The rest of the journey to Krakos will remain a fond memory. Over that time, the ship, its crew, and I grew closer than I ever imagined. Even more surprising was how my skeletal creations began to take on unique forms, reflecting the way each member of my crew revealed their own individuality. Each was still my creation, birthed by my core, yet now they possessed a will of their own.
Behind Natasha, I watched the Deadwood slip into Krakos' harbor, each careful movement guiding us through the crowded tangle of ships. Up on the main mast, in the crow's nest, Venessa directed us towards the far end of the harbor. There, we eased the Deadwood into a secluded berth, hidden from prying eyes.
By the time we finished securing the ship, I figured I would have seen some sort of reaction—at least from the city, or the harbor authorities. No one came to collect the docking fees, so I left Natasha aboard to keep the ship secure and prepared.
We moved through the port without incident, though I sensed countless eyes following our every step as we neared the Wave-Mother's sanctuary. The sight of her monastery sent a pulse of warmth through me, a quiet welcome—as if I were coming home.
As we approached, the doors swung wide to reveal a Mer Shaman. They stood patiently, speaking only once we reached them. 'Welcome. We have been expecting you."
The Mer Shaman turned without another word, gliding ahead with a grace that made no sound on the polished coral floors. We followed him into the monastery's inner halls, where grandeur and warmth intertwined in a way I hadn't expected. Towering pillars of living coral arched overhead like frozen waves, their surfaces etched with prayers that shimmered faintly in the filtered light. Yet between those pillars, monks moved with gentle purpose—carrying baskets of sea herbs, tending to tide‑pools built into the walls, lighting soft blue lanterns that filled the space with a calm, oceanic glow. The air smelled of salt and warm stone, familiar and comforting. As we walked, the Shaman led us through a series of open chambers—each one a sanctuary of quiet devotion—until at last we reached a broad doorway draped in flowing kelp‑silk. He paused, inclining his head toward the chamber beyond. "The High Priest awaits."
Inside the chamber sat a pool, wide enough to hold a creature from the depths. In its center, perched atop a stone island, sat the High Priest. His form was unmistakable even from this distance, confirmed only as his wings slowly folded from his back
"An Aerm," I whispered in awe. "The Storm Riders… the only race capable of flight." I watched the High Priest as he took off, powerful beats of his wings lifting him from the ground. He shot across the pool in a blur, landing before us in a cascade of feathers.
The High Priest's form was a fearsome blend of land and sky. Talon-like feet gripped the stone, while clawed hands flexed with a quiet, lethal precision. His head, sleek and sharp like a sea hawk's, scanned me with piercing eyes, every movement a study in predatory elegance.
As I stared in awe, I couldn't help but say, "My family had dealings with an Aerm clan. I haven't seen your kind since my vacation started."
With a chirping laugh, the High Priest said, "I am High Priest Stormsong. Welcome home, Uncle. Before you speak, wade into the pool amd all will be revealed."
With growing confusion, I stared at the now-silent Stormsong, my gaze drawn to the rippling water of the pool. I stepped slowly, letting the cool water lap at my feet before wading deeper. When my head slipped beneath the surface, darkness swallowed me.
I slowly came to, wrapped in a familiar comfort as gentle creaks drifted through the air, coaxing me back toward sleep. This was the Deadwood—but I knew it couldn't be. It had to be a dream, or something close to it. Someone, or something, had been watching me to know this much, and I intended to find out. With a sharp movement, I threw off the covers and barged straight out onto the deck.
The sight outside took my breath away. As far as the eye could see stretched an endless, gentle ocean. Puffy white clouds dotted the sky on an otherwise perfect day. The only sound was the waves softly striking the ship's hull, carried on the wind's embrace.
At the prow of the Deadwood stood a figure—or perhaps a forming one. A great tendril of seawater rose from the deck, slowly solidifying as it shaped itself into a beautiful female form. I was left captivated as she finished forming, a warm sensation beginning to pass through me.
I stood there dazzed until she spoke, her words shaking my very core.
"Welcome home my son."
Shock rooted me in place. I could do nothing but stare as she continued, her voice carrying the steady rhythm of the tide.
"I am Thessora, the Wave-Keeper, your mother… one of them, at least." A faint, knowing smile touched her lips. "And now that you're finally here, I will tell you everything."
Aboard the Deadwood, Scarf watched the Captain disembark. She felt no worry. Whatever dangers this place held, her Captain would endure them. Her thoughts shifted instead to the Deadwood beneath her legs, the crew that moved within it, and Natasha, who remained.
Something stirred deep within her shell, pulsing in time with the Captain's steps. With every pace he took toward the Wave-Mother's sanctuary, the sensation swelled. As its intensity grew, an unfamiliar urge rose in her—to take stock of her pantry.
