#One is the undead captain of a cursed ship who carved his heart out of his own chest out of heartbreak

[minnesotamedic186]

@color-cacophony

How does one confuse these two with each other-?/lh

[darkelfshadow]

Session Summary - 110

AKA “Escape From Phlan”

Adventures in Taggriell

Session 110  (Date: 28th May 2021)

Players Present:

- Bob (Known as “Sir Krondor) Dwarf Male.

- Paul (Known as “Labarett”) Elf Male.

- Travis (Known as “Trenchant”) Human Male.

- Arthur (Known as “Gim”) Dwarf Male.

Absent Players

- John (Known as “Ragnar”) Dwarf Male.  <Played by Bob>

- Rob (Known as “Varis”) Elf Male. <Played by Paul>

NPC

- (Known as “Naillae”) Elf Female. <Controlled by Travis>

Summary

- Moonday, 8th Sarenith in the year 815 (Second Era). Late Summer.

- The party begin this session, still underground the captured city of Phlan.

- Captain Greycastle shows the party the secret exit to the Valhingen Graveyards and then goes back to retrieve the refugees to get ready for their evacuation, hoping the party can make a clear way ahead before Vorgansharax destroys the city. 

- The party enter one of the secret doors and follow a long passageway that goes under the river to eventually exit out via a set of stone steps into the Valhingen Graveyard; the muddy footsteps of the Black Knight visible the whole way. Exiting to the outside and sneaking through the Graveyard, the party ignore the set of muddy footprints left by the Black Knight and instead proceed towards a pair of metal gates in the tall metal fence that the party will need to breach for the refugees to escape.

- As they are sneaking through the silent graveyard, a creature appears from an open mausoleum. Its grey skin barely conceals bones as an ancient faded robe drapes over it. The red intelligent eyes lock onto the party with malice, “More intruders I shall have to deal with.”

- Before the Crypt Thing can do more, Ragnar raises his holy symbol of Truesilver and commands the undead creature back. Rays of light shine forth from the symbol and the Crypt Thing is forced back.

- The party push their advantage against the now cowering Crypt Thing but their situation becomes dire when hordes of undead Cursed Skeletons start running towards them from two entrances on a nearby Funeral Building.

- The party are forcing their way their through to one of the closed fence gates but the appearance of a group of Mummies from a cluster of small mausoleums throw the party’s plans into chaos. The gaze of Mummies is strong and eventually Varis is paralysed by Mummy Fear.

- The Crypt Thing, unable to overcome the power of Ragnar’s Turning is brought down and dispatched by the party.

- The Skeleton horde does not relent and the party are becoming desperate for what to do. Sir Krondor yells at Sir Zern to follow him and protect his back, whilst the Dwarf Knight runs towards a pair of Crypt Buildings that the muddy footprints of the Black Knight lead to.

- Trenchant yells at the Knight to come back and hold the line, but Sir Krondor is intent on getting to those buildings and finding out why the Black Knight went there. He knocks aside a pair of Skeletons in his way, as Sir Zern batters away a Skeleton coming from the side.

- The party are in peril. Varis is unable to move, paralysed with fear. Gim is wounded badly and fighting single handedly against a group of Skeletons and Mummies intent on bringing him down. Trenchant is firing arrows into the Horde from afar, perched a top one of the mausoleums. Ragnar is firing spells and cleaving with his Sun Blade whilst he calls down upon his God for assistance, turning some of the Mummies away. Naillae is sneaking into the battle, ducking in and out of buildings, trying to pick off foes one by one. Labarett is slowly striking down enemies but his longsword “Anarchic” is unable to deliver its full potential, the undead foes resisting the necrotic damage.

- Sir Krondor and Sir Zern leave the sounds of the frantic battle behind them as they enter into one Crypt Buildings trying to figure out how to block off the entrances the Skeletons are using. Sir Zern looks inside an open coffin, where the muddy footprints lead up to, and sees a glowing Pendant of Sarenrae, Goddess of The Eternal Light and the Healing Flame. The Half-Orc Knight picks up the pendant and a voice like clear crystal fills his head, “Strike forth my champion, bring forth the light!”

- This must have been what the Black Knight used to get through the Graveyard.

- Sir Zern places the pendant around his neck and then moves over to an adjacent room with a similar but closed coffin and begins to open it. After Sir Krondor fails to close a metal portcullis with a rusty and broken lever, the Dwarf Knight runs and leaps up to the portcullis and forces it downward with a slam as a group of Skeletons runs towards the now closed gate, bony fingers clawing at the metal bars. One of the ways for the Skeletal Horde is now closed. 

- Sir Zern shouts to Sir Krondor, “My Banner Lord, catch, I found another pendant!”

- Sir Krondor grabs hold of the pendant of Sarenrae in the air and also hears the same voice, “Strike forth my champion, bring forth the light!”

- The two Knights start running back towards the party, now each glowing with a radiant light. The undead all shy away from the pair, unable to stand the light. The Knights begin carving down foes with ease. Sir Krondor yells out, “Someone needs to close the other door or else all is lost!”

- As Gim begins to falter, surrounded by a mass of Undead, he yells out to Naillae, “Get to the other door now!”

- Naillae bolts out from her hiding spot, tumbles past a pair of Skeletons and dives into the entrance of the front of the other Crypt Building. She looks at an inner open archway and can hear Skeletons running her way. She pulls the lever next to the archway but it breaks off. She can see the Skeletons now, running towards her. She pulls out her Thieves tools with deft and skilled hands, and begins to pry and cut behind the lever, manipulating the mechanism. Just before the Skeletons reach her, with a click, she activates the portcullis on this archway and it falls down hard with a loud bang. 

