The Last Voyage of the Votrel’s Mercy

[Bast]

This is based on the RPT last week. Lady Lucretzia is a avid writer. A copy of this story will be left in the town library soon as the book bug is fixed and the library accessible. I wanted to highlight Nauth's storytelling here. This was very easy for me to write based on the logs from the event. I just had to put it all down in Lucy's style of writing. Hope you guys enjoy it!



The Last Voyage of the Votrel’s Mercy
By Foreign Lady Lucretzia of House Tor, Marshal of the Silver Runes.

We had concluded our morning patrol and were clearing the last of the debris from Brightfell’s town center when a disturbance at the docks reached our ears. A member of the Watch, breathless and pale, informed us that a vessel had materialized from the fog, no warning, no heralding bell, nor any sign of an arriving crew. It was simply there, looming at the portside like a ghost from the river’s depths.
Upon our arrival at the scene, the gathered crowd buzzed with speculation.
"It weren’t there an hour ago."
"Didn’t hear a boat, didn’t see a crew."
"Too big for the river, innit? Maybe it came up from the lake?"
Pushing our way forward, we at last beheld the vessel in question. The Votrel’s Mercy.
She listed against the shore, half-sunken and draped in the stillness of the dead. The timbers, though warped and bloated, bore no signs of true rot, only the grotesque, brine-slick sheen of something preserved past its time. Seaweed clung to the rails like the grasping fingers of drowned men. The lanterns, though broken, swayed ever so slightly, their chains creaking in the hush. No wind stirred, and yet movement persisted.
I called out. "Does anyone require assistance? If you are aboard, make yourself known!"
Silence.
A child in the crowd tugged at his mother’s skirts and whispered that he had seen a man upon the deck. But before we could question him, she hurried away, her face drawn with fear. Others murmured amongst themselves. No drag marks. No signs of arrival. It simply… appeared.
Warden Akra took command of the situation, ordering the townsfolk to remain at a safe distance. After some deliberation, it was agreed that I, along with Akra, Anlon, Renwick, and Ard, would board and investigate. We were joined by Boots, another Waygater; Alec, and Rex, two local laborers; and Moe, an herbalist of quick wit and steady hand. All three people of good standing in the community and two of whom I have come to think of as friends.
Stepping aboard, we found the deck slick, not with rain, nor tide, but with a brine that never seemed to dry. It clung to our boots, a film of moisture that felt more like sweat from a fevered corpse than seawater. The timbers groaned beneath us, not with the simple age of an old vessel, but with something else—strained, exhausted, as though the ship itself bore the weight of some unspoken burden.
Above, the sails hung limp, tattered and torn as if they had been dragged through the ocean’s depths. Seaweed draped the lines. The rigging, rusted and brittle, swayed gently, though no wind touched our skin.
We advanced cautiously, senses alert. Renwick bent to examine one of the ship’s broken lanterns and found, nestled within, the remnants of a candle—melted nearly beyond recognition, yet still bearing strange, curling marks upon its blackened wax. The symbols, whatever they had once been, were now distorted beyond comprehension.
Then, we saw him.
A figure stood at the helm.
He was barefoot, his clothes ragged and heavy with brine. Salt clung to his skin in a fine, crystalline crust, and his wet hair hung in limp strands about his face. He did not sway with the ship but stood unnaturally rigid, staring out into the fog. Slowly, he raised a hand—not in greeting, but in warning. A slow shake of the head. A gesture not to follow.
When at last he turned, horror stole the breath from my lungs. His eyes! There were none! Only gaping sockets filled with salt and brine, as though the sea had hollowed him out from within.
And then, he was gone.
Vanished into the mist, as suddenly as he had come.
"A memory, lingering," Renwick murmured. "Visions of the dead."
Moe swallowed hard. "Something horrible happened here."
Before we could respond, Anlon stiffened, pointing toward the forward hatch.
"Something is here."
There, in the damp brine pooling across the deck, were fingerprints on the forward hatch.
We entered the captain’s cabin.
The air was wrong. Too still. Too dense. As if the walls themselves were waiting. Even the dust seemed to hold its breath.
A warped desk, bolted to the floor, stood at the room’s center, its surface a graveyard of broken quills, ink-stained papers, and the shattered remains of an inkwell. The spill had dried long ago, leaving brittle tendrils of black that reached out across the wood like skeletal fingers. Along the floorboards, salt crystals had gathered in clusters, growing in jagged teeth along the edges of the room.
Above a collapsed cot, a crooked shelf leaned precariously, its contents spilled in disarray: half-rotted books, rusted tools, the cracked leather of what might have once been a map case. The walls were worse. Faint scrawlings marred the wood, lines and spirals carved over and over, deep enough to splinter the grain. Some bore the dark stain of old blood.
The smell was thick of mildew and oil, but beneath it, something sour, like fruit left too long in the heat.
The only light came from a single porthole, its glass crusted with brine. Now and then, something flickered across it, too swift, too shapeless to be anything real. And yet, nothing passed outside.
The fog rolled in with us. Not drifting, but pressing, coiling into the room’s corners, moving with the slow deliberation of something alive. The temperature dropped, and for a breathless moment.
We were not alone.
A man sat at the desk.
Hunched, soaked, shivering. His coat, stiff with salt, clung to his shoulders. His head was bowed, his hand tight around a quill that trailed wet ink across paper, over and over, as though he had forgotten how to lift it.
He moved. Just barely.
His lips parted. He spoke, but no sound reached us. His eyes, vacant, and dull did not seem to see.
Then, one final stroke of ink. His fingers lifted.
The barge lurched beneath us, sudden and jarring, as though striking something unseen beneath the water. And then, slowly, painfully,he turned.
Not toward the porthole.
Toward us.
His head tilted, too stiff, too slow. And in that terrible silence, I felt it.
He saw us.
And then he was gone leaving only billows of fog as it rolled through the cabin.
I exhaled sharply, my hand hovering near my blade, though what steel could do against such things, I did not know. The moment shattered further as footsteps creaked behind us. I turned, pulse hammering, only to find Aeryn, the scribe’s apprentice, peering inside, wide-eyed.
I forced myself to still. Measure, Lucretzia. Take measure before you react.
Aeryn had barely opened his mouth before we turned back to the room. A search. We had to know more.
A single drawer hung half-open, its contents jostled in disarray. On the far wall, the spirals and carvings were deeper here, spiraling outward from a single rusted nail, the wood clawed and torn as if someone had spent hours scratching in the dark.
Then, Akra spoke.
"The log."
He held it out, the battered leather cover nearly unrecognizable beneath the stains of salt and age. I took it. Flipped to the last entry.
The page was unmarked, no date, no name. Only words, scrawled in the same ink that still stained the desk:

