhirda]

The first two days of their journey aboard the Sea Sprite passed with Whirda’s questions still unanswered.  True to Captain Deudermont’s word, it seemed Tia Dalma’s presence on the vessel ensured uncharacteristically smooth sailing.  They made steady progress toward Costa Del Sol, taking a direct route that brought them within sight of several outlying islands, the ship’s sails full of favorable wind and its crew in good spirits.

At dawn on the third day, Whirda leaned on the curved railing of the forecastle, allowing the sea spray coming off the ship’s lurching bow to wash the sleep from her sore muscles.  In the distance, the sun crested the horizon in a tapestry of gold, pink, and purple hues.  The spectacle would have brought a smile to the face of even the most curmudgeonly sailor.

But Whirda’s eyes conveyed a tainted picture.  She sensed the wariness with which she was regarded by the crew of the Sea Sprite.  Her arrival anywhere on the ship provoked an abrupt and awkward silence more deafening than the rowdiest celebrations, and furtive eyes seemed to follow her wherever she went.  It was a familiar feeling for the plagued woman, who had borne the same suspicions all those years ago when she was turned away from Darkshire’s gates, an apostate left to wander the Moors in search of a cure.  While the ship’s crew obeyed their captain’s orders and showed a healthy respect for Tia Dalma, Whirda knew her presence did not sit well with the grizzled sailors. 

Tia Dalma, too, had all but abandoned Whirda since their arrival on the ship.  Consumed with concern for the mounting threat she perceived in the Vasty Deeps, the voodoo priestess huddled with Deudermont in the sea captain’s private quarters late into the night, poring over maps and speaking in hushed tones.  Whirda was not often permitted access to their meetings, and so her time on the ship was spent in uncomfortable solitude, kept company only by Jack when the capuchin wasn’t busy scampering up and down the thick ropes connecting the ship’s masts and sails.

“Can I blame them?” Whirda wondered aloud.  In truth, she knew herself to be a frustrating companion, prone to dour moods and long bouts of silence.  The frightened look on Tia Dalma’s face when she defeated the naga raiding party haunted Whirda.  She recognized her unpredictability, and understood the difficulty inherent in trusting someone shadeborn, especially one of Whirda’s prowess, despite the tenacity with which she combated the contagion every day.

The ever-present roiling and churning in her gut increased in tandem with her frustration.  How many more horrors would have to perish at the end of her blades before she found acceptance?  Since arriving in this accursed realm, her existence had been one long crusade against its evils.  The shade, the githzerai, the drow… infected wolves and great, undead, winged monsters of the night… the tarrasque… goblins, orcs, naga.  The parade of creatures she had defeated could grace the most epic of history books, and yet Whirda was still an outcast, still relegated to the interminable existence of someone on the outside of it all.

“Enough,” she breathed, and the anger in her voice almost gave her pause as she spun on her heel.  It was time to get answers.  She deserved answers.  For too long Whirda Windstrom had both literally and figuratively dwelt in the dark, resigned to her fate, wearily accepting of the suspicion, even revulsion, placed on her by those she fought to protect.

The Sea Sprite’s crew scurried out of her way as she strode down the staircase to the main deck, hooked right, and descended another staircase leading toward Captain Deudermont’s private chambers.  While Whirda herself remained oblivious, the grizzled seafarers surely noticed Whirda’s pulsing black veins and the inky blackness flooding the whites of her eyes.

[PepsiWhirda]

Thunk!  Thunk!  Thunk!

Tia Dalma and Captain Deudermont paused in their conversation.  They sat on opposite sides of a magnificent mahogany desk, the accents of the dark wood expertly carved into various underwater creatures--merfolk, sharks, sirens, and many-tentacled octopi and squids.  Behind Captain Deudermont at the rear of the cabin, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves of the same dark wood held innumerable scrolls, navigation devices, and trinkets.  The walls were blue like the ocean, the carpet plush and red--the very picture of opulence.

Deudermont cast Tia a concerned look and rose from his chair.  At that moment, the same thought was on both their minds.  Over the past three days, the sea captain and the priestess had compared notes, pored over maps, and even utilized some of the perplexing Omniverse technology to confer with their network of allies across the Vasty Deeps.  The evidence they uncovered only confirmed their suspicions.  Something was coming--something dangerous.

Thunk!  Thunk!  Thunk!