- Both entries are now closed and no further Skeletons can arrive. With no further undead reinforcements coming, and the two Knights now wielding glowing weapons blessed by Sarenrae, the battle is finally won.

- The party see the city behind them begin to collapse as the magic thicket around it starts to crush it. Vorgansharax is flying above the city in circles howling in anger. The Black Knight must have succeeded in killing her two foes. Captain Greycastle runs out from the stone stairs, a mass of scared people behind her, shouting “We need to get these people out now!”

- Naillae runs up to one of the external fence gates and prepares to pick a rusty lock, when Sir Krondor walks past her and strikes the padlock with his climbing hook, smashing it apart. The gate swings open as the refugees of Phlan begin to run out to the open grasslands outside of the city.

- The magic thicket is ripping buildings apart and the weight of the rubble is starting to collapse down into some areas underneath the city.

- Eventually Vorgansharax turns and flies to the west, and as the Dragon does so, the thicket dissolves into dust. Phlan is badly damaged, most of the buildings are destroyed, except for the larger ones that are somewhat in tact.

- The two thousand refugees are glad to have survived and plan to restart and rebuild Phlan, as has happened before. The people of Phlan are a resilient and capable lot, and used to tragedy.

- The party leave with Madame Freona, Captain Greycastle and the Lord Sage and three days later arrive at the Frostskimmr where it is anchored further south down the coast. 

- After reuniting with the relived crew, Captain Lerustah orders the ship to set sail back to Crescent Moon. 

- The six day voyage is uneventful except for Madame Freona taking over the ship’s galley. She now insists on cooking all the meals for the heroes that saved her and she joins the ship’s crew. After eating her meals, no one complains.

- Wealday, 17th Sarenith in the year 815 (Second Era). Late Summer.

- The party arrive back at Crescent Moon, unloading the Lord Sage and Captain Greycastle. Not wishing to waste any time, the party head directly to the Royal Palace and speak to one of the Council members, Marshall Ulder Ravengard, of the Halfling Golden Regiment Army of Singbury. 

- The Marshall advises the party a force of about one hundred Cultists comprising Enforcers, Red Wizards and mercenaries, was spotted headed towards the Halfling village of Xonthal nearly two months ago. The Marshall was organising sending his soldiers to liberate the village, until a letter was received that changed things. The message is written by someone called Iskander and claims that he is with the Cult but has now had a change of heart. A group of Cultists and Wizards has the Blue Dragon Mask and is examining it at Xonthal’s Tower, an ancient Wizard’s tower hidden and protected by an arcane hedge maze near the village of Xonthal. Iskander claims he wants to defect and give the mask over to the Alliance. Along with the letter was a half pendant, that Iskander stated the party would know it is him, as he holds the other half. The Marshall believes an incursion by a small well skilled force, such as the party, will have the best chance of obtaining the Mask before the Cult can fly it away.

- The party speak to another Council member, the Archmage Tallous, to learn what they can about Xonthal Tower and the hedge maze. The Wizard Xonthal has not been seen for many centuries and no one knows what happened to him. He was researching and exploring conjuration and elemental evocation, so he had many elementals and genies around for company. The arcane hedge maze is very powerful, designed to keep people away from Xonthal’s Tower.

- The party immediately leave Crescent Moon, transported as passengers on the Wyverns of the Royal Scouts of Crescent Moon, lead by Captain Zahes who saved the party after they crashed Skyreach Castle into the ground. The start their eight day flight towards the Hafling Kingdom of Sinbury and the village of Tealeaf, the nearest settlement to Xonthal.

- Oathday, 4th Erastus in the year 815 (Second Era). Late Summer.

- The party arrive at the heavily defended Halfling village of Tealeaf. With a population of around a thousand, and with a Golden Regiment Military Post here of around two hundred soldiers, the village has many services.

- Captain Ricric Longbarrel, the Officer In Charge that the party were advised to contact, is not here but out on remote inspections of the forward boundary Watch Towers in the region and is not due back for five or six days. When the party complain about his absence they are reminded that the message was sent to the Council two months ago.

- Instead the party speak to Sergeant Tarwan, the Second In Charge. Whilst speaking to him, the party notice the Halfling soldiers on the defence walls and towers watching intently with spy glasses towards the north east. Sergeant Tarwan will not reveal what they are looking for, except two important people they have been requested to assist in anyway with their travels. When the Sergeant won’t speak further of the matter, as he insists it has nothing to do with the party’s current mission, Trenchant uses a Detect Thoughts spell to read the Sergeant’s mind, to learn that he does not know who these two people are either, as he is only following the orders given to him by the Captain, to pay very high respect to two well dressed Human strangers, and give them any assistance with gear or transport to help them on their way to the Halfling Capital.

- The party also speak to the local Cleric, Samia Lightwater Cleric of Yondalla, and purchase some magic scrolls from her.

- Gim drinks in the local, the Wayfarer’s Inn, and learns some information from the female Halfling Innkeeper, Paeni Havenbluff. She overheard the Captain say something about two special people will be coming through Tealeaf, royalty or something.

- The party commission some riding ponies and small carts, and a young Halfling stable boy, Esme, to look after feeding and caring for the ponies.  