[Final Entry: Unmarked Page]
If this barge reaches land, it is not by my hand.
We betrayed it. We tried to stop it. Too late.
This ship is no longer ours.
If you read this: burn it.
Do not carry our curse.
Do not let it speak to you.

I stared at the words, ink burned into the paper with desperate, trembling force.
A chill coiled at the base of my spine.

From somewhere deep within the ship, something groaned. Discussion from that point turned to whether or not we should burn the ship entirely. Anlon moved to inspect the carved markings on the far wall of the captain’s quarters, running his hands over the etchings with a furrowed brow. Moe, meanwhile, discovered a scrap of paper and bent to examine it, muttering to himself as he turned it over in his hands. Akra voiced his concerns, urging caution before setting anything alight, insisting we uncover what had transpired here first. I was inclined to agree, though my focus remained firmly on the journal.
Flipping back several pages, I traced the captain’s last entries with my fingertips, the ink scrawled in a hand that grew increasingly unsteady. I cleared my throat and read aloud:

[Entry: Calm Seas]
We are three days off course. No land. No wind. No gulls.
Water rations are low. Spirits are lower.
I told the men we'd find the coast soon, but the truth is, we haven't seen a familiar star in a week.
As the words left my lips, a hush fell over the group. Even the shifting timbers of the wreck seemed to still, as if listening.
It’s as if something’s turning the sky itself.
I still have the old chart Father gave me. He said if I ever grew truly lost, I should listen for the sea’s other voice.
I never knew what he meant until last night.”

I turned the page. The writing here was more erratic, the letters jagged and uneven as if penned by a shaking hand. The ink, a dark brownish-red, bore an unmistakable resemblance to dried blood. I read on carefully, mindful not to let my bare fingers graze the tainted parchment.


[Entry: The Bargain]
We heard the call.
Like a whale’s cry deep in the belly of the world.
A sound too wide for any throat, too ancient for breath.
It offered us salvation. A path to land.
All it asked in return was... a vessel.
I agreed.
I didn’t understand what that meant until the first night passed, and Garron was gone.
No scream. No blood. Just salt in his hammock and the stench of low tide.
But the winds returned. We moved again.
Gods forgive me... but I was glad.