“Enter!” Deudermont called, bracing himself for word the Sea Sprite was under attack, or soon would be.  When the door swung open and Whirda stepped inside, he felt a wave of relief. 
His relief proved short-lived when he noticed the telltale signs of the contagion, signs both he and Tia Dalma had come to know intimately from their dealings with the infected woman over the past several years.

“Dear Whirda,” Deudermont began, sitting back down and running one hand through his graying hair, “how may we assist you?”  The sea captain appeared nonchalant, but the desk concealed his other hand as it reached for a flintlock pistol fastened to the desk’s underside with a leather strap.

The question set Whirda back on her heels, blinking.  In the guttering candlelight of the small cabin, the room’s other two occupants could see the blackness fading from her eyes.  She shook her head, trying to make sense of the scene before her.  Where a moment ago she had been leaning on the railing on the ship’s forecastle, she now stood in Deudermont’s private quarters with no memory of the time in between.

“What is it, child?” Tia asked.  The voodoo priestess stood and approached Whirda cautiously.

“I--I don’t--”

Tia swooped in and caught the swooning Whirda in strong arms, easing her gently to the floor.  She placed the back of one hand on Whirda’s forehead.  Even before skin met skin she could feel the fever, a palpable aura of heat surrounding the afflicted woman.  Muttering a healing incantation, Tia watched as a stream of glowing energy coalesced in front of her hand encompassed Whirda.  Instead of entering the woman’s twitching body and combating the shade’s foul contagion, the healing energy merely hovered around her for a moment before dissipating.  Tia frowned, puzzled.  Never in her time as a practitioner of the healing arts had she witnessed such a phenomenon--the abject failure of one of her spells.  It seemed the darkness in Whirda had grown beyond her capabilities.

“We gotta get to Costa,” Tia said, looking at Deudermont.

The sea captain picked up on her fear and did not relinquish his grasp on the flintlock pistol.  “We are five days out, perhaps,” he said.  “Four, if you lend a helping hand.  Short of that, I believe we are out of options.”

In Tia’s arms, the unconscious Whirda twitched and groaned.  Her skin grew darker with each passing moment as the contagion seeped further into her.  If they did not act quickly, Tia knew well what Whirda was capable of when her shadeborn powers took hold.

The voodoo priestess stood, smoothing her skirt anxiously.  “She needs ta be tied down,” Tia said, “bound at the wrists and ankles.  We must make haste, captain.  Four days might be too--”

In that moment, the starboard wall of the chamber exploded inward, hurling Tia Dalma from her feet and pelting the three companions with sharp splinters of wood.  The voodoo priestess groaned, scrambling backward into a sitting position.  The dull thudof a cannonball dropping to the deck, its momentum stolen by the impact, clued them in to the reality of their situation.

As the dust cleared and Tia’s ears stopped ringing, she heard the cries from above.

“Attack!  We’re under attack!”

[PepsiWhirda]

Through the gaping hole in the side of the Sea Sprite, Captain Deudermont saw the approaching ship.  Swarming with enemies waving cutlasses and shouting unintelligible curses, the sloop-of-war cut nimbly across the water perpendicular to the Sea Sprite, bearing a flag emblazoned with the skull and crossbones of a pirate vessel.  Seeming poised to run right into the side of Deudermont’s ship, the pirate ship cut a hard turn at the last moment, unleashing a broadside with no fewer than ten cannons.

Deafened and disoriented, Captain Deudermont nevertheless managed to sprint across the room and dive into Tia Dalma, the pair rolling away as a second cannonball arced through the hole made by the first.  It struck the opposite wall with another thunderous blast and explosion of wood.

“Get her out of here,” Tia shouted above the cacophony.  The priestess and the sea captain each grabbed one of Whirda’s arms, dragging her unconscious form out of the captain’s chambers and into the relative safety of the adjoining corridor.

“I have to--” Deudermont began, staring anxiously up the corridor toward the sound of ringing swords and the retort of pistols above deck.

“Go,” Tia said calmly.  “I will join ya shortly.”

Deudermont managed a nod as he rushed toward the fighting, leaving Tia and Whirda behind.  