<And as the party prepare their gear and themselves for the two day journey to Xonthal village, unsure of what dire fate has befallen the people of Xonthal, that is the end of the session.>

XP Allocation

Group - Combined (This is equally divided by the number of players who were involved)

Quests (Only quests that are completed or rendered undoable, during this session, are shown here)

- “From The Ashes” - Free The Refugees Of Phlan = 5000 XP

- Quest Milestone - Commence Quest Capture The Blue Dragon Mask = 500 XP 

Creatures Overcome

> XP Allocated (Note: Sir Zern now as a Follower does not count towards XP)

- Crypt Thing = 700 XP

- Mummies = 4200 XP

- Cursed Skeletons = 3400 XP

Individual (This is only given to that person and is not divided amongst all players)

Special Bonus (Outstanding Role Playing)

Nil

XP Levels and Player Allocations

Player : Start +  Received = Total  (Notes)

Rob : 155883 + 1478 = 157361

Arthur : 125846 +1971 = 127817

John : 120086 + 1478 = 121564

Travis : 142689 + 1971 = 144660

Paul : 132172 + 2464 = 134636

Bob : 145707 + 2464 = 148171

NPC (Naillae) : + (986)

[poeticsandaliens]

A Pirate’s Life for Me (Ch. 2)

I would like to make a request that someone who is a good artist please draw this pirate Stella for me because I desperately want an actual visual of pirate Stella. I just wanna see Gillian Anderson as a pirate.

AO3 link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11405793/chapters/25602801

Scully wound her way through the cracked cobblestone of Los Barriles, her right hand resting firmly on her father’s flintlock pistol. It was an exquisite weapon, hand-crafted in London and carved ornately into its handle handle a ship bested storm-ravaged seas. She would not call herself experience with a pistol, for she’d never had occasion to use one, but its presence at her hip comforted her, and—or so she liked to think—intimidated any would-be assailants.

After all, Los Barriles was not famed for its morals. The inlet town, built around a makeshift port only a few kilometers from Port Washington, attracted washed up sailors and buccaneers seeking to set their feet on dry land without running into the British Navy. Pirates were rumored to make port at Los Barriles on moonless nights, to fill their freshwater barrels in one of the area’s countless springs.

Pirates, Scully mused, were at once her greatest concern and the very reason she came here at this late hour. She’d had no encounters of her own with legendary scourges of the sea; all she knew of pirates came from Mulder’s legends and her father’s death. The Flying Dutchman lurked at the front of her mind, but she dispelled it—myths of the undead had no place in Mulder’s rescue.

Scully wrinkled her nose as she stepped over the threshold of the Blue Baron. The muggy tavern air smelled of salt and rum and decaying fish, clinging to her skin and sticking in her throat as she breathed. Three men stood off with rapiers on the second floor balcony. A rat scurried across the floor, and then a flurry of wings dropped into view and snatched it in glinting talons, carrying it to an empty table. A pale owl perched on a chair and promptly ripped off the rat’s head, its heart-shaped face staring curiously at Scully. Lingering in the doorway, she stared back, mesmerized—it was a fascinating creature, elegant and ruthless.

A sudden gunshot rang out behind her, and she stepped decidedly into the tavern. As she scanned for a safe seat, she brushed a smudge of dirt off her trousers—a practical item of clothing her upright mother had not been too thrilled that she’d purchased. Her mother always meant well, of course, and had been nothing if not the rock of her family, especially since her sister had passed and her brothers gone to sea.

Sitting down at the bar, she wondered if she’d ever see her mother or Bill or Charlie again. If she did find herself a ship and crew to chase down Mulder’s captors, would she live to lay eyes on Port Washington and the white cliffs upon which her home rested?

“Can I get you anything today, Miss?” The scraggly man behind the counter gave her a toothless smile.

“Pint, please,” she said, eyeing the murky, probably illicit bottles of rum and ale shared between the Blue Baron’s patrons.

“Of what?”

“Whatever’s closest.” She would need a little liquid courage to ask one of these sea-weathered men for help.

“Pint of rum, it is.” He slid it over the counter.

Scully took a couple gulps of the foul stuff. “Yo ho and a bottle or rum,” she muttered cynically, if only to disguise her apprehension. Drinking in Los Barriles at this time of night, she felt well on her way to becoming a pirate herself. Once, she’d vowed never to associate with the skull and crossbones—it had become a herald of death in her mind, ever since her father had been slain under its wrath. Desperate times called for desperate measures, of course, but she considered herself an upstanding (if proudly rebellious) woman. Even trifling with the sailors in the Blue Baron she would hold to her morals.

“So,” the raggedy barman leaned over the counter, and she could smell at least three types of whiskey on his lips. “What brings a young lass pretty as you to Los Barriles?”

“Actually,” she said, leaning away from his intruding features, “I’m looking for a pirate.”

He grinned, and his grey eyes swept the bar knowingly. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“My friend—a man by the name of Fox Mulder—was aboard the Macbeth, which left Port Washington a fortnight past. Last I’ve heard, pirates sunk the vessel and took him as their prisoner.” She hardened her jaw and wrinkled her brow, stubborn purpose settling comfortably into her typically soft face. “I aim to bring him back.” She reached into the pocket of her trousers and brought out a handful of doubloons. “Three are for the pint; the other five are for anything you can tell me about who sunk the Macbeth.”

The bartender scratched the stubble on his neck, then scooped the coins off the counter. “I don’t think I could tell you who,” he confessed, “but I’ve heard of a ship.”