A silence stretched between us as the final words settled like lead in the air. Anlon exhaled through his nose, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. Moe had gone rigid, his eyes darting between the journal and the warped timbers of the captain’s quarters, as though expecting some unseen presence to emerge. Akra’s expression was unreadable, but the tension in his stance spoke volumes.
The scribe’s apprentice broke the silence as I took a breath before turning the page to continue.
“That’s less promising…”
Boots gripped some bit of wood she had been carrying, clutching it as though it were a ward against whatever unseen force haunted these pages. Rex, ever the helpful sort, took it upon himself to explain to us desert-dwellers what a whale was, though the lesson did little to quell the growing unease among us.
For my part, I turned the page and read aloud, the inked sigils staring back at me with a quiet menace. The script remained flawless, as if untouched by the madness that had seeped into the captain’s later entries.

[Entry 1: Resistance]
We tried to fight it. To break the pact.
We threw the idol overboard, but it returned. Always wet, always warm.
We burned it, and the fire turned to brine.
We sank it in iron, and it sang as it fell: and again in the hold the next morning.
It wants to reach shore.
I fear what will happen when it does.

I let the words settle.. The journal was clenched in my hands, my knuckles whitening against the brittle parchment.
“An idol,” Akra said, his voice low, thoughtful.
“Not just an idol,” Renwick muttered. “Something more insidious”
No one disagreed.
Rex leaned in, his eyes flicking from the journal to the shadows pooling in the corners of the ruined cabin. “If it’s still out there, if it reaches the shore…” He trailed off.
A gust of wind slipped through the warped beams, rattling what remained of the ship’s frame. I could taste the salt thick in the air, hear the groan of wood, more than just the ship settling, more than just the tide pressing in.
Aeryn swallowed hard. “You don’t think it’s still waiting for someone to carry it the rest of the way, do you?”
Another breath of wind slithered through the wreck. Somewhere, in the hollow distance, a sound like a deep, resonant hum vibrated through the timbers.
Akra spoke in his dune-kissed accent, his voice laced with dry humor.
"I am beginning to believe I do not want to live near the ocean."
I huffed a quiet breath, eyes scanning the next lines of ink.
"There is more..." I said.
Akra clicked his teeth together faintly, his gaze sweeping the ruined cabin as though expecting something unnatural to shift in the periphery. Boots shifted her stance, one hand resting on her pouch while the other clutched tightly to a polished, glassy knot of golden wood, the nervous motion betraying her unease.
Renwick moved closer, lifting a simple metal lantern to cast a steadier light over the brittle pages. Shadows twisted and danced along the warped beams, their movements uneasy, as though something unseen recoiled from the illumination.
I read on:
[Entry 3 : Silence]

“They no longer speak.

The crew stares at the walls. At the water. At me.

I screamed until my throat bled but they wouldn't answer.

Even I find it harder to write. My hands... they feel like they're forgetting themselves.

The sea listens now. It waits.

I cannot sleep for fear of dreaming.”

I turned the page to the final entry, my fingers hesitant against the brittle parchment. My voice was steady, but the weight of the words sat heavy in my chest as I read the last lines again:
If you read this: burn it.
Do not carry our curse.
Do not let it speak to you.

The words lingered in the damp air, pressing into the silence like the tide against the hull. The candlelight flickered, casting restless shadows against the warped walls.

I set the journal down with deliberate care, my mind already set on the course we must take. We could not let this relic reach land. We could not let the fate of this crew befall the people of Brightfell.

I thought of the old woman who had braved the storm the day we arrived through the Waygate. The warm drink she had pressed into my hands, though she did not know me, nor where I had come from. The smile on her wrinkled lips, the soothing cadence of her voice despite the fury of the storm and the unnatural means of our arrival.

We had a debt to this town.

One my honor would not let me ignore.

A discussion arose among us then, hushed but urgent. The question of what to do with the vessel, whether to leave it and set it ablaze, was met with varied opinions, though none spoke with true certainty. Renwick, ever the pragmatist, reminded us that the journal itself claimed the crew had been unable to burn the idol. If that were true, then fire alone would not save us.

It is perhaps pertinent at this juncture to mention a peculiar acquisition from our recent foray into the city’s underworks, a construct of intricate design, a mechanical squirrel no larger than an apple. Boots had, for lack of a better term, become its keeper, and it had taken up residence in her pack with the untroubled ease of something that did not question its place in the world. My thoughts turned to this device, and, upon my request, Boots set it in motion.