Exiting the corridor, Captain Deudermont emerged into a scene of sheer chaos.  His crewmen engaged a score of pirates, the air full of the screech of steel on steel and thick with the metallic stench of gunpowder.  The deck quaked beneath his feet as the Sea Sprite’s own cannons returned the volley from the pirate vessel.  He noted with grim satisfaction as one cannonball obliterated the railing of the enemy ship and crushed a charging pirate, carrying him skidding across the deck and over the far edge of the ship.   Above Deudermont, the foremast drooped at a dangerous angle, cracked at its midpoint by enemy cannonfire.  The sails hung in tatters, evidently the first target for the marauders to prevent the nimble vessel from outdistancing its pursuers.
 
Shaking his head to dispel his reverie, Deudermont unsheathed his cutlass and examined the field of battle.  He caught sight of Gribble, an aging deckhand who had served on the Sea Sprite for many years, backed up against a nearby railing, his muscular arm darting and weaving to fight back a trio of grinning pirates.  A gash along Gribble’s forehead poured blood into his eyes. 

Deudermont leveled his flintlock pistol and squeezed the trigger.  One pirate dropped to the deck, the other two turning to regard their new enemy.  Undaunted, the valiant sea captain waded into the fray.  One pirate stepped forward, bringing his sword overhead in a wide arc, evidently meaning to cleave Deudermont’s head in two.  Deudermont neatly sidestepped the blow and bullied in, using his weight to throw the pirate off balance and driving a deceptive knee into his groin.

The pirate’s eyes crossed, his forgotten sword clattering to the deck at his feet.  “Yer dishonorable,” he wheezed, dropping to his knees.

“And you’re dead,” Deudermont said matter-of-factly, as his sword drew a red line across the pirate’s throat.  

Having dealt with the third marauder, Gribble stepped up beside Deudermont with a hearty guffaw.  “Thanks fer that, cap’n,” he said, wiping the sleeve of his shirt across his forehead to clear the blood from his eyes.  “Thought ol’ Gribble mighta seen his last fight fer a second there.”

“Guard this railing!” Deudermont shouted over the din.  “Let no more of these sons of whores onto my ship!”  He cocked the hammer on his pistol and turned from the grimly nodding Gribble, charging toward the next cluster of combatants.  Against the backdrop of cannon fire and the screams of the dying, the sea captain wove a tapestry of destruction, putting the combination of pistol and cutlass to their deadly use. 

Squaring off against two of the marauders, Deudermont brought his cutlass across left to right in a deft parry, twisting the weapon so it ran down the flat of his enemy’s sword with a hiss of sparks.  The sea captain forced his opponent’s weapon out wide and capitalized on the moment of imbalance, punching forward with the pommel of his cutlass and the butt of his pistol.  Cartilage and bone gave way beneath the force of the twin blows, blood spraying from the pirate’s face as he staggered backward and plunged into the waters below.

Before Deudermont could recover, he felt a flash of pain in his side.  He ignored the implications and turned to meet his second foe as the pirate dashed in, tossing aside the handheld crossbow he had just fired.  Twirling the gore-soaked pistol, Deudermont squeezed the trigger, but did not feel the familiar recoil of the weapon’s blast.  The hollow click of the weapon indicated it had jammed.

The sea captain brought his cutlass up just in time to deflect the pirate’s first attack.  But this foe proved more capable than the others, recognizing Deudermont’s weakness.  With his free hand, the pirate grabbed the wrist of the captain’s sword arm and held it fast, using his bulk to impede Deudermont’s other flailing arm.  The two locked eyes in their deadly embrace as the pirate, with all the leverage, inched the blade of Deudermont’s cutlass against its owner’s throat, drawing a single red bead of blood. 

Just as Deudermont felt his grip on the sword hilt slipping, a screeching monkey dove through the air onto the pirate’s shoulder, sinking its teeth into the man’s neck.  The pirate howled, releasing his grasp on Deudermont’s wrist to swipe at the monkey.  Too late he realized his mistake as a swift kick from the sea captain doubled him over and Deudermont’s cutlass darted between clavicle and scapula to find the vulnerable organs beneath his chest.

Deudermont caught Jack’s eye and gave a weary wink as the capuchin scampered away, marveling at the human intelligence behind the creature’s darting eyes.  

“Second ship!” came a scream from the crow’s nest of the mainmast above, a scream then echoed from that of the mizzenmast to the stern of the ship.  “Second ship!”

[PepsiWhirda]

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.

