Eden til Sinclayr

Eden til Sinclayr

Viscount of White Port
Character Profile
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ALERT TO ALL WHITE PORT CITIZENS.
ASTRONOMICAL ANOMALY IS ACTIVE. MODERATE TIDAL DRIFT WILL OCCUR FROM IMKISH 27 TO IMKISH 30.
TRACES OF BLIGHT PRESENT. REPORT ALL UNDEAD TO AUTHORITIES.
RIMROCK PIER IS UNDER QUARANTINE UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.


Twilight went on for hours into the night, after the sun had set. The moons' light, thrice full, were diffused by cloud cover, casting White Port in a static of grey. It was going to storm later. For now, the rain and thunder had not started.

Along the edge of Rimrock Pier, sailors and commonfolk gathered, arms linked and swaying. They chanted rhythmically above the sound of crashing waves. Some were weeping as they swayed, but many had a peculiar smile on their faces, looking hopeful across the dark currents.

Pale is the moonslight, dark is the Bay
Wave of the wand'ring, show them the way,
Ships ne'er returning, lost in the sway,
Bear up the dead, children gone away

Yellow light cut through the cold grey. A broad guardsman in a heavy duster held a lantern out as he stepped careful down the slick boardwalk. The coat was stained black from decade's worth of oil and wax layered over the leather. Behind him, walked Eden til Sinclayr in plain clothes and the smallest retinue she could convince Janin to let her leave the house with. They stopped just outside the crowd, because Eden had stopped to watch them. Her face was twisted into a look of disgust as she listened to the congregation chant. There wasn't a weaver among them. They couldn't seriously think they could banish the tide with a song.

"Someone explain to me promptly why these citizens are not following curfew," she said.

"They've gathered under the Law of Religious Observance, my lady. Quandary 352," the guardsman cut in. "Some sort of, new sect. We think they're under the Beloved Moon." Or maybe no moon at all, the uncertainty in his voice betrayed the thought.

"Which means we can't break them up by force," Eden finished for the guardsman, her tone flat with anger. She waved her hand in a frustrated command. "Find another way about it, then. I won't be responsible for a massacre when the dead rise."

The waters were rising already. The damp in the air was staler than usual, a thick scent of detritus sticking in the nostrils. Tongues of glittering black licked at the pier posts and seeped between boards. Rope and nails creaked under the newfound weight of the water.
 
There were several factors why Syr Monroe Cathmore of the Sanctum of Dawn could not fulfill an entire night of rest.

Firstly, despite the assurance that her room would block out a lot of noise, namely whomever is occupying the room beside her own, she could still hear and feel the wall vibrate from the loudness of the guest's snoring. At one point, it had gotten so loud, she had begun to suspect no human could make such a racket and still remain asleep.

With that inhibiting a peaceful sleep, the second nuisance reached her attention. Someone or several someones were caterwauling, the sound traveling upon the wind that battered against her closed windows.

Growing irate, for good reason, Monroe kicked aside her sheets and sat up at the edge of the bed. Her eyes fixed upon a spot on the wooden floorboards, where age and use saw some boards bowing and causing disruptions in the flat surface. She stared, considering her options as a long, exhausted expression weighed on her face.

Now, a third reason.

The knowledge that there have been reports of blight in the area. She was due to leave some time after noon, but that Knight's duty had her wanting to offer up her service to help.

If she was going to be of any use, she needed sleep... or the draught that kept one awake and going for some time, far better results than that of coffee...

The picture frame hung up on the wall shuddered before falling from the nail that held it in it's place.

"Fucking waning moons." She grumbled, standing and beginning to add her gear over her plain attire. "Gods damned gibbous moons." Monroe continued, louder this time, and her neighbour gave a snore that would wake up the dead and topple weak building structures.

It was time to leave this room, either to seek solace or offer a helping hand.
 
​
Boots cut quick across the surf that washed up the pits of the Cragpool Shanties. Swords hacked out, sure behind shields. Lopped heads from shoulders. Cleaved clean through skulls. Kicked in chest plates, rust eaten and barnacle marred.

Adamant as the dead were to storm the beaches of Whiteport, the souls of House Sinclayr would stand to oppose them.