The construct turned its small, expressionless face towards those speaking, regarding mention of a tainted relic with a silence that felt almost expectant. Then, with mechanical precision, a compartment slid open within its chest, a space lined in a material that glowed faintly, like a minute kiln awaiting its charge. It would serve, at least, as a container. Whether it would be enough to shield us from what we carried was another matter entirely.

Aeryn, thoughtful as ever, observed, "The crew of this vessel put themselves in thrall to some sort of creature in order to make landfall. That may have limited their ability to fight the pact they made. We are not subject to the terms of their bargain." It was a reasonable assertion. The failure of one did not necessarily mean the failure of all. If we acted wisely, we might yet succeed where they had faltered.
The conversation turned briefly, and foolishly, towards the idea of negotiation. Alec made some comments about offering his own life in exchange for the villages. To this, Akra responded with his usual sharp clarity, "But if anyone here makes an agreement, it could cost everyone. As the captain seems to have doomed his crew. So do not touch anything that might be an idol. What that is, I have no idea."
It was then that Moe, who had been quietly attempting to gain our attention, finally managed to pass along a scrap of paper he had recovered from the deck. The man was a mind of brilliance, though cursed with a stammer that often obscured the urgency of his discoveries. I accepted the note with a nod of thanks and, adjusting the lantern, began to read aloud:

"He keeps telling us we were saved by mistake. That whatever answered wasn't meant to listen, that we were never supposed to survive the storm. But I remember the moment it spoke. It was clear. It wanted only one thing to be delivered. To reach shore. And in exchange, it gave us calm. Gave us wind. Gave us life.
He broke the pact, not us. He tried to hide it, bury it in the hold, chain it up like it wasn't a gift.
I saw Garron kneeling beside it. I saw his lips moving. It does not need voice it needs purpose.
I still remember what it showed me. The light beneath the waves. The city, sleeping. Waiting. We could have delivered it. We could have been first.
Now it is angry. And it is listening again.
If I do not make it tell it I was willing.
Tell it I was ready.
-Etch"

The words hung between us, heavy as iron. We proceeded back out to the deck and down into the depths of the ship.

Rex spoke first, his voice edged with unease.
"City? Light beneath the waves?"

Aeryn tucked his fingers under his armpits, scanning the shadows between the beams.
"I don’t believe we should linger here debating. We should either find the thing responsible or leave the boat."
Renwick, quieter, his tone measured but tight, murmured,
"We should withdraw from its influence here... whatever this feeling is, it affects us all."
No one disagreed. In near-unspoken consensus, we turned back toward the deck.
And then…
Not wind. Not the living.
For the briefest moment, the deck was no longer empty.
Ghostly apparitions moved through the mist, half-formed figures soaked and barefoot, going about duties that had long ceased to matter. One coiled a length of rope that was not there. Another scrubbed at the planks with an invisible brush, repeating the motion over and over. Two more struggled beneath the weight of an unseen crate, staggering toward the hatch before vanishing mid-step.
A lone figure stood near the ship’s edge, head tilted, as if listening to something far below the surface of the river.
None of them spoke. None of them breathed.

They only repeated their motions. Over and over.
Then, as one, they stopped.
Heads turned, slowly, in eerie unison. Their features blurred by the shifting fog, yet unmistakably fixed upon us.
And then, as quickly as they had appeared, they were gone.
We stood silent for a moment, exchanging glances, then pressed forward, descending into the crew quarters.
The space below was narrow, low-ceilinged, the air thick with a creeping presence that hung like damp fog. The scent of mildew, salt, and old sweat had long seeped into the wood, sharp enough to sting the nose. Hammocks lined both sides of the room, sagging from rusted iron hooks. Some swayed gently without wind. Others hung slack, twisted into grotesque shapes. A few had been violently slashed, the canvas torn and crusted stiff with dried salt. One, however, was tied so tightly into a knot that it resembled a noose, cinched high toward the beams.
The walls, warped with water damage, bore streaks that might have been the remnants of seawater—or claw marks. Beneath the hammocks, the floorboards were strewn with remnants of forgotten lives: a rusted tin comb, a single worn boot, a bone charm, loose buttons, a spoon, a tangle of faded red thread. A few damp bundles of clothing lay where they had fallen, still heavy with brine, as if the storm that took this ship had never truly left.
We took pause to search the space. Near the shadows of a hammock, I caught the glint of something half-hidden within a lone boot. I signaled to Anlon.
"Carefully," I instructed. "Do not reach inside. If this thing is what we seek, I would not have you be the first to touch it."
Then another apparition overtook us.
The lantern light dimmed, flickering, and suddenly we were no longer alone.
The room was full. Every hammock occupied.
No one spoke. No one moved.
They lay still, eyes open, staring upward, as if waiting.
One among them, an older man with cracked lips and trembling hands, sat up slowly. Without a word, he reached beneath his hammock and pulled out a length of rope.
He began to knot it—deliberate, practiced—then slipped it around his neck.
No one reacted. No one stopped him.
He stood upon a crate, swaying slightly. The ship groaned beneath him.
Then—he stepped forward into the quiet.
A sharp pull wrenched at my gut. The vision shattered.
We stood again in the silence of the abandoned crew quarters. The hammocks hung still. The only sound was the faint creak of a rope, swaying gently where nothing moved.