[PepsiWhirda]

Captain Deudermont stood back to back with Tia Dalma at the base of the ship’s mizzenmast, surrounded on all sides by half a score of jeering pirates.  On the quarterdeck below, another half dozen of the marauders dealt with the last survivors of the Sea Sprite’s crew, slashing and stomping the unfortunate sailors with gleeful and unceremonious abandon. 

Beaten, battered and cornered, not even Tia Dalma, a mighty Prime, could overcome her fatigue to deal with the sheer number of enemies facing them.  The Sea Sprite listed dangerously to the left and sat low in the water, the ocean waves lapping at the railing surrounding the lowest deck.  

The attack had been swift, coordinated, and brutal, the first pirate vessel wearing down the Sea Sprite’s crew and thinning their ranks just in time for the second vessel to strike.  Captain Deudermont’s men, heroic to a man, had put up a valiant effort attempting to repel the invaders, but in the end were overwhelmed by sheer numbers.  The sea captain surveyed all he had lost, pain and sorrow evident in his eyes.  

The ring of pirates made no move to strike down the two companions.  They hemmed and hawed among themselves with much jeering and back-slapping, swords unsheathed but held lazily with the bravado of successful conquerors.

One of the marauders, a fat man clad in rags, his thick arms crisscrossed with scars, paused to look Tia Dalma up and down.  He offered the voodoo priestess a lewd wink.  “Mayhaps when this all be over we won’t kill ye,” he purred grotesquely.  “If yer lucky, ye can be me personal whore!”  A chorus of raucous laughter rippled through the gathered marauders, a few slapping the man on the back.  The fat pirate, emboldened by his degenerate friends, swiped a hand at Tia Dalma’s rear.

With a flash of steel, Captain Deudermont’s cutlass swept through the air.  When the fat pirate recoiled with a howl of pain, two of his fingers did not follow.  The marauder clutched his wounded hand, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“Now, is that any way to treat a lady?” Deudermont asked with a thin smile.

Three of the pirate’s allies crowded in, relieving the sea captain of his weapon and slamming his face against the mizzenmast.  Captain Deudermont, who had seen a hundred and more battles and did not cower in the face of smelly pirates, merely laughed as painful splinters dug into his cheek.  

The laughter enraged the fat pirate.  The man seemed to forget his injury, unsheathing his sword with his good hand and stepping forward.  “Yer gonna pay for that,” he growled.

Deudermont’s laughter continued unabated.  “Tell your filthy friends to release me,” he said, “and we shall see who pays whom.”

The fat pirate roughly shoved one of his allies aside, bringing the point of his blade within an inch of Deudermont’s eye.  Tia Dalma launched into an incantation, determined to defend the courageous sea captain whatever the consequences.  A swift knee from another of the gathered pirates doubled her over and dropped he to her knees with a gasp of pain.  

“Enough!”  The booming, mellifluous voice rose above the commotion.  “Let ‘em go an’ step away, ye scurvy dogs.  Ain’t none ‘ere gonna cut down Deudermont ‘cept fer me!”  

The crowd parted to reveal an enormous man--perhaps the largest man Tia Dalma and Captain Deudermont had ever seen.  Towering more than seven feet tall, he was barrel-chested and thick-limbed, with a black beard so long and bushy it concealed most of his torso and tucked neatly into his belt.  A wide-brimmed hat emblazoned with the skull and crossbones insignia of the marauding pirates sat atop his head.  Despite the company he kept, a fierce and intelligent hunger lurked in the pirate captain’s eyes.

“Blackbeard,” Deudermont spat, matching the pirate captain’s fearless gaze.

Blackbeard advanced with a hearty chuckle, echoed in short order by his ragged crew.  Contrary to the dirty rags worn by the other pirates, he wore fine cloth trousers and a wide-sleeved white shirt, a red vest with gold buttons clasped over his bulging stomach.  A gold and jewel encrusted scabbard hung from his belt.

“Why if it ain’t Cap’n Deudermont,” Blackbeard boomed.  “‘Tis a shame we’re meetin’ unner such circumstances.”  The burly pirate captain gestured at the corpses of Deudermont’s crew, even then being heaped into a pile, to be burned along with the fallen Sea Sprite.

“I did not see your sword bloodied in the fighting,” Deudermont said.  “The only shame I see is your own cowardice, coming to face me only now that the battle has ended.”

Blackbeard scowled.  “Ye callin’ me a coward, Deudermont, but by reckonin’ ‘tis ye who’s the coward.  Fer too long ye be preyin’ on me ships, strikin’ down the weakest among us and fleein’ afore we can catch ye.  Well, today ‘tis Blackbeard sailin’ off into the sunset, while Cap’n Deudermont’s corpse bloodies the waters!”