Scarf dropped from the mast and skittered across the deck, shell brushing the worn grain of the planks. Ropes loomed like kelp forests above her, boots thudded in distant rhythm, and the Deadwood's vibrations guided her sideways path toward the pantry below.
Scarf paused once, both eyes lifting toward the distant spires of the sanctuary. The pulse throbbed again, this time becoming a steady beat, like the tide itself marking time. Her claws twitched. Every vibration, every creak of the ship, seemed to whisper louder than before.
A gentle warmth spread through her, flowing down her legs and into the deck. The sensation was pleasurable, almost like being back home beneath the waves.
She set off toward the pantry once again, claws clicking like little drumbeats against the deck. A thrill ran through her, warm and fizzing, making her twitch her legs with giddy excitement. Every vibration beneath the Deadwood felt like a secret rhythm, every creak a playful whisper she couldn't help but follow.
Her pantry came into view much sooner than she expected. She noticed fewer boots and legs to dodge around—maybe she really had gotten faster. Then, for the first time, she bumped into the doorway, sending a tiny shiver of surprise through her shell.
Her surprise deepened as she scuttled inside—she'd grown taller! Her legs stretched farther than before, her shell perched higher, and suddenly the pantry felt almost within easy reach. She practically bounced with quick, careful steps, so giddy she forgot all about the pantry and darted straight for the kitchen.
Scarf reached the kitchen and froze for just a heartbeat, taking in the familiar space that now seemed perfectly suited to her. With her taller legs and higher shell, every counter, shelf, and cupboard was suddenly within reach. She could move freely, grab ingredients without stretching or hopping, to much, and navigate the kitchen with ease.
A happy little click-rattle ran through her claws as she darted from shelf to counter, arranging tools, inspecting jars, and tapping spices just for the sheer fun of it. Everything she needed was exactly where it should be—or rather, exactly where she could reach it now.
For the first time, the kitchen felt like hers, a playground as much as a workspace. And Scarf could hardly contain her giddy excitement, scuttling in circles, claws raised in a little triumphant gesture only she could understand.
A sudden thump-thump on the deck made Scarf freeze mid-scuttle. Before she could turn, the kitchen door burst open, and Natasha came barreling in, eyes wide and hands on her hips.
"What on—Scarf?!" Natasha exclaimed, taking in the now waist high crab.
Scarf clicked her claws excitedly, her little shell practically vibrating with glee. She skittered in small, joyful circles, chirping a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
Natasha blinked. "You… you got bigger, didn't you?"
Scarf gave a tiny hop, claws waving. She pointed toward the counters and cupboards, clearly trying to show how much easier everything was now. The Deadwood's pulse still thrummed beneath her, adding a little bounce to her movements.
Then she felt it—a call, subtle but undeniable. Someone was asking her permission for something. Instinctively, every fiber of her being knew who it was. She didn't hesitate.
The decision made, warmth surged through her shell, and the world dissolved into blur. Natasha's prone form was the last thing she saw before darkness swallowed her completely.
The Deadwood itself began to pulse — slow at first, then deeper — rising and falling in perfect rhythm with the ocean's breath, as if answering a call only it could hear.
Far from Krakos, deep within the Nightweaver Stronghold, behind obsidian bars and shackled by ivory chains, a disheveled figure leaned against the damp cell wall. Shadows clung to the corners like living things, curling and twisting with the flicker of distant torchlight. The air was thick with the tang of mildew and the faint metallic bite of blood, yet the figure seemed almost… excited and worried, a restless energy coiled beneath their worn exterior.
"He made it?" she whispered to the shadows, voice trembling just enough to betray her worry.
From the shadows, a soft voice rose in a gentle whisper. "Of course. He has been under her care since the moment he stepped on the ocean."
With a flurry of hair, the figure whipped her head back. Her dark, almost midnight-black mane spilled around her shoulders, revealing a striking woman. A ragged laugh escaped her throat, sharp and wild, echoing against the damp walls of the cell.
The chained woman was left alone in her cell, laughter echoing off the damp walls. It didn't stop, growing louder and more ragged, until the guards began to mutter threats. Yet none dared enter. Even bound in ivory chains, this prisoner radiated danger, a presence that made the strongest men hesitate.
Only when a dark-robed figure, whose aura was steeped in death, stepped into the shadows did her laughter fade. Her wild eyes softened, and a strange, reverent silence took hold. Then, she began to sing—a haunting melody, low and trembling, a song of the ocean's dead rising from the depths, curling through the cell like a chill mist.
Even this figure dared not enter her cell. They lingered in the doorway, more confused than ever—this prisoner was normally silent. Yet now, her haunting song filled the air, and every note carried a threat they could feel deep in their bones.