The temperature in the room dropped.

Moe convulsed, shuddering as though struck by a sudden chill. His voice came in broken fragments, barely above a whisper.
"G-Garrick. H-he—I t-think h-he was... t-the vessel. B-but it s-sits in t-them, and b-breaks them, b-breaks them, b-breaks them, until t-they b-break. I w-watched a man g-gaze into the c-corner, and t-then—h-he died, e-eyes open, b-blood from his ears, s-still staring."
Boots followed, speaking as if under some unseen compulsion, her voice distant, halting.
"Uh... it... it came down to him an—and he screamed silently... Wh-whatever it was... it made 'em keel over..."
Then Akra, eyes dark with something unreadable.
"They gathered... one slit his own throat... part of a... ritual of some kind?"
His voice wavered on the last syllable, then steadied, as if shaking off an unseen weight.
Renwick’s gaze turned to me, his lantern casting flickering shadows across the warped walls.
"This place is a tomb—cursed."

Akra exhaled sharply.

"I am not sure. The word he spoke, it didn’t... it doesn’t make sense in my head, the way his lips moved."
Aeryn crossed his arms, fingers pressing into his sides as though bracing against an unseen force.
"Foul magic from deepwater spirits is bound to make no sense to any of us. Let's move on."
Then—Boots stumbled back with a strangled cry, arms flailing wildly against something unseen.
We barely had time to steady her before pressing onward, deeper into the ship’s belly.
Below deck, the air grew thick—suffocating. The slow, rhythmic lap of water against the breached hull echoed through the dark.
Crates and barrels lay scattered in chaotic disarray, many split apart, spilling their salt-encrusted contents across the warped floor.
And amid the wreckage, something glowed.

A sliver of bone-white light pulsed faintly from a wrapped object, sealed in chains and pitch-soaked cloth.
Along the walls, the salt crust had formed unnatural shapes—faces, contorted and screaming in silence.
Then, we saw it.

A skull.