The pirates howled with glee at their captain’s proclamation, but Deudermont only smiled.  “Come then,” the sea captain said, brandishing his cutlass.  “Let our swords meet, such that the sharks might feast well on your swollen belly this night.”

Blackbeard took the bait.  The pirate captain roared and drew his enormous scimitar, shoving any pirates aside who were unfortunate enough to get in his way.  As the scimitar rose, glinting in the dying sunlight and poised to deal brave Captain Deudermont a fatal blow, so too rose Tia Dalma.

The voodoo priestess, her whispered incantations unnoticed during Deudermont and Blackbeard’s too-loud exchange of bravado, unleashed her spell with a palpable aura of power.  The sea itself came to the beleaguered Prime’s aid, a monstrous pillar of water rising vertically from the turgid depths like the clenched fist of an angry god.  The water roiled and churned with an audible roar as it arced over their heads and crashed down, swallowing up Blackbeard and his unfortunate crew.

The sheer force of the pillar of water smashed the deck into kindling, flinging pirates aside and carrying others down into the lower decks.  The Sea Sprite lurched beneath the onslaught, sinking deeper into the water.  In the midst of it all, Tia Dalma and Captain Deudermont watched from behind a protective wall of gusting wind.

[PepsiWhirda]

In the aftermath of Tia’s spell, pirates flailed and gasped all across the deck, coughing up sea water and nursing bruises and cuts.  The only one of the marauders to regain his feet, to no one’s surprise, was Blackbeard.  The burly man spit a stream of curses and cast his maniacal gaze about in search of his wide-brimmed hat.

“Ye’ll pay for that, Deudermont!” he roared.  “Ye and yer fucking witch!”  By some miracle, Blackbeard had managed to keep hold of his scimitar and now he did not hesitate in his charge.  Tia Dalma, exhausted nearly to the point of collapse, tried to cast another spell.  But the enraged pirate captain was too quick, and the pommel of his scimitar met the voodoo priestess’s temple with a sickening crunch, laying her low.  “Not this time, ye accursed bitch.”

Captain Deudermont held his cutlass with both hands and stepped a cautious path around the formidable Blackbeard.  Taller than Deudermont by a head and outweighing him by at least a hundred pounds, the pirate captain darted in with surprising quickness, almost catching Deudermont off his guard.  The wicked scimitar whistled in and screeched off of the sea captain’s desperate parry, but the force of the blow vibrated painfully through Deudermont’s arm and numbed his fingertips with its sheer strength.

Skipping backward and shaking his hand to restore the feeling in his fingers, Deudermont appraised Blackbeard with new respect.  The mocking tone he had assumed when addressing the dangerous pirate lord had fled, Deudermont’s dancing eyes now hard with determination.  This time, he attacked first.

Trying to leverage his superior dexterity, Deudermont charged in and tucked into a roll beneath Blackbeard’s swipe.  Coming up beneath the burly man’s arm, he managed to poke the tip of his cutlass into an exposed armpit before a quick backhand sent him sprawling to the deck.  The sea captain’s battered body bounced across the deck and came to rest at the edge of the encroaching water.  

Valiant Captain Deudermont tried to rise once more, shaking his head to clear the stars from his vision.  He managed only to get up to his knees before Blackbeard closed the distance between them, bellowing his triumph.  Unable to muster the strength even to defend himself, Deudermont locked eyes with the pirate captain and managed a weary smile.

“Somethin’ funny, ye bilge-suckin’ son o’ a whore?” Blackbeard growled.

“Only that you think you’ve won the day,” Deudermont said.

Blackbeard’s face contorted with confusion, just in time for Whirda Windstrom to swing past the fallen Captain Deudermont, clutching the ragged rope of the ship’s rigging, and plant the heels of both of her boots into the enormous pirate’s chest.  Blackbeard staggered back and fell beneath the weight of the blow with a grown.

In an instant Whirda appeared on top of the fallen Blackbeard, her dagger flitting back and forth faster than the pirate captain’s eyes could follow.