"EEEP" a cry before the hard fall of dead weight crunched against the wet surf. "No, no, no, NooooOO!" begged a young voice against the ghastly rasp and gnash that threatened to bite their nose off.

The hard kick from a boot sent the shambler rolling in a rattle.

The hard yank of a sure grip pulled the young guard up onto their feet. Sword smacked into their arms, shield next.

"Try not to join their ranks too soon, guardsman," said Xanatos dan'Talos.

The young man looked up, all wide eyed. "Y-yes, sir,"

A grunt from the horned Loyal of House Sinclayr. "Let us continue the sweep,"

All along the Cragpools, guardsman hurried and put blade to whatever shambling dead they could find.

Only dregs in the moment. Easy to handle. But the Dead Tides never stayed easy for too long. Not when the moons hid their light behind the churning maelstrom of storm clouds.

Through the din of howling winds, the sharp whistle of the Sinclayr's silver whistles gave order to those still living.
 
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Flesh without blood was a frightening claw of fear that cut deep in the hearts of brave men. To saw at bone with swords meant to stab, to slash at drooping flesh, and get no satisfaction from the spray and squelch of blood was as cruel as the Blight. The gray haze did little to hide the horrors making their way to shore, as if they had heard a siren's call. Perhaps it was all the singing and chanting, the swaying and shaking along Rimrock Pier, acting like a shimmering, shivering lure to all the things that now belonged to the sea.

Limpid blue eyes were drawn from the crowd and to the clouds above, pregnant with the promise of rain. Rinrose's hand rested on the pommel of her bastard sword that limned silver beneath the soft glow filtering through the clouds. A hiss heavy with sea spray brought her gimlet gaze to a clump attempting to dredge itself out. It weltered from the sea, an aberration of decaying flesh, equal parts fin and fingers, seemingly harmless in its size. Pathetic in its meager movements, the sea toying with it like a cat did to a mouse, waves pushing towards the rocky shore to then only draw it back beneath frothy waves.

Thick, heavy winged kelp left from the low tide we draped over the black rock and pebbles, great swaths of purple splendid iridiscent seafood shimmering beneath the gaps of green. That which attempted to clamor over the slippery rocks covered in the ocean's harvest would skate along the pebbles and broken shells without grace. Whistles cut through the air like her sword, and if she strained her ears, beneath the din of a fool's hymn then Rinrose could nearly put together an order from a strong voice.

A waterlogged rat the size of a small cat had weasled it way between the rocks. It had three legs, half a tail, and only one ear. Something had taken a bite out of its face so bone gleamed beneath tufts of dark, matted fur. It's nose no longer twitched inquisitively, eyes blind from sea salt, whiskers useless when it was driven with a bloodlust too great for it's body. It choked on its bloodthirsty squeal.

"This is why I don't eat the fish here," Rinrose spoke through her frown, shifting her weight as she took hold of her helm between gauntlet and armored hip. Chainmail already framed her face, the helmet sliding over it perfectly. Deft fingers fixed the second layer of mail, smoothing it over her shoulders, the motion as familiar as flattening the wrinkles on her bedsheets. She remained a beason of silver at the backshore, her visor resembling a cage with few, thicker sized horizontal bars that cast a series of thin shadows across her milk-white skin.

She would not move yet, eyes still searching for a missing puzzle piece or a final answer -- whether it was spoken through mortal lips or from the primordial sea instead would not matter.
 
IMKISH 27, 1 HOUR WITHIN THE QUARANTINE ZONE.

RIMROCK PIER ​

THERE BELOW THE PIER,​

upon the shore, the bilgerat rammed its nose into rock and detritus. Compelled only by pain and hunger, it crawled blindly forward. And so also compelled, a shadow stalked above the rat. Soft paw pads carried the dark form across tops of rocks and along the upturned hulls of abandoned boats.

In one swift rustling leap, the shadow snapped its teeth round the neck of the rat.

Prize dangling from its mouth, the beast trotted along the shore. It dropped the still-twitching rat at the vigilant woman's feet. No longer cloaked in shadows, it now looked like a panther, short black fur glossy over a broad cat's frame. Around its neck, it wore a green collar with a brass tag.