Smooth, its features worn by time and brine, but pierced clean through by a rusted nail driven deep into the temple. It sat upon a crate—not discarded, but placed.
A satchel lay discarded nearby, its leather etched with strange carvings.
And upon the floor
A bundle. Wrapped in thick chains. The fabric stiff with tar, sealed against the elements.
And within—
Something moved.
A sickly, wet squelch.
It writhed.
Anlon, ever direct, voiced what we all felt.
"Oh, fuck that."
Beside him, the small squirrel construct twitched, glossy gem eyes flickering in the dim light. It rose onto its hind legs, nose clicking faintly in its socket as it regarded the chain-wrapped bundle with uncanny stillness. Brine oozed from between the iron links, pooling in slow, deliberate tendrils.
Akra exhaled, gaze fixed on the skull. "They tried to offer it other things... but in the end, it only takes one thing. Their life."
I blinked—
And the world shifted.
Suddenly, the room was filled with shouting. A sailor, wild-eyed and filthy, was being dragged from beneath a bunk by two others.
"He brought it aboard," one hissed.
"He fed it," snarled the other.
The man thrashed, screaming. "I didn't—it found me!"
They did not listen. They fell on him like a storm, striking with fists, boots, and finally the butt of a harpoon. His cries turned wet, then ceased entirely. Blood pooled beneath him, black in the dim light. The lantern above flickered—once, twice—before flaring too bright, then dying.
The darkness was immediate. Intentional.
Behind us, the hatch groaned open, the sound thick and slow, like a wounded thing keening in the dark. The air that spilled forth was wrong—dense, brackish, warm, thick with the rot of time unmeasured.
Then..clang.
The hatch slammed shut behind us with the weight of a smith's hammer on the anvil.
I drew my sword on instinct.
The floor beneath us was warped, slick with unseen moisture. Salt crystals glistened on the walls like frost, and long strands of seaweed clung to the timbers, swaying though there was no wind.
Anlon’s voice rang out, steady and defiant.
"Remember—we do not submit!"
Then, the weight pressed down on me again. The ship leaned in, watching.
The flickering hold twisted, and we were no longer alone. My vision blurred and then:
A man crouched where I stood, shoulders hunched beneath an invisible burden. In his trembling hands, an iron spike and a makeshift mallet. He was weeping—not from fear, but from exhaustion.
Whispers circled him in the brine, thin and restless.
He set the nail to his own skull, just above the ear, voice no louder than the rasp of rope on wood.
"It’ll stop listening if I stop thinking."
One final breath, then the mallet fell.
Pain bloomed behind my eyes. It was not my own.
The vision snapped away, leaving only the skull behind. The rusted nail jutted from the bone, untouched by time.
Renwick’s voice cut through the fog of my thoughts.
"This must be dealt with, or we face the same fate. No choice now—this ends one of two ways. We reason and sort our way out, or we succumb as they did."
I turned, taking in the faces of my companions. Some, I knew, had seen what I had.
I opened my mouth to speak—
But the world lurched again.
A group of spectral crewmen knelt in a circle around the bundle. Chains lay half-fastened in their hands, their skin slick with pitch and sweat. One, bare-chested and trembling, stared at the thing wrapped within as if expecting it to answer.
"We should have let it drown," he muttered, voice thin and shaking.
Another pulled the final chain tight, lips moving in silent prayer.
Then—without warning—the first man lunged, grasping the bundle with both hands.
"It forgives," he whispered. "Hopes."
But the chains moved of their own accord. They coiled tight,too tight. The man seized, eyes going wide, foam spilling from his mouth. The others recoiled, but none of them screamed.

When the vision faded, the brine surrounding the bundle rippled outward, slow and steady.
As though something beneath the cloth had just exhaled.

The air thickened, warping under the weight of unseen forces. Then, by some trick of sight or perhaps by the will of whatever watched us, thin, gossamer threads shimmered into view. They were mostly ethereal, silken strands strung taut through the ship's hold. And as the visions came upon us once more, they struck with terrible force.

Screams.

They erupted from every corner, raw and panicked, distant and near, overlapping in an endless cacophony of final moments. The floor trembled. The brine rippled outward in perfect circles, as if something unseen had disturbed the water. And still, the threads held fast, tightening ever so slightly—as if the thing inside the bundle had recognized me.

Then, one of the threads lashed out.

The squirrel construct, small, unshaken. seized onto the spectral filament, its gemlike eyes flashing a deeper red. It screeched from its belly, clinging to the thread as if it had pulled something real into existence, something meant to be torn apart. The other threads flickered in and out of being, but the one in the construct’s grip remained…tangible, viable for destruction.

I swung my sword in a sweeping arc.

Blades flashed in the lantern’s dying light, cleaving through the spectral web that bound the cargo hold in its suffocating grip. The first few strands recoiled at the touch of steel, twisting and tightening like sinew drawn over bone. But the thing inside the bundle knew—it felt us now, and it fought. Shadows swelled in the corners, lurching forward, given form by the tide of shrieking voices. A force unseen hurled crates across the hold, the wood splintering against rusted chains. Salt-crusted ropes lashed out, moving as if alive, seeking to tangle and ensnare. And in the midst of it all, the construct clung to the captured strand, its tiny frame trembling, gem-eyes burning with defiance.
Axe, dagger, sword; all of us struck at the same time. Cut it! Cut it now!

The nearest strand snapped with a sharp, crystalline crack. The sound echoed like breaking ice, and in an instant, the rest began to shudder violently. One by one, the spectral strands ruptured, some snapping with flashes of pale light, others burning away into curling threads of salt and smoke. The air howled. The screams returned, deafening now, no longer distant, but right here, as if the dying crew were all around us, dying again in the same breath!

I moved like a phantom in the gloom, my curved blade a silver blur as I danced between the lashing strands, slicing through them with Akra fighting at my side with his near unnatural grace. The threads lashed at me, coiling around my arms and throat, but with a growl of defiance, I wrenched free, severing them in a cascade of withering light. Anlon roared a curse, his swords carving a brutal arc through the air. A strand snapped against his gauntlet, burning through leather and steel, but he swung again and again, his strikes relentless.