Blackbeard tried to muster a defense, wriggling one arm free from Whirda’s relentless assault and trying to bring his scimitar up, but the wriggling shadow serpents on Whirda’s arms and shoulders darted forward and pinned his burly arm to the deck.  The grace of Whirda’s movements, her dagger and buckler weaving back and forth harmoniously to defeat every movement of the seasoned pirate captain, stunned the man.  

A gash opened across Blackbeard’s right cheek, then another across his forehead.  The pommel of Whirda’s dagger crunched into his face, caving in an eye socket and most of one cheek.  On and on Whirda pounded, until blood pooled on the deck and Blackbeard’s face became an unrecognizable mass of gore.

Long after all life had fled from the pirate lord, Captain Deudermont dragged Whirda off the man’s limp and twitching corpse.  They both collapsed on the deck, breathing heavily.

The water level rose precipitously.  Working together, the beleaguered companions dragged the unconscious Tia Dalma to safety.  In mere minutes, Captain Deudermont knew, the sea would claim the Sea Sprite, the beloved ship he had called his own for more than half of his long life.

A chill wind came across the deck.  The sun dipped below the horizon.  A wave of despair came over Deudermont in that moment, the weight off loss and of the interminable violence of the Omniverse settling on his aching shoulders.  Wavering, he rose to his feet.  While the Sea Sprite could not be salvaged, Blackbeard’s ship had withstood the test of battle.  Marred by cannon fire, its foremast cracked and drooping, the vessel nevertheless remained watertight.  

Whirda followed the sea captain’s gaze and understood his thoughts.  “Do any remain aboard?”

Deudermont regarded the woman warily.  Her slender, stoic features, spattered with blood and bits of gore, betrayed no guilt or horror concerning the murder of Blackbeard.  While she did not carry the telltale signs of the contagion, the astute Deudermont could sense a shift in the woman, a compromise of morals that had guided the gruesome kill.  Still, Deudermont knew, he was hard-pressed for allies with the loss of his crew.  He could not even carry Tia Dalma across the distance to the pirate vessel alone.  

“Not likely,” he replied.  “They do not possess the wisdom to remain behind when victory is at hand.”

“Brace yourself.”  Whirda laid a hand on both of her companions, and a moment later the three of them stood on the deck of the pirate vessel.  When no marauders came at them from the descending shadows, they knew Deudermont’s logic had been sound.

“What do we do now?” Whirda asked, her voice absent of any emotion.

“We rest,” Deudermont said.  “When Tia Dalma recovers we will be able to set sail for Costa Del Sol.  Without her favorable winds filling our sails, I’m afraid the two of us will not be sufficient.”

Whirda nodded.  “I will keep watch,” she said automatically, “in case any of the pirate’s allies come searching for him.”  With those ominous words, the black-veined Prime stalked off, the shadows wrapping around her like an obscuring cloak.

Captain Deudermont plopped into a sitting position beside Tia Dalma’s prone form, too exhausted to reply--too exhausted even to seek a proper bed.  Before his drooping eyelids closed and the welcome embrace of sleep took him, he watched as the flag of Luskan, once flying proudly atop the Sea Sprite’s mainmast, sank beneath the turgid sea.

[PepsiWhirda]

When the first raindrops landed on Tia Dalma’s face, she stirred.

The night had grown cold around her.  The sky, a wrinkled mass of swollen clouds, hung fat and dripping above her head.  Beside her rested Captain Deudermont, softly snoring.  Tia observed the nicks and bruises that marred the valiant sea captain’s handsome features.  Not for the first time, she questioned the futility of life in the Omniverse.  Violence, chaos, and pain defined each step of the journeys good men like Deudermont undertook.  The realms offered up a seemingly endless horde of mighty foes.  And while there was no shortage of heroes to stem the dark tide, the scales seemed to tip forever toward the side of evil.

The voodoo priestess’s head throbbed where Blackbeard’s weapon had laid her low.  Shaking her head vigorously, Tia sat up and examined her surroundings.  Her companions had brought her from the Sea Sprite onto the surviving pirate ship, she realized.  She owed her life to Captain Deudermont and--

“Whirda?” she whispered.  The last memory Tia had of the plagued woman was abandoning her in the corridor of the Sea Sprite to join the battle above.  She feared the worst.  Had the unconscious Whirda been slain in the battle for the Sea Sprite, unable to defend herself?  Had she gone down with the ship and drowned along with the rest of the men unfortunate enough to have survived the fighting?

“Kill them.”