THE BOARDWALKS ABOVE,​

creaked with the commotion of the crowd. To no avail, the city guards tried to break up the congregation. Questions and pleas were met only with the growing swell of song, as the tides rose. And with it, the ruined flesh of the dead rose too, rolling and grasping at wood and rope.

Fingers missing their nails smashed against the boardwalk. Sinew half-strung pulled a waterlogged form out of the sea. It stood, almost human in the shrug of its shoulders, glossy flat sheets of water sloughing off it.

The chorus gasped at once into silence. The guards, too, were startled to stillness, swords half drawn, afraid the scratch of their scabbards might drawn the gaze of the lightless thing. It did not look at anything. Its face and much of its left arm had blossomed into pale phalanges, swaying and rippling as if they were still under the ocean's currents.

A broad-shouldered man with one stiff leg broke through the line. He hobbled down the boardwalk, towards the drowned sailor. The others swayed sussurous behind him, grasping each other and whispering reverently.

"Rejoice! Your children have heard your pleas and are coming back home," cried one of the pilgrims. "Even in the grave, all is not lost. The sea returns our loved ones, the currents guide their way!" She was a middle aged woman, with russet brown hair pinned back against the humidity. She was not dressed in worker's clothes, like the rest of the crowd. She wore freshly washed white robes, with a belt of woven kelp round her middle.

"Bobby, is that you? Remember me?" The man called out to the corpse. "We were s'posed to sail to Nechon together. But I hurt my damned leg an' you went on the expedition alone." He stopped, arms out wide, welcoming. "We can go now, Bobby. I'm all healed up--"

Wet thuds, asynchronous in their step, lurched the dead sailor forward. For one breath it looked like it might embrace the man that greeted it. Then the swing came down. The man lost his footing, and the wretched dead fell upon him. No one could see the blood that splattered against the already-slick boards. No one needed to. The guard next to Eden flinched away, covering the emotion that flashed across his face.

A scream cut through the thick storm air. The crowd broke. Some were pushed into the water by panicked brethren. Others were pulled from below.

CRAGPOOL SHANTIES​

The first thread of lightning stitched across the sky.

A grey world flashed into stark black and white. White rock crumbled into the black ocean. Blight glistened like oil against the silvered blades of the guardsmen. The sleek dark shadows of the Sinclayr's hounds leapt for pale and putrid flesh.

Twilight fell once more over the shore. Thunder called out low and loud and something from the depths called back in echoing rumble. The waters just off shore swelled, displaced by the bulk of something leviathan. Fins cut through the suface of the water. Briefly, scales breached, dark arching ripples that fell invisble back amongst the waves.
 
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Eden til Sinclayr said:
"We were s'posed to sail to Nechon together. But I hurt my damned leg an' you went on the expedition alone. We can go now, Bobby. I'm all healed up--"
Click to expand...

She wove through the pressing crowd, listening to the voices speak in hopes to make sense of what was going on. Her eyes looks otherworldly when catching the light of torches lit, trained on the people she was navigating past. Alert, she moved as if she were on the hunt, ready to strike should a threat become known.

Monroe listened to the man, to his reasoning. She did not see what remnant he spoke to, but that memory died. Should have been put back down the moment it became apparent it was no longer living. Wasn't the time to pass judgement on those too baffled to swing their swords.

All too quickly, the crowd scattered. It was a frenzy; panic spread like wildfire and it caught many by the throat.

Monroe heard the sound of water swallowing unfortunates, the splashes unmistakable as she planted her boots to the slicked boards and weathered against the fleeing bodies. Her eyes stared ahead, to the dead thing that looked half chewed and preserved in the salt of the sea. It was ghastly. It was horrid to look at.

Fire. It was her first thought before someone knocked into her. Someone heavier than her. The moment she was no longer standing, she saw the feet carrying panicked beings. Copped one, two boots to the face. Quick treads over her limbs, and Monroe tried to crawl away, to find room to breath. Her fingers found gripping, and pulled. Her eyes peered over the edge of the boardwalk, a glimpse of water below. Thrashing bodies trying to swim, to get away...

Fire. She reached for it, using her shroud gift in vain the way she searched desperately, but her weaving was thinning. Her mind too caught up and unfocused. The dead, so many dead... and they were getting closer. She threw herself back, grateful the crowd was thinning. Monroe ignored the aches and sores, got to her feet and armed herself with her bow. If she could not muster a flame, then she needed to seek it out.
 