“By what name?”

“The Claudius. A man passed through this morning, said the Claudius had destroyed a British vessel and taken its navigator aboard. No negotiations, no parlay. They just took him—doesn’t happen too often.”

That sounded promising. Scully opened her mouth but found herself interrupted before she could respond.

“The Claudius, you said?” A woman’s voice, classy and weathered, piped up from the far corner of the room. There, a blonde woman in a red-feathered hat rested with her boots propped up on a small table. Shaded beneath the brim of her hat, her face was all cheekbones and weathered poise, calculating blue eyes fixed on Scully. Her pint of whiskey trembled as two men began to grapple on the tavern floor.

“And are you familiar with that ship?” Scully asked, ignoring her stutter as she stared down the imposing newcomer to her conversation.

“Aye, I am.”

“Last I heard, it was sailing toward an impossible island, seeking an impossible treasure,” said the bartender. He turned back to Scully. “Maybe that’s why they’ve got your navigator friend on board.”

It made sense—Mulder had brought dozens of maps with him, most of them limited to the confines of reality, but some supposedly leading to mythical treasures and islands of the dead. Mulder had a reputation for knowing (and believing) every sea legend he stumbled upon. Scully always considered it her duty to keep his feet on the ground.

“Do you know what they might be searching for?” Scully asked.

“I know what they seek,” the woman in the corner said gravely. She got to her feet and approached them with a slow swagger to her step—sea legs, possibly, or the confidence of the world-weary. She was dressed in trousers and black embroidered waistcoat belted at the waist with a hip holster. (It seemed Skinner was right.) She sat down beside Scully and leaned close, her aquiline profile made harsher in the pale candlelight. “They sail for the heart of Davy Jones.”

Intimidated as she was, Scully stifled a snort. She’d heard quite enough about Davy Jones and the Flying Dutchman from Commodore Skinner that morning. Were the circumstances not so grave, she might find it funny that Mulder’s favorite sailors’ tale would be the motivation for his capture.

“Davy Jones is only a story told to frighten would-be mutineers.” She chuckled grimly. “‘Take me orders or ye be sent to Davy Jones’s Locker’ and ‘the Flying Dutchman will scavenge your soul from the depths of the sea’ and so on.”  

The barman seemed slightly horrified—or perhaps offended—and the woman rather amused, the corners of her mouth lifted into the slightest smirk.

“Have you ever heard the story of Davy Jones?” the barman asked in a reverent hush.

Scully arched her eyebrows. “Only the part where he cuts his heart out and buries it on some God forsaken island.”

“Oh, there’s more to it than that, Missy.“ He lowered his voice and leaned close to the two women. ” Davy Jones was once a ruthless young pirate by the name of Captain Philip Padgett Jones. He sailed the Flying Dutchman over these very seas with a crew of human devils, and as tribute to his victories, Pagett cut out the hearts of the Lord and Lady of every port he raided and collected them in an iron chest. For his beastly cruelty, he earned himself the nickname Davy Jones—the Devil Jones. But evil as he was, Pagett was also a gifted poet, and for each poem he finished he would wrap it around a human heart and drown it in the sea.

“For ten years, he terrorized these waters. But one night, he found only a woman in Lord’s house, and when he cut out her heart she revealed herself as the goddess Athena. The goddess was furious that Captain Padgett had abused his talents and defiled the poetry she guarded so fiercely.

“Filled with grief and remorse at having angered the goddess he worshipped every time he wrote, Pagett cut his own heart from his body and placed it in the iron chest. But Athena wasn’t finished. She cursed Pagett for his crimes, dooming him to sail the Flying Dutchman with the tortured souls of his victims until the day someone put the same knife through his heart that he used to carve it out. He could only touch land once every ten years, a penance for the ten years he sailed the living ocean. Now, alone but for the dead, Pagett truly became Davy Jones.”

Scully listened, wide-eyed, as the barman finished his story. Even if it was an old wives’ tale, she couldn’t help her curiosity, and this grizzled old man certainly knew how to captivate his audience. “Did anyone pierce Davy Jones’ heart?”

The barman shrugged. “I don’t know who would. According to legend, he who stabs the heart must take its place, sailing the Dutchman for eternity with spirits for company.”

“I don’t know,” the blonde woman mused beside Scully, drumming her fingers on the counter. “It hardly seems like too awful a fate.” Scully gaped at her, but the lines in the woman’s face told of the many hardships which informed her opinion.

The barman shivered. “Terrible, if you ask me. Imagine watching your brothers and sisters, your wife and children, aging and dying without you.”

“If you have none of those, the grief is spared.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Scully interjected decisively. “Everything aside, it’s still just a ghost story.”

“One day,” said the mysterious woman airily, “the truth of these tales might surprise you.”

Scully crossed her arms. “Who are you?” she demanded, tired of the nonchalance with which this woman had inserted herself into Scully’s quest.

The woman cocked her eyebrow. “Captain Stella Gibson,” she said, holding out a hand. “Stella to you.”

Tentatively, Scully shook it. “Dana Scully. Just call me Scully.” It was what Mulder called her, and she’d grown accustomed to it.

“And your friend—Mulder, wasn’t it—is trapped aboard the Claudius.”

Scully dipped her chin in assent. “I believe so.”