Amid the chaos, Ard and Anlon fought back to back, a seamless blend of steel and instinct. Anlon’s twin swords carved through the spectral forms with relentless precision, each strike a calculated arc of silver light. Ard, still new to our ranks as a Seeker, had honed his craft to near perfection, moving with such eerie silence that he seemed as much a ghost as the wraiths themselves. He slipped through the melee like a whisper of wind, his dagger flashing as he drove it into the flickering forms, each thrust dissolving another grasping specter into nothingness. Their rhythm was flawless.

Rex swung his hammer with bone-rattling force, each strike sending spectral hands shattering into wisps of cold, fading light. They clawed at him, fingers like curling mist and brittle glass, grasping, tearing, but he fought on, undeterred. Even Moe, Aeryn, and Alec, though less heavily armed, fought valiantly, blades and fists striking against the shifting tide of wraith-like forms. Alec held his own between them with quick, darting slashes, while Moe braced his stance, hacking at the tendrils. Aeryn, despite the terror in his eyes, stood firm, striking with precision, his every movement deliberate. Then, through the chaos, I saw Akra take the hit, a rack of spectral claws raking across him, deep enough to send a spray of blood arcing through the air. I barely had time to react before I thrust my shield between him and the next strike, feeling the force of it shudder through my arm as the wraith-like tendrils recoiled against the barrier of steel and will.

A gust of briny wind tore through the hold, sending us reeling as the ship itself seemed to lurch beneath our feet. The shadows thrashed, writhing in furious denial. The bundle twitched, convulsing, something inside shifting and writhing against its chains. Boots roared as she drove her axe into another thread, severing it in a burst of salt and cold fire. Renwick was muttering something under his breath, perhaps a curse, his dagger moving with precise, surgical strikes.

Then, the final strand frayed. Split.

As the last of the spectral strands snapped, the very air in the hold seemed to exhale, a long, slow release, like something ancient had finally loosened its grip. Around us, the weight of unseen eyes lifted just slightly. The cold didn’t vanish, but it changed, no longer pressing inward like a claw, but retreating, uncurling from the corners of the ship like a fog burned off by morning light. The brine-soaked floorboards seemed to breathe easier, the oppressive silence cracked, and somewhere above, we heard the soft creak of wood, just wood.
The lingering presence of the dead, once coiled tight around the bundle like rope around a drowning man, began to unravel. And in that moment, I felt it. The sailors were not haunting the idol. They were held by it. Anchored. Bound.

Now, they were beginning to slip free. One by one, like fingers releasing a line that should never have been cast
Aeryn spoke. "My knowledge as a sage's apprentice doesn't extend to anything mystical or arcane, just to history, lore, and general wisdom." Then, for some reason I couldn’t explain, I thought of the journal and the bloody pages. I pulled it out, and to my shock, I noticed one page was hidden, plastered to the back of another by blood. I read: "Salt circle... around it. 'By sea and breath and broken oath, I end this bargain. I return nothing.'" I looked up immediately, shouting, "CIRCLE IT IN SALT! CIRCLE THE IDOL!" I showed Akra the writing as the others scrambled to search the hold for bags of salt.

For just a moment, I saw the captain's ghost standing beside me. His ink-stained hands pointed at the journal. His face was hollow, eyes ringed with darkness, but there was no rage—only a deep, aching grief. Water dripped steadily from his fingers, pooling at his feet. Moe called out, "I’ve s-salt!" and quickly set to work, ringing the idol as the circle closed. Then, after a moment’s hesitation and a glance between myself and the journal, Akra lifted his voice, exclaiming, “By sea and breath and broken oath, I end this bargain. I return nothing!”
The moment the final syllable fell, the ship shuddered beneath us, not from waves, but from within, like it was bracing for loss. The brine bubbled. The chains around the bundle snapped one by one, not with violence, but with reluctance, as if something inside was holding on until the very last moment. A low, guttural sound escaped the idol,not a voice, but a groan of unbeing, a sound of something old, denied. The salt circle flashed once with pale blue light, then went still.

The air cleared. The hold felt empty... not abandoned, but freed. The grip was broken. The bargain was over. All that remained now was what the sea had left behind.