​
Run the dogs of house Sinclayr. Shadowed teeth snapping at undead limbs. Claws splitting open sea swollen bellies. Let out urchins and sea star stowaways. All flop and rush against the cobbles.

Cry the whistles of silver. Shout the voices of guardsman. Ram the shields. Cut the blades. Rip and tear. Thrust and cut.

Armor and discipline made quick of most horrors. Sinclayr steel in hand, only got you that much farther.

Three sharp whistle blasts. Threat close.

Xanatos turned to the guardsman around him. "Squad six, we move," their voice carried across the chaos like a whisper of wind along wave's swell. Stirred the surface just enough to move others to surge.

Commands barked by the sergeant. "Come on then, Sixers! We move with the Seneschal!

Flash the fork of lightning, and Xanatos could see it. Swelling through the waves. Its long body, a maddening wake rising from beneath the waves. Scales painted by the gloam. Fins scraping across the night air.

"Away from the beaches!" Xanatos bellowed out.

But it was too late.

Squads eight and ten were near the surf. Hacking down dead flesh. Stomping through exposed skll. Didn't see the horrid serpent's head loom in the crashing surf. Didn't expect the massive snake's head to snap out. Fangs the size of men sank into a whole man.

Sargent Casto. Snapped up and swallowed down in gulps. His men broke away. A spiny tail, flesh worm bitten, whipped out and slammed squad ten back and down and into the surf.

Xanatos stared. Blood red eyes on the horrid creature. "Sixers! Fallback! To the piers!"


The Sixer's Sargent, Wilfund, took a moment to gather himself. Eyes still on the men being so trounced and devoured by the leviathan.

"Sargeant!" Xanatos snapped. Cold and bloodless as the waves crashed and the screams of guardsmen rang high.

Sargent Wilfund nod. "You heard the Seneschal! Retreat!" Two short blasts of the whistle. One long blast.

Falling back.
 
She moved with purpose. A heavy step made of muscle and metal crushed the large rat's dismantled skull. The tang of salt mixed with the crush of copper, acidic and salty and sweet. Rinrose heard the commotion above and looked up, seeing people run, and yet if she turned her head toward the beach, she could see the lights slowly blinking farther and farther from the shore, like bloated fireflies.

"Good hunter," Rinrose said, digging her heel left and right before kicking the againwalker to the side. She felt better about leaving it alone, now that the brains had melted between her boot and the grainy sand until it was runny with clumps like curdled milk. She was no stranger to the idea of forced rest; a bad knee or wrist had been reason for her to sit out minor skirmishes, perhaps for her own good. The mercenary knelt, eye to eye with the large, powerful cat, the color of midnight.

More things skittered across the rocks and shells, and the waves continued their relentless song. She pulled out her necklace beneath her breastplate. The chain was bare except for a vial full of eerie blue firebrights. Rinrose shook it, having no qualms for the little shroud beasts inside the glass. The shore drowned out the murmur of their wings, but their light was good enough to light the nametag.

"May I take a look, good hunter?" Her visor wouldn't offer much protection against the thick, sharp claws. It was much better suited for the monstrosities with fingers shaved off from crawling about the seafloor. "In case I need to return you home at the end of the night?"
 

There Below the Pier​

The panther sat back on its haunches, well-mannered. A thick, ropy tail wrapped around massive paws, twitching slightly and slowly at the tip. Pale amber eyes met blue with changing temperament -- curious, then cautious, then curious again. When the hand was offer, the beast tensed up with a rear of its broad head. Black fur glistening green under the moonslight at the subtlest twitch of its neck muscles.

Gingerly, it craned forward, investigating the vial of firebrights with a noisy, wet sniff. Then it sniffed again, whiskers splaying out wider.

So engrossed was it with the inspection of the glowing critters, that it would not notice if any delicate fingers reached round and lifted up the nametag. Embossed in the metal, letters read:

COSMO III​

And on the back, a note was inscribed in smaller font:


REWARDED IN SERVICE TO
HOUSE SINCLAYR​


Cosmo the Third opened a mouth to reveal teeth and tongue as black as its fur. It tried to snap its maw shut round the blue vial, a hungry look glinting in its yellow eyes.