“Well, I can tell you with no small amount of certainty that the Claudius’s captain doesn’t give a rat’s ass whether you believe in the Flying Dutchman. He wants the heart of Davy Jones, and he won’t let something like rationality get in his way.”

“It’s a good thing I don’t aim to negotiate with him, then,” Scully said calmly.

“I’m curious what you plan to do, Miss—Scully, was it? I don’t doubt your fortitude, but one person is hardly enough to man a sizable ship, much less send it to battle.” Stella leaned her chin on her hand, elbow digging into the counter. She slapped three coins on the table and slid them to the barman. He left to fetch her another pint.

“What would you suggest doing, then?” Scully challenged. It wasn’t as if she could concoct a detailed strategy from some pub in Los Barriles. If she were being honest, she had a mind to simply sneak on board the Claudius, free Mulder, and sail home, but realistically, she needed a better plan than that.

Stella cocked one eyebrow. “I have a ship.”

“How lovely for you.”

“You could sail with me. I aim to pursue the Claudius myself, and I know exactly where to find it.”

She’d mentioned that something of hers was aboard the hostile ship, and Scully suddenly found herself quite curious as to what that thing was.

“And why should I trust you?” She remembered something Mulder had told her years ago, reading two contradictory accounts of a Greek pirate. Trust no one, Scully, he had said. Everyone had a bias.

“I never told you to trust me,” said Stella flippantly. “I’m simply making you an offer—we leave tonight, find the Claudius; I fetch my lost items, and you fetch your imprisoned man. I could use your help, and you could certainly use mine.”

“Don’t you have a crew?”

She shrugged half-heartedly. “My crew can only do so much.”

“Why me?”

Another half-shrug. “You seem competent. You have your wits about you, and you carry a pistol. Do you know how to use it?”

“Not particularly well,” Scully admitted.

“A sword, then?”

“I can effectively fight with a sword, but I don’t have one.” Her father had taught her swordplay when she was young, in case she ever found herself in trouble. This probably wasn’t the situation he’d had in mind.

“Well that’s easy enough to find.”

The barman returned with her pint of ale. “Here you are, Miss.” He beckoned for Scully to lean closer and pointed to a wiry young man a table away from her. He looked beaten, despite his youthful face; his tri-corner hat had a patch on the brim, and his breeches were torn at the knee as if from a knife.

“See him?” asked the barman. “His name is John Jack.”

“Quite a name,” Scully muttered.

“Says he’s got a ship and a crew ready to leave the dock. All he needs is a direction, and he’ll bring your friend back for you within the month.”

“Well that’s not going to do.” Scully lifted her chin. “I have every intention of being on that ship myself to see things go as planned.”

But the barman only laughed. “You’ve some spirit, Miss, and I can’t fault you that. But it’s bad luck to have a woman aboard, and you’ll find no one here willing to bring that upon themselves.”

“Oh?” Beside Scully, Stella fixed the barman with a cold stare. “I wouldn’t necessarily say no one.”

He looked skeptical. “Captain Stella Gibson,” he tried her name on his tongue once; then his own aged eyes met hers. “How’d such a woman gain command of her own vessel, eh?”

“Gunpowder,” she responded with a quirk of her lips, “like an upstanding pirate.”

Scully swallowed a mouthful of musky air. Perhaps she was in over her head, if her only ally was a proud-grinning pirate. But what had she expected in Los Barriles? Everyone here committed treason for a living. They were all pirates; if nothing else, she’d happened upon a smart one, who dared not underestimate her sex.

“And Captain Gibson,” the barman urged, “are you plagued with rotten luck?”

Stella downed the last of her drink. “That depends on who you ask.”

The tavern door burst open to reveal a burly, red-bearded man with a scimitar, who ducked his head simply to fit in the doorway. The room fell silent as he marched across the floor, creaking its rotten wood with every step. Fist-fighting crewmates froze in their places, following him with their eyes, and men around the tavern had their hands on the hilts of their sabres in case of a scrabble. Even Stella, leaning calmly against the counter, kept her sword firmly in grip.

He stopped in the center of the tavern, swayed for a moment, and Scully noticed the wildness in his eyes. He was likely just drunken and angry. He took a swig from an empty bottle of rum and turned a circle around the room. All eyes were on him.

“It’s here,” he croaked in a voice like splitting rock. “I saw it, I tell ye. I was filling barrels at the spring, and I saw it.”

Stella narrowed her eyes and leaned forward. “Saw what?” she asked slowly.

“The ship of demons.”

Scully rolled her eyes. All this talk of demons and curses and women bearing sour luck; pirates were a superstitious lot, clearly, for she saw no more evidence to support their claims than she had Mulder’s.

But the red-bearded pirate seemed genuinely spooked. Perhaps the sea was playing tricks on him, as it often did on these foggy nights. He had the entire bar on edge, as well.

“What ship?” Stella asked again, more sharply this time.

His lips trembled as he said in a hush, “The Flying Dutchman.”

Immediately, chaos erupted once more in the tavern, but it wasn’t a rowdy, lively chaos as before. This chaos was perilous, as every patron raced for the door. Gunshots echoed in her ears as one man blew a hole in the window and leapt out. Scully leapt behind the counter and crouched beside the barman as a bottle flew over their heads, the back of her red ponytail pressing uncomfortably against the wall.

“What do they think they’re doing?” she hissed. “Risking their lives to escape a mythical ship.”

“S’not a matter of whether the Dutchman is real, Missy,” said the barman. “They’ve heard tales, each more horrible than the last.”