The words drifted to Tia Dalma on a chill ocean breeze.  While the voice was unmistakably Whirda’s, Tia could sense a shift in inflection, a rippling undercurrent not quite normal--not quite human.

“Leave me alone.”  The second voice, while it still belonged to Whirda, was markedly different.  While the first voice exuded confidence and strength, the second sounded timid and fearful.

Tia snuck closer, her bare feet padding silently up the small staircase to the ship’s quarterdeck.  When she neared the top of the stairs she dropped into a crouch, sweeping a stray dreadlock out of her eyes.  Whirda came into view.  She faced away from Tia, leaning heavily on the quarterdeck railing.  Her black leather armor still glistened with the gore of battle.

“They are weak,” the first voice hissed.

“They are my friends.”

“Friends?” A throaty chuckle.  “You see the way they look at you.  They are no friends of Whirda Windstrom.  They merely use you to achieve their own ends.”

“Liar!”

Tia retreated back a step as Whirda cast her gaze around nervously, worried her raised voice might have attracted attention.  Even in the dim moonlight the voodoo priestess could see Whirda’s black veins, pulsating unnaturally with the woman’s every breath.

“How long must we keep up this game?  Your lot is that of a shade, a creature of darkness, a creature of power unimaginable.  It is foolish to deny who you are.”

“I will not kill them.”  The timid Whirda’s voice found a measure of resolve.  “Tia Dalma saved my life.”

“That filthy witch tried to take you from me.  To divest you from your very destiny.  Did it not feel righteous, pounding the life out of the mighty pirate?  Did it not feel true?  You may lie to your ‘friends,’ Whirda Windstrom, but you cannot lie to yourself.”

Whirda stood silently then.  Long moments crept by while Tia Dalma tried to make sense of the conversation.  Then, “I cannot sail this ship alone.”

Tia’s blood ran cold.  The implications of the words settled over her like a heavy blanket, making it difficult to breathe.  Whatever shred of humanity had remained in the plagued woman, whatever hope she had clung to all these years in the battle against the contagion, it seemed now had abandoned her.  In that moment, the two voices of Whirda Windstrom had become one unified voice.

“But perhaps I don’t have to.”  

Whirda turned away from the railing, and Tia Dalma could not stifle her gasp.  Deep gouges etched the woman’s face, leaking shadow like pus from a suppurating wound.  Her lips, dry and cracked from dehydration, were twisted into a maniacal grin.  And her eyes--gods, her eyes.  Though flooded with black like the rest of her, Whirda’s eyes glowed in the night, at once utterly dark and blindingly bright, drawing Tia Dalma into their hypnotic depths.

She had witnessed the transformation before, when the contagion took hold of Whirda in their skirmish back on Tia Dalma’s island, and again during the battle with the naga.  But this was different.  Whirda exuded a power so profound, so terrifying, that the voodoo priestess found herself rooted to the ground, unable to will herself to move even as the plagued woman advanced.  

Whirda’s stare never left Tia’s own, never faltered, as the wicked dagger of Ahn’Thrix hissed from its sheath.  The voodoo priestess could not fight back, could not even breathe as the weapon, leaking an opaque cloud of ash, slid easily between her ribs.  Whirda Windstrom leaned in close to the dying priestess, her cracked lips brushing against Tia Dalma’s ear. 

“Thank you,” Whirda hissed, lowering the lifeless body to the deck.

The last thing Tia Dalma saw was the boots of her corrupted friend walking away, toward the slumbering form of Captain Deudermont.

[PepsiWhirda]

A week later, a small boat tacked hard against the stiff current off the cliffs of Costa Del Sol.  Bolstered by targeted gusts of wind conjured by its lone occupant, the boat picked up speed, veritably flying from the crest of one choppy wave to the next.  When it neared the jagged rocks at the base of the cliffs a final, reckless burst of wind launched it high above the water.

    The boat met the rocks with a loud crash, shattering into countless shards of wood.  The impact would surely have destroyed anyone foolhardy enough to navigate the treacherous waters on this part of the island, but the boat’s occupant was nowhere to be seen.

    High above, on a rocky promontory overlooking the wind-scoured bay, Whirda Windstrom drew the cowl of her cloak tight around her face.  She lingered for a moment, her gaze on the horizon where Blackbeard’s ship, belching thick plumes of black smoke, slowly sank beneath the surf.  A thin smile found its way to her lips.

    Then she turned and stalked off into the jungle.