​

The Swell upon the Boardwalks​

"Get these citizens away from the shore!"

Eden's order echoed above the din, but few were in a position to follow it. The city guard were making a mess of things. One man's sword got tangled in his coat flaps. Another dragged a civilian down into the depths with him when he lost his footing. The crowd, too, did their part as they pushed for high ground, beating into each other and leaving behind the trampled and the torn.

The guards that had their caps strapped on a little tighter tried to form a line between the panicked crowd and the cold dark. They hacked at fingers and spines that clawed at the edges of the walk. Split bloated bodies open, and dealt with what spewed out. Shelled things with skittering legs and gleaming black eyes. Unwitting passengers from the depths, and part of the blight.

The rising tide did not wet the boots of Eden Sinclayr. She stood upon the stairs that stretched between the boardwalks and the cobbled streets above, watching the chaos below. Her retinue fanned down slick steps with steel drawn, pushing back anyone that got too near their Lady -- living or dead.

Someone broke though the crush. A woman, better dressed than the rabble, and armed with a bow. Stepped too close to the Lady Sinclayr. The guard captain brandished his blade at her, and barked an order to stay back.

"Wait," Eden commanded. "Let her through." Boots thudded down the hollow steps, until Eden was on the same level as the other woman. "You're a knight," she said with no question to her voice. Something about the set of the other woman's shoulders, or the determined furrow of her brow. Composure a cut above the sailors and mercenaries that usually stalked the piers. "Which House do you serve?"

​

The Shadow in the Shanties​

Another strike of lightning lit up the shore, thunder snapping close at its heels. Eden could see the scattered squads for one single painted frame, outlined in black. And looming above in coiling strength, a beached leviathan.

The beast shook its scales. Droplets of water spiraled off. Throat quaking, it let out a high-pitched rattling sound. Like a squeaky wheel, but booming enough to scrape bones together at every pulse of it.

The men on the shore staggered and stumbled, dropping their weapons to clutch at their skulls. Their screams mixed with the krtch-krtch-kreeee of the beast. Their ears bled.
 
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Squad Ten fell. With every thrash, and churn of the leviathan's bulk, as horrid as the sea itself, Squad Ten fell more and more beneath crushing currents. Men and women struggling against the surf beset upon by the rising dead. Dragged down to join the drowned.

Those that tried to flee were blasted by the terrible screech.

So far up the beach. Xanatos and Suad Six watched on in stunned silence. Standing on end. Skins frigid with chill. Even through all the layers of their armor, and the hard burned sweat of work.

Sargeant Wilfund "Ser, we may still be able to save some, if we but-"

"Nay, kill the thought," Xanatos ordered. Turned their eyes toward the pier and the rabble. Shamblers and fanatics swayed to their teeth, too hard to tell apart. "Send a runner. Inform Lady Sinclayr that there is need for the the heavy shroudring scorpions, to be deployed by the old magitech workshop on Pier Thirteen."

Sargeant Wilfund choked on the thought. The massive horror's screams still grating across his ears like so many serrated teeth. "Ronult!" he called out.

"Aye, Ser!"

"Go and tell her Ladyship, that Squad Six will be securing Pier Thirteen, and we request the heavy shroudring scorpions be deployed at said location!"

"Understood, Ser!" A snapped salute, and young Ronult was off cape snapping in the stormwinds.

Squad Eight hobbled back to the piers, ears bleeding and delirious, but largely alive. They moved toward the dark salvation that was Cosmo III.
 
A far friendlier beast than the ones that Rinrose would be meeting tonight gave a heavy sniff to the vial. The long, thick whiskers would have tickled her neck if there was not armor to protect her from even the most harmless of touches. Protecting her from sharp teeth and claws had yet to be determined, given the cat's size. Rinrose reached out, her movements precise, as if her hand instantly knew the shortest path to the nametag without touching the panther.

She heard the clack of teeth against glass and pictured her vial to be as fragile as an eggshell. Dogs knew to be careful when holding an egg in their mouth -- could the same be said of a creature known for its mercurial nature? Even as the beast, looking like a void with twin burning suns, tried to swallow the light around her neck, Rinrose was able to make out the name.

