Ten years had honed my isolation into an art, and I had shaped this small island into my own private paradise. My mastery over Nature rivaled the long-forged power of my Death affinity. I seldom used one without the other anymore, guided only by the framework my family had left me. Over the past decade, I had honed my skills until they became second nature.
Instead of the pasty, bright-eywd youth that arrived, my skin was now bronzed and weathered, kissed by sun and salt, with faint scars tracing the lines of muscles honed by climbing cliffs and diving reefs. Dark hair fell in tangled waves, streaked with sun-bleach and the occasional ribbon of seaweed, framing a face sharp and alert. My eyes were the restless color of storm-tossed water—gray, green, and blue all at once—constantly scanning, calculating, alive. Lean and strong, every movement flowed like the tide, fluid and effortless—a predator of both land and sea, molded by a decade of solitude on this wild island.
I crouched at the jungle's edge, watching the same sand I'd first touched a decade ago. Everything that washed ashore seemed to gravitate here, as if the beach itself were drawing it in. The local horde of giant crabs was already at work, stripping the newest arrivals to the island. A tap on my shoulder drew my gaze to a very strange sight—one I had long since grown accustomed to. The massive eyes stalk of the horde's leader swiveled toward me, unblinking and commanding.
"Something wrong, Gulp?" I ask the crustacean.
The crab motioned me to follow. I came upon a body, the smaller crabs forming a perfect circle around it, their eyestalks swiveling in unison. It looked almost ceremonial, like a court convened for judgment—or entertainment.
"Ah, another one… thanks, Gu—" I started, then froze as my senses swept over the body. Panic spiked, and I bolted toward it as fast as I could. When I reached the figure, I dropped to my knees, hands trembling, searching desperately for a pulse—and then, relief and disbelief hit me: she had one.
The crabs dispersed the moment I took over, scattering like obedient shadows. I'd never really practiced healing on anything other than myself or the local beasts, and I didn't want to risk trying in this environment. Carefully, I wrapped her in my Essance, letting it cradle her gently, and moved quickly toward my sanctuary.
The jungle opened into a hidden cove, its mouth half-concealed by jagged rocks and thick vines. A rough-hewn dock jutted into the water, leading to a warehouse-like structure built from driftwood, salvaged timbers, and whatever materials the island had offered. Beyond it, my ship floated gently, tethered and ready. Skeleton creations moved about with quiet diligence, performing their duties with the precision of the undead.
Inside the captain's quarters of my ship, I laid her gently on the bed. Only then did I allow myself to fully focus, pouring my Essence into her, feeling the fragile pulse beneath my hands and guiding it toward life. I stopped once her pulse steadied, content to let nature take its course. With a heavy sigh, I stepped out onto the deck.
I made my way to the wheel, letting my hands rest on the worn wood as I took in the familiar contours of the ship. Then I wandered the deck, moving from bow to stern, letting my mind drift to its reconstruction—how the longer I worked, the more effort I poured in, the blood I shed. It reawakened something long dormant: a vessel that had once been a proud military cruiser now given a second chance to sail. It was almost time to set sail. I had one final task to complete before departure… but a hiccup had arisen back in my quarters.
"I promise I'll do the ritual soon, Natasha," I said, seemingly to no one.
The ambient Death essence condensed into a ghostly form behind me. "I understand, Captain," came the disembodied reply. "I can wait untill our guest is no longer at death's door."
"Let me know when she wakes, would you?" I asked. "I'm heading back to the beach to pick up the last of the crew."
"Aye, Captain," came the reply as I made my way back to the beach, alive with corpse-cleaning crabs.
Only Gulp remained when I returned to the beach, standing before the now-clean skeleton formation, eyestalks swiveling slowly as if he were inspecting them. He clicked once, low and satisfied, and his gaze settled on me as I knelt beside him.
Gulp chirped softly in response, eyestalks tilting toward me before he turned back to the sea. As if summoned, a crab little more than fist-sized emerged from the water, a carefully bound bundle of seaweed strapped across its carapace. It scurried up to Gulp and stopped, standing as tall as something that small possibly could.