One man leapt the counter and snatched handful of money from the box of nightly earnings. He glanced sidelong at the barman. “Get out of here while you have a chance!” he urged before jumping out the shattered window. The barman didn’t try to stop him, only sighed.

“They’re taking what they can before they go—to their ships or the afterlife, only time will tell.”

“Do you believe the Flying Dutchman is really here?” She couldn’t help asking—Skinner’s words had stuck in her mind. Perhaps the Dutchman, for all the tall tales it spawned, was a living ship commanded by living men. After all, what was the old saying—dead men tell no tales.

“I can’t say,” he confessed, but she could hear the panic in his voice. “But I seen it myself, once, back when I was a seaman. I woke up one morning, and through the dawn mist, I could see a ship with the pirate colors flying high. I readied the cannons, but when it got closer I saw only one man aboard. And the ship, it had crabs on its flanks like it’d touched the ocean floor. I went to the crow’s nest for a better look, but when I opened my spyglass, it just sank. Thought I’d just watched a man drown, but then I looked to the water, and its silver sails passed me, just beneath the waves.”

He shivered. “Don’t y'dare tell me I dreamed it, Missy. The water’s a lot bigger than you think it is; just wait and see. Y’don’t know what’s out there.”

Scully didn’t know what to make of the barman. Compared to the rest of this place, he seemed reasonable. “I suppose I will have—”

A rapier poked through the barman’s chest. A little scream escaped her mouth, and she clapped her hand to her throat. She grabbed his limp shoulders and shook, but he didn’t stir. His dark eyes were already glassed over when she slapped his cheek. Good God, she hadn’t even learned his name.

A pair of rough hands seized her by the collar. She looked up to the bulging eyes of the same young pirate who’d offered her his services earlier—John Jack. “Sorry, pretty lady,” he growled, “but I’ve got to take my plunders and run.” He pulled her toward him, over the dead barman’s legs. Her hands scrabbled at the floor; she reached for her pistol but found the holster empty.

“Looking for this?” The man taunted, waving her pistol in his free hand. When he sneered, his gold earrings flashed. His breath smelled sour, a mixture of whiskey and aged grime. It was the jolt of reality Scully needed. Gritting her teeth, she kicked with all her might at his knees. They buckled, and he released his grip on her shirt-scruff, stumbling backwards into the fray.

Scully crawled away desperately, back over the barman’s corpse, and scrambled to her feet. She elbowed her way through the crowd, searching for an exit. The Blue Baron was an absolute wreck, with men plundering goods left and right, killing each other over gold pieces and running into the streets, presumably to set sail.

“Not so fast.” John Jack grabbed her ankle, tugging her down. He still had her pistol, but by this point she couldn’t care less—her only want was to escape the fray. “Yer coming with me, if I’ve got to drag ye the whole way.” She kicked at his face, but his bony arms held surprising strength.

She lost her balance and tumbled to the floor. As John Jack reached for her calf, a black boot crushed his wrist to the floor.

“I would let go if I were you,” said Stella Gibson, and if she’d been intimidating before, she sounded now like the first claps of thunder before a hurricane. Scully got up while she had the chance and backed away from the pair. No use fighting without a proper weapon.

John Jack didn’t seem to intimidated by Stella, though. He flashed her a charming smile. “Sorry about that,” he breathed, tugging at his smashed fist. Stella cocked her eyebrow like a loaded gun and let him to his feet.

“What are you doing?” Scully whispered through clenched teeth. Stella gave no answer, but she’d drawn her sword. The owl once munching on stray rodents rested peacefully on her shoulder. Its head swiveled around, and its coal black eyes met Scully’s in some strange form of reassurance. So the bird belonged to Stella. It was a strange companion, to be sure.

When John Jack stood, he was a full head taller than Stella. Scully backed away until her legs pressed against a table. Stella did nothing, and John Jack winked cruelly at Scully over her shoulder. He raised the gun, but Stella didn’t budge. Apparently no pirate shied away from a duel, no matter the situation.

He cocked the pistol and pulled the trigger, and the shot seemed to bounce off every wall in the Blue Baron. Those who were still pilfering whatever they could find stopped and looked up. Scully could feel her breathing go ragged, as if the bullet had pierced her own chest. She had no sound left to scream with.

John Jack grinned his wild, death-heralding grin. He made for Scully, but like lightning, Stella had her rapier blocking his path. Her coat fell open, revealing a white bell-sleeved shirt and a hollow bullet-wound that did not bleed.

“Don’t waste precious ammunition,” Stella advised with a twitch of her misaligned lips.

Scully saw his expression shift from satisfaction to confusion to horror. He shot her again. And again. Two more hollow holes, no blood. The tavern looked on in a haunted silence. Scully kept waiting, in agony, for her to die—a part of her desperately hoped that Stella was as ghostly as she appeared, but her mind wanted only for the scene before her to conform to reason. She waited what felt like minutes for Stella to crumble, but she never did.

“You better die fast,” John Jack said, his voice shaking. The pistol fell from his hands. “Or your soul will belong to Davy Jones.”

Stella took a step forward. She pulled down the hem of her dirtied shirt. A pale, distinctive scar sliced brutally across the right side of her chest. “I am Davy Jones.”

Scully choked.

“Now return that pistol to its owner or you’ll be steering the Flying Dutchman tonight. And don’t think we’d sail to Heaven—eternal righteousness is rather dull for women like me.”