"Cosmo," she said. A quick flip of the metal tag. She smiled. "The third," Rinrose leaned back. She didn't dare think about pushing Cosmo from her. Instead, she moved and stood up. Rinrose pulled the chain up and over her helmet, ready to use it as a toy if it meant putting her in a certain cat's good graces.

All action from her came to a halt as soon as the wailing reached her ears. That wretched ear-splitting, teeth-grinding, bone-shaking screech that simultaneously wanted to force her onto her knees and spit out warm, acidic, yellow pile into the sand to mix with the salt. It drowned out the churn of the ways, of the stumbling of fools above her head. It was dizzying, dizzying enough to have Rinrose hold a hand to her bent head, the vial of firebrights swinging unsteadily as she seemed to sway to the heartbeat of the ocean's waves, like lying in bed as a child after a day of playing at the beach.

However much time had passed, it didn't matter. Enough had passed, and more undead were coming to shore. More horrors are making their way to the pier. When Rinrose turned her head, she thought she saw a horde of againwalkers coming towards her, wobbling towards the dock in their unsteady gait, bloodlust fueling their path. Rinrose held up her only source of light, seeing uniformed armor and faces that were exhausted but not dead. She looked down at Cosmo, and that panther, both sleek and strong as it blended in with the night and its shadows.

"I imagine there's more fun to be had above than below." She doubted the panther would enjoy her wit, and so she pivoted on her heel to make her way to the commotion above. Something told her that if she followed Cosmo III she would find exactly where someone like her wanted to be.
 
"You're a knight, which House do you serve?"

Monroe had been ready to use her bow to land blow to a guard's face before another caught it and held her still. She seethed, only a moment, but the voice that addressed her was spoken with such authority that her knightly duty made Monroe turn to the voice. There was something familiar about her, whether it was the face or the House sigils surrounding her lot.

"None." Monroe backed off and glared at the man still clinging to her bow. He removed his grip with his own glare. "I serve in the Order."

Her hand flew to her quiver, deft fingers curling around a bolt before clenching to pluck it straight out and nock the arrow. She lifted her bow swiftly, and loosed the arrow into the head of an againwalker that tried to pull themselves up onto the docks. Monroe stared at the space it's head disappeared, and seconds later they all heard a splash.

"Syr Monroe Cathmore of the Sanctum of Dawn." Her eyes molten in the torchlight flicked to the Lady. She performed a slight bow, one that kept her sharp of their surroundings and was sure a deeper bow would be done if they were not in safe.
 
A knight with no House, and a haughty glare from the woman who expected Eden to know which order was The Order. She'd heard rumors of hedge-knights with no master wandering the North, and illegal rings of weavers who operated outside the Towers' shadow. Romantic figures, saving smallfolk and blessing heroes with strange gifts from the forest.

The knight's bow was raised with purpose, and an arrow whistled past Eden. Landed with a squelch into something unalive behind her. She did not turn to look at what it could be. The guard captain would do that for her, stalking to the edge of the docks and peering into the dark waters, to make sure it stayed down there.

"Good shot," he mused, but nobody was near enough to pay attention to him.

Syr Monroe Cathmore of the Sanctum of Dawn.

"Never heard of it," Eden admitted, hoping that Syr Cathmore wasn't one of those ascetic hedge-knights from the stories. Last thing she needed was a for-the-people type running around thinking they knew best how to help. There was nothing that helped against the tug of the tides.

"Lady Sinclayr!" a footman called out before she could introduce herself to the Syr. Saltwater dripped from the boy's short-cropped bangs and into his eyes. "The Seneschal is requesting the use of the Scorpions at Pier Thirteen!"

Eden scowled at the boy, though she was looking some ways past him. "Does the Seneschal care not for the damage report I'll have to write?" Lighting up one of those things in the middle of a shroudstorm... she was already drafting the report in her head.

IN CONFESSION TO THE INFORMAL REQUISITION OF THREE (3) SCORPION CLASS WARMACHINES:
NON-STANDARD PROCUREMENT OF CROWN EQUIPMENT DEEMED NECESSARY BY XAN VISCOUNT EDEN SINCLAYR AFTER INFANTRY PROVIDED INEFFECTIVE AT CONTAINING SHROUDBEAST CLASS: [UNKNOWN] SCALE: LEVITHAN.