Gulp and the smaller crab faced one another, eyestalks moving in subtle patterns too precise to be random. Clicks passed between them, soft and rapid, layered with pauses that carried more weight than sound ever could.
I couldn't hear their words, but I felt them.
Pride, braided tightly with reluctance. Worry pressing against resolve.
The smaller crab's emotions rang clear and bright, unburdened by caution. Curiosity. Determination. A fierce, hopeful insistence that surprised me with its intensity.
She wanted to leave.
Not just the beach. Not just the island.
With me.
Gulp's responses were slow, deliberate, heavy with experience. The smaller crab's clicks came faster, spilling over with eagerness and resolve. Beneath it all ran a deep current of trust, not just in me, but in the path she had chosen.
When the exchange ended, the truth settled in my chest like a stone.
She was asking his permission.
I reached out, letting a thin thread of intent brush against Gulp's awareness. Not command. Never that.
"I will protect her."
The promise carried images rather than words: shelter, patience, return. The sea parting for her as it had for me.
Gulp was silent for a long moment. His eyestalks shifted toward the horizon, then back to his daughter. When he finally clicked, the sound was low and resonant, heavy with acceptance.
The smaller crab froze.
Then her emotions burst outward in a bright, effervescent rush that nearly made me laugh. Excitement. Triumph. A bubbling eagerness so intense it spilled into the sand beneath her legs.
She spun in a clumsy circle, claws raised, the seaweed bundle slipping and catching again as if even gravity had momentarily lost its grip on her.
Gulp watched her in silence. Pride lingered there, edged now with something softer.
Gulp lingered at the edge of the surf for one last long moment, eyestalks sweeping the beach before he finally turned and vanished into the waves.
The smaller crab wasted no time. She clambered up my shoulder, claws gripping lightly as if testing my patience, and nestled there with a confident chirp. Her seaweed bundle bobbed slightly against my neck with every step.
Together, we fell in behind the skeletons, moving in their slow, methodical procession toward the grotto. The sand shifted beneath us, the tide whispering against rocks, and I felt the weight of a decade of solitude soften just a little under the presence of this new life.
~
The first thing I noticed as sensation returned was the gentle rocking of the waves. Back and forth, slow, insistent, like a lullaby I couldn't remember learning. Even before my eyes opened, I knew where I was. A ship. Its timbers sighed beneath me, the faint creak of ropes whispering secrets to the water. The salt on the wind came next, sharp and bracing, carrying the tang of the sea deep into my lungs.
I pushed myself upright, knees wobbling, letting my hands brush against the worn planks beneath me. A sense of unease settled over me as I made my way to the deck. The wind tugged at my hair, carrying salt and the faint tang of iron from the ship's timbers. I paused at the Captain's Quarters door, taking a slow, shuddering breath before pushing it open.
The first thing I noticed was movement—silent, deliberate, almost hypnotic. Skeletons scuttled across the deck and dock, carrying bundles of driftwood and coiled ropes, their hollow sockets fixed straight ahead, yet somehow aware. Every clatter of bone against wood echoed faintly over the gentle slap of waves. They moved as one, a quiet, living machine that both unsettled and fascinated me.
My gaze drifted beyond them, and there he was. The Captain, tall and bronzed, moving with slow, careful precision as he gathered strange ingredients in a satchel.
As soon as my foot touched the deck, his gaze snapped toward mine. The air seemed to tighten, the faint hum of essance pressing against my chest. His eyes—stormy, sharp, and unreadable—locked on me, and I froze, every instinct screaming both caution and curiosity.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the space between us. Every sound—the creak of the deck, the whisper of wind, the soft shuffle of skeletons—faded into the background. And then something struck her, subtle yet undeniable: a pulse, a rhythm that resonated with the devotion she carried in her chest, the worship of the goddes she had devoted herself to.