No one spoke; there was no need. Rex, Moe, and Alec had already pulled flasks of oil from their packs before the command was even given. We doused the hold and moved back up through the bowels of the ship, spreading oil as we went. Just before we leapt from the side of it, Alec lit a torch and dropped it behind us. The construct let out a belch of flames, and the boat went up.
The first flames caught slowly, hesitant, licking along the salt-swollen ropes and pitch-dark planks with a damp crackle. But then the fire took, hungrily. It spread with unnatural speed, climbing the masts as if it had been waiting. Smoke poured into the night sky, thick and acrid, tinged with the stench of brine, rot, and something older. As the hull began to groan and split, we heard it again—not screams, but a long, low exhale, as if the ship itself was finally letting go. Shapes flickered in the smoke: silhouettes of sailors, either at peace or lost forever.
When the flames reached the highest sail, torn, ragged, still soaked in salt, it ignited all at once, bright as lightning, casting long shadows across the riverbank. The barge burned alone, silent now. And then, just before it collapsed into the water, we felt it: a pressure lifting, a watchful presence withdrawing, like something vast and deep had turned its gaze elsewhere.

Together we stood on the shore and watched her burn.

A crowd had gathered, drawn no doubt by the tumultuous spectacle of the past few hours. They had seen what we had witnessed, the spectral disturbances, the twisting threads of the unseen that had plagued us, and the destruction of the cursed vessel. The air was charged with a frenzied energy, a murmur of curiosity and awe rising from the gathering. Amidst the babble of questions and exclamations, Akra’s voice rang out, steady and assured.

“It’s just a boat now,” he said, his tone surprisingly calm, given the horrors we had just faced. “A horrible one, far from anything useful... but just a boat. Remember the important bits! Curse broken, the dead put to rest, townspeople safe! We’re out here keeping things simple.”

Alec, always ready for a jest, teased with a grin, “I’m really glad it didn’t take me up on my offer…”

Boots snarked from beside him, “It was a stupid offer.”

Laughter erupted around us. The tension that had gripped us earlier seemed to ease, and even I couldn’t help but smile at the absurdity of it all. Alec, ever the performer, raised his voice to address the crowd, “Alec was very, very brave! You should buy him free drinks!”
Akra, playing along, added with a smirk, “You should! He was ready to die for you all. Luckily, none of us let him!”
The townspeople laughed and cheered, their excitement evident. Most of the company made their way toward the tavern, eager to toast and recount our adventure. But the Silver Runes and I—those of us still burdened with the weight of the encounter—returned to the barn to examine the remnants of our ordeal.

The satchel, the boot, and the strange, knotted rope were laid out before us. The satchel, worn and weathered, carried an ominous inscription—“For silence / for stillness / for separation.” It seemed a fitting container for the idol, now in ruins, its occult nature seeping into the very fabric of the bag. We did not hesitate. Into the fire it went, the flames licking hungrily at its cursed edges.

Next, we turned our attention to the boot. I instructed everyone to stand back as Anlon cautiously turned it over. From within it, a leathery, black ichored tongue unfurled, curling out like some long-forgotten thing from the deep. Boots, who had just returned, attempted to kick it into the fire, but I stopped her, recognizing the need for caution.

The tongue was shrunken, darkened with old blood and salt. Carved with deliberate strokes, not scratches but cut with careful intent, were glyphs—tight, curling symbols that seemed to spiral inward like a whispered warning. The markings hummed with an energy that made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. A symbol resembling an eye, another of a wave, and a sealed mouth were etched into its underside, and near the root, barely visible, a single line in broken Common: “I spoke for them.”

After a moment of tense silence, we all agreed that it should be destroyed. Renwick, ever pragmatic, muttered, “We should erase all remnants of that ship, but for the memory of the dead. Glad they were released from its hold. That should suffice.”

Akra and I exchanged concerned glances. Should the Silver Runes be the ones to destroy it, we wondered. Rex and Moe, who had been silent up until now, exchanged a knowing nod before tossing the thing into the fire.

They spoke a few words—simple but heavy with meaning, words meant to ward off any lingering evil from the cursed object. As the tongue hit the flames, a plume of dark smoke rose, and for a brief, spine-chilling moment, a shrill, high-pitched wail filled the air.

Rex spoke the final words as we watched the last remnants of the Votrel's Mercy crumble into ash, consumed by the fire. “Do not leave the job unfinished. The journal. The scrap. Let it live only as a memory. It was decided it was not to be salvaged, instead put to rest. Commit it all to the flames.”

And so we did, casting the last remnants of the cursed ship into the fire, ensuring that it would never rise again. The night seemed quieter after that, as if the very air had been relieved of a weight that had hung heavy for far too long.