The scream of the beast shattered her hesitation. Eden squared her shoulders. The wind flapped at her coat tails, warm and insisting, buzzing with shroud. "Captain Audri," she commanded. "Take your men to the blockades and light the fires. We need to keep that thing on the shore for as long as possible."

The guard captain's grim, square face only nodded once in aknowledgement. This time there was no wasted action, as he barked orders at the other guards and got them moving. Only the set of his brow and the red rim of his eye showed the dark thought: It would be he and his men standing between the beast and the rest of the city.

Eden turned to the knight again. "You," she said, then stopped herself. Made her tone softer, a little nod of her own. "Syr Cathmore, if you care anything for the plight of these people, come with me. We could use a decent pair of eyes."

THE SCORPIONS​


The next crack of lightning opened the sky up. Rain fell as daggerpoints, long and steely with the weight of the storm. All other sound washed away in the thud of heavy droplets against leather tarps, wooden piers, and tile roofs. Men shouted in vain through the torrent as they dragged the Scorpions down cobbled streets. Wheels caught every pothole and splashed every puddle. Boots slipped and bodies stumbled, but the pier was in sight. They heaved all the harder.

Survivors flocked to Pier Thirteen. (Amongst them, a whiskered shadow, which fished between the pilings below the docks.)

Shipment crates and market carts were being stacked in barricade against the seeking, sundered dead. Further out, the first fires crackled to life, lines of gold guarding the street from the dark shores. Stubborn against the rain, fed by magic and burning hot enough to melt the blighted and the waterlogged.

Along the pier, the strange shapes of shroudcraft hunched, half-erected. A nest for the scorpions: anchors and tethers made to keep the shroud from tearing, or the scorpion's venom from seeping into its weilder. Eden stepped from place to place amongst the equipment with the stuttering, hurried step of a foreman asking everything of her crew.

"Get these tethers all the way to shore," she said as she grabbed a length of heavy braided fibers and heaved, rattling more of the rope out of its copper casing. The rope would not have budged against her strength, were it not for the three sailors pulling it behind her. She stumbled forward into the the rain as they continued the work, pointing at a spot below the pier where the rocks broke to sand. "The dampeners need to be in the ground -- as deep as you can dig them!"

AND THE SEA​


The beast coiled. Its pale, bulbous eyes were cloudy with blight, gazing sightless at the men and women left behind, still fleeing. A grind of scale against rock, and thrash of tail in the foamy surf took it further up the shore. Someone's dinghy, turned upside down to weather the storm, splintered under its bulk.

It cared not for living nor dead as it went, snapping at either with severing fang. Reckless in its movement, following a path that only it knew.

When the first fires rose up, the serpent hissed against the heat. Its nose dove low, the bulk of its body churning behind it to steer towards the light.

Standing tall behind the first of the barricades, the guard captain raised his hand. The men behind him readied bow and crossbow, aimed at the beast.

Waiting until they could see each scale on the levithan's belly, and the firelight reflected in its milky eyes.
 
The silence of bones was natural, but nothing about this night could belong to the mundane and the uncreative. The creaking and cracking they made against each other, as cartilage had been ground into dust, was an unsettling gift. The vial of light in one hand, Rinrose drew her bastard sword, turning her face to a body that had fallen off the pier. She had just reached the wooden steps that would lead her to the top. She could have run away because she was faster than the shuffling againwalker that must have broken an ankle or a knee on its way down. The steps wouldn't stop its pursuit of her, though it would slow it down. It could be someone else's problem, not hers.

Rinrose had never raised her sword against something she didn't mean to harm. She shifted her body to face it head-on. It staggered, unable to walk straight, its head swaying back and forth, hands with missing fingers reaching out. There was something attached to its arm; it looked like an eel, but soft and fleshy instead of sleek and leathery. Raindrops splattered against her helmet. When the wind changed, she felt it against her brow: one drop, two drops, three.

Quick step forward, and the steel of her sword reflected the blue light of the firebrights, illuminating her irises like bright silver-blue fish circling a dark pool. Her blade was brought down, slicing through bloated flesh that deflated against the frame of bone like a rotten apple. Her sword broke through the clavicle and got caught in the sternum. Usually, this would have put any man falling to his knees.