Her breath caught. A shiver ran down her spine, not of fear, but of recognition—as if the sea itself had whispered a secret she had longed to hear. Every instinct told her to step closer, to see, to understand, yet a thread of caution held her in place. Still, she could not deny it: something in him drew her toward him, a current she could feel in the marrow of her bones, invisible yet undeniable, pulling her closer with the weight of tides she had never steered.
He straightened, letting the satchel fall to his side—he spoke. His voice was low, steady, carrying over the gentle slap of waves without effort.
"Welcome aboard the Deadwood, my name's is Nyth but you can call me Captain."
Her eyes widened slightly, taking in the bronze sweep of his skin, the calm precision of his movements, the faint scars that traced his muscles like maps of years spent at sea and in isolation. Her tongue felt thick, and for a heartbeat, she could only nod. Words forming on her tongue.
Then the world tilted. The rhythm in her chest—the pulse that had seemed to call to him—swelled too fast, too strong, and her legs gave way. Her knees buckled, and her vision blurred into waves of color and light.
Before she could cry out, the deck rushed up to meet her, and her consciousness slipped away, leaving only the gentle rocking of the ship and the whisper of the sea.
~
I watched as my guest collapsed from exhaustion. She shouldn't have gotten up yet, but being in a hostile area drives people to do crazy things. I shifted instinctively, catching her before the deck could claim her entirely. Her weight was light—almost deceptively so—but enough to demand careful attention. I adjusted my grip, cradling her against my chest as I took a step back, giving myself room to maneuver.
A pair of skeletons relieved me, carrying her back to my quarters with silent efficiency. With that hiccup settled, I headed deep within the ship, to its very center. Here, I would perform my greatest ritual.
At the very center of the ship, I began constructing the heart—a massive, intricate lattice of bone and driftwood, veins of enchanted rope weaving through it like pulsing arteries. With each careful movement, the vessel seemed to hum, as if aware of the ritual I was performing.
Beside me, Natasha's ghostly form shimmered into being, translucent and ethereal. She floated there, silent, her presence brushing against the edges of my focus, lending a strange rhythm to my work. Her eyes, though spectral, carried the same spark of life they had moments before, a reminder of why this heart had to beat.
I glanced at Natasha's ghost, her form flickering softly beside me. "Step into the heart," I said, my voice low but firm. "I need you there… it's the only way I can finish this properly."
She hesitated, a ripple of hesitation washing over her ghostly features. Then, with a subtle nod, she drifted forward, letting herself settle within the pulsing lattice I had built. The space around her seemed to respond, threads of my magic curling toward her as though recognizing their anchor.
I took a deep breath, centering myself. With her inside, the heart's rhythm accelerated, and I could feel the vessel itself leaning into the ritual, waiting for the final spark. I reached for the final ingredient, a Essance Shard. I had hoped to find another of it's caliber, to forge my foci, but those I found proved to be useless fu that task.
As the Shard was absorbed into the heart, it thrummed beneath my hands, each pulse reverberating through the very timbers of the ship. Essance hummed, a living current, coiling and stretching, as if the Deadwood itself were holding its breath. Natasha's ghostly form glimmered inside the center, and I could feel her essence merging with the rhythm I had built.
With one final, deliberate pulse, the lattice of energy flared—bright, warm, and unrelenting. My chest stuttered with the force of it, and when the light faded, there she was. Not a shimmer of spirit, not a ghostly echo, but solid. Flesh and bone.
She staggered slightly, blinking against the glow of the ritual's remnants. My hands moved to steady her, instinctively, though I barely needed to. The ocean's devotion that had guided her spirit now pulsed plainly in her eyes. She was real. Alive.
"Ready to set sail, Captain" she says.
I grinned, letting a low laugh rumble in my chest. "Aye," I said, voice carrying over the creak of the deck and the lapping waves.
Ten minutes. That was all it took to leave the island behind—and with it, a decade of solitude, and the quiet I had known as my own.
But now the ocean called—endless, restless, insistent—and I could feel its pulse in my veins.