He picked up the pistol and handed it to Scully. She holstered it immediately, holding the anxious bile down the back of her throat. Then he fled into the night. Stella turned to Scully.

“I apologize if I’ve frightened you, Scully. You’re still welcome aboard the Dutchman, alive and healthy as you are.” Her eyes had lost their fire; they seemed to hold genuine kindness. They were living again.

“You’re Pagett,” Scully whispered, horrified.

“Absolutely not.” She pursed her lips. “Only Davy Jones. And, of course, Stella Gibson, which it holds that you may call me if you choose to come aboard.”

Scully moved her lips, but no words came out.

“Well,” said Stella, “I must be off, then.” The bird on her shoulder hooted, and the crowd parted before her as she strode out the door, sword still in hand. Her coattails were the last thing to vanish.

Frozen in time, Scully thought of the barman’s stories, of Stella’s—or Davy Jones’s—offer, Stella saving her life despite no obvious motivation to do so, and the advantages of befriending a captain who couldn’t be slain. Wasn’t this what she came for? To find a ship that would take her to Mulder?

Trust no one, Mulder had told her. She was fairly certain he had only meant the living.

She gathered her wits and marched after Stella.

[istrys]

The Vinterblot Pt 4

The Jester’s Folly sailed beneath the full moon, slowly rocking back and forth from the ocean's waves. Cleverly disguised as a merchant ship, the night shift remained alert for any potential ships foolish enough to sail in these lawless waters; but most of the crew were sloppy drunk or fast asleep. Rethandus spent a fortnight with his hands frozen to the bottom of the ship, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He couldn't bring anything that could risk the Defias Brotherhood from learning the Bloodsworn Vanguard was meddling in their affairs, so he had to leave his runeswords behind. He couldn't bring his armor either- not unless he wanted to risk losing his grip to sink like a rock into the sightless depths; he wore nothing but simple cloth trousers and armed with only the two frost runes carved into his palms. He wanted to wait until he was convinced they were too far from the shore to escape for help, but the agony twisting in his bones compelled him to act; time was no longer on his side.

Rethandus scaled the outer hull of the ship, freezing the seawater with the only two runes he had at his disposal. Eventually he poked his head out from the churning waves, keeping his stomach filled with water- just in case he needed to improvise. He found the nearest cannon door and carefully crawled through it like a pale, four-legged creature. Inside he found his first victims, sound asleep with the only source of light coming from a couple lanterns scattered around the corners of the lower deck. Rethandus expelled a handful of saltwater as quietly as he could, freezing it into a short but razor-sharp spike. When he lurked close enough to reach out and touch the first pirate of many, the soothing of his wretched curse began.

Rethandus tightly close his free hand around the human's mouth before driving the ice spike deep into his jugular; he opened his eyes wide from the sudden agony that ripped him out of his sleep, but he didn't thrash for very long. Blood oozed from both his gaping wound and from in between the Death Knight’s fingers, but his muffled scream was over almost as quickly as it began. Once Rethandus was sure he was dead, he slowly withdrew the icicle blade, freezing some of the pirate's blood to make his deadly weapon even longer.

 One by one they all met the same fate, and they all handled it mostly the same; mind-shattering agony, blinded confusion, burning hatred or hopeless despair, then silence. Rethandus executed more than twenty pirates in their beds, clearing row after row until he was alone again. The Undead Curse festering in his bones was well pleased, clearing his head and briefly giving him comfort; but his task was only halfway done, and he could not let this satisfaction distract him from the sole purpose of attacking these pirates in the first place.

 The upper deck was far more lively. The skeleton crew of the Jester’s Folly masquerading as merchants walked to and fro, keeping the ship set to course in the dead of night. Rethandus adjusted his newly acquired cloak and hat, choosing to remain incognito while he made his way to swab the poop deck. The pirates were too busy with their tasks to pay much attention to him, allowing him to walk freely atop the ship. He needed to end this massacre with the captain being the single remaining survivor, or he may never find the piece of treasure his master yearns for before their rescue arrived. Despite the moderate rain, a light fog began to roll in, indicating they were sailing too close to the Howling Fjords of Northrend; now was the time to finish what he started.

 “Captain!” a groggy pirate stumbled onto the deck, with blood on his hands and terror in his eyes. “The crew is dead! Everyone is dead!” Rethandus peeked up from under the brim of his hat to see a young human step forward; his fancy coat and jewelry dangling around his neck gave away his rank on this doomed ship.

 “Find the bastard who did this!” he bellowed, drawing his cutlass. “Search every inch! I want that assassin brought to me alive!” The Tauren Navigator and Human Helmsman gave each other terrified and confused glances, but they were just about the only two to remain at their posts. Rethandus slowly set down the mop and bucket he carried with him and approached the two from behind; he knew he had to spend his element of surprise on taking that tauren out first, causing him to focus his burning blue gaze on the ragged hide of the pirate’s back. The fog that drifted across the deck of the ship began to shift and writhe at the Death Knight’s influence, provoking the Tauren to turn around to spot him.

 Rethandus froze the blood in his left fist solid and poured every ounce of raw unholy power he had into a whopping underhanded swing; without his encumbering armor his strength was unchecked, allowing him to slam his frozen mallet of a fist squarely into the tauren’s chin with unrestrained fury. He struck him with the force of a frost giant, sending his teeth into the back of his brain while his eyes exploded out of his skull. What sounded like a pumpkin being obliterated caught the attention of the Helmsman, causing him to leap an inch off the ground and check what was happening behind him. “Wait… WAI-!” he barely had enough time to speak before Rethandus reached out and grabbed him by the face, shattering his nose from the impact. As the blood in his face and eyes froze, Rethandus drove his free hand deep into the pirate's belly, causing his fist to explode out of his lower back.

 The poor soul let out a blood-curdling scream, as planned. Every pirate aboard the Jester’s Folly looked up to see their Helmsman split in half, torn apart like stubborn parchment before a ghostly pale figure with burning blue eyes. “What?!” the Captain hissed, taken aback by such cruel brutality. “Kill him! KILL HIM!” A few of the pirates were able to shake away the shock of seeing their comrade’s violent death, drawing their flintlock pistols to fill the intruder with hot iron.

Rethandus still held the upper half of the Helmsman while he leapt off the poop deck, freezing the body in his grasp solid to shield himself; a few bullets whizzed past his head, but he felt most of them strike his frozen meat shield as he dashed toward the nearest pirate. Rethandus tossed the corpse forward, staggering his target long enough to get in close. The Death Knight struck him dead-center with his frozen fist, obliterating the pirate's ribs while sending him flying over the railing to plummet into the sea. Another pirate charged the Death Knight with a straight sword in each hand, only to be blinded with a blast of subzero seawater forcefully expelled from the Death Knight's stomach. He snatched one of the blades from the blinded human and tossed him carelessly over the side.

 The other pirates struggled to reload their guns, choosing to work with their stubborn weaponry instead of unsheathing their weapons to defend themselves. Rethandus brought his blade down, tearing through the cloth, flesh and bone of the next pirate's chest with minimal effort. Immediately he twisted the blade around and brought the blade back up again, cleanly severing an arm and a head from the rest of his body. The next one swung his bastard sword across from the right, but Rethandus saw the swing coming from a mile away. The Death Knight rolled low, faster than the pirate was prepared for; underestimating the undead proved to be a fatal mistake, as Rethandus shot up to his feet and buried his blade deep into the pirate's chest, piercing his heart before popping out of his back.

 Rethandus twisted the blade once the hilt struck the pirate's skin, ensuring this night would be his last; but he struggled to freeze his blood for reasons he didn't have time to think about. The second round of bullets burned holes through the body shield, piercing the Death Knight's chest and legs. He wavered but did not relent, instantly freezing the blood in his own body to dampen the damage. Three pirates charged him at once with their swords drawn, hoping to overwhelm him with their numbers. Rethandus ripped his blade out of his meat shield and turned to face his aggressors, instantly freezing the splattered blood and rainwater across the deck beneath his feet; they were caught completely off guard by the sudden change of the terrain, slipping along the slick deck to collapse before him.

 It didn’t take long for Rethandus to realize these humans had very little combat experience, if any; they hit him with everything they had, but they were weak, poorly organized and reckless. The Death Knight plunged the end of his blade into their heads one by one, leaving the three corpses to twitch uselessly behind him. One pirate was convinced this cursed elf was unstoppable, dropping his rifle to leap cowardly into the freezing black sea; with the ocean spanning out endlessly in every direction, it was clear he would rather drown slowly than face his executioner. Only the first mate stood in between Rethandus and his prime target. The frost runes hissing on his palms had been exhausted and needed time to recharge, just when he needed them the most. Rethandus stared at the first mate while the captain of this doomed vessel fled into his cabin. The pirate drew his rapier and dropped into his defensive stance the moment the Death Knight began to approach.

 Rethandus greeted his opponent's forward thrust with a lightning quick parry, nearly shattering both of their blades with his inhuman strength. The first real challenge aboard the Jester’s Folly sent the Death Knight into a frenzy at the thrill of this duel, but the scornful grimace spread across his pale lips remained unflinching. The human danced out of the way of certain death again and again, leaping back to gain a healthy distance several times to avoid Rethandus’ ferocity. But as the duel dragged on, the pirate's thrusts began to wane; his strikes became weaker and less accurate while his attempts to keep the Death Knight at a distance grew less effective. He stumbled back from blocking a lethal strike, causing him to collapse against the outer railing. Yet he continued to hold his sword aloft, seemingly prepared to continue defending himself. Yet Rethandus wasn’t in the mood for mercy. The Death Knight rushed toward the exhausted pirate with a surge of strength, slashing the human’s hand off to send his blade into the sea; he cried out in agony but his screams did not last long, for Rethandus drove the tip of the blade deep into his mouth to silence him. At last only the Captain remained.

 The door was locked from the inside, something Rethandus was strangely not expecting. With his runes still recharging he decided to use brute force instead, slamming his foot into the door with more than enough strength to rip it out of its hinges. What remained of the door was sent airborne, slamming into the Captain who was foolish enough to stand in the middle of the room. He staggered from the blow but did his best to keep his pistol steady, firing blindly into the debris in a hail-mary attempt to slay this monster with a lucky hit. Rethandus continued to walk forward with one frozen hand protecting his head, seemingly shrugging off the bullet wounds in his chest and shoulder; he side-stepped out of the third shot, swatting the weapon out of his hand with a vicious swing. The human unsheathed a hidden dagger from his boot to thrust deep into the Death Knight’s temple, but his exhaustion and fear made him slow and predictable. Rethandus caught him by the wrist with one hand, and slammed him into the adjacent wall by the throat with the other.

“Where is it.” Rethandus demanded in the Common tongue, speaking