All the againwalker did was gurgle out a moan or a growl, whichever it was didn't matter. It lunged for her, leaning forward. She kicked at its soft gut, pulling her sword out like pulling floss through teeth. Rinrose raised her sword again as the undead fell back, sitting in the sand like a clumsy toddler. This time, she brought her blade down on its head, hearing the crack of steel through skull. It twitched and moved, groaning loudly as it twisted itself to its side to try and get up. Its hands sank, thighs wobbling, mouth still agape and hungry despite the sword sticking out of its head.

It was harder to pull out. Rinrose used both hands, stepping to the side to swing it up and over her head, green decaying brain matter flying off it and falling behind her. The thing was on its hands and knees, unable to push itself up. It wasn't long until it gave up and started crawling towards her. It was a sight that Rinrose was used to seeing, though never before had such a thing crawled towards her. She knew it didn't seek forgiveness nor intimacy. She would still be merciful. This time, when her sword came down against the wretched creature, she aimed for the nape of its neck.

This time, the body didn't reject her blade. Its head lolled against the sand, lips and tongue moving for a moment longer than Rinrose liked. The eel, half-merged to its arm, still squirmed against the sand, mouth opening and closing. Rinrose didn't take any chances, lopping off its head like her mother would do when preparing catfish. She raised her head, seeing a pair of eyes looking at her, a body stuck against the craggy rock, but still trying to move as if it thought it could still get to her. Who knew how many other things were in the pier's shadow, waiting for a chance to strike.

There was a rumbling unlike any she had heard before. She looked to the panther.

"Quickly." She breathed, dashing now towards the stairs. Rinrose climbed the wooden stairs, each step crashing out towards the night. Boom, boom, boom, went below her boots. Bang, bang, bang, went above her head. Clank, clank, clank cut through the shouting, the screech of wooden sliding against wood, the roar of flame against the chilled salt. She heard the levithan behind her, sickly sweet siren song that better suited the ugly fish that lived without light as if it were forbidden. She saw the scorpions being prepped, a wall of crates, and fire to fight the fog. She didn't stand still for long.

"The dampeners need to be in the ground -- as deep as you can dig them!"

"Below the pier are undead." Rinrose only raised her voice to be heard against the commotion. "Anyone who goes down there will be vulnerable, especially if they're expected to dig deeply." The rain didn't clean everything off her sword. "Sand becomes stubborn when wet, which could make it harder to dig. I can help protect them, make sure they're not sacrificing everything by going down those steps."
 
Eden til Sinclayr said:
Eden turned to the knight again. "You," she said, then stopped herself. Made her tone softer, a little nod of her own. "Syr Cathmore, if you care anything for the plight of these people, come with me. We could use a decent pair of eyes."
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It did not matter if not one person recognised where she heralded from or what Order she served, having anonymity was a grace Monroe would take. This woman did not need to be convinced of rank or title, not when Monroe showed her worth with the trust of her bow and the song of her arrow.

She followed not out of knightly duty, but because she knew deep down she was never going to turn her back on letting abominations walk freely. The undead were a contagion, and the faster they were eliminated, the sooner this town could return to everyday life uninterrupted.

The rain grew relentless, pelting with droplets heavy with a steel like bite against her face. Her cheeks were near numb from cold, the wind not helping her braid from whipping in it's drenched state.

Her decent pair of eyes were truly being tested. No matter where she looked to the sky, no break in cloud cover gave anyone hope the rain would cease.

Monroe knew her place, she was not a knight that swore service to this Lady Sinclayr and stood on the outer flanks of her armed guard. The leather of her shooting glove almost made drawing difficult, but she was seasoned as an archer. Monroe knew how to carry herself, to pull the weight back just so and not be bothered by the swelling of her leather covered fingers. They had a target, all of them that were in possession of a weapon that shot bolts and arrows, Monroe was amongst them.

A beast coiled beneath waves that crashed, and with the rains thrashing in sheets against the archers, it was hard at times to tell if they saw scale or if it had been the whitecaps of the sea. The only way they knew where the sea serpent's head was when it's eye caught the glow of fire.

"Hold!" Came the command, and as one unit, they each held their breath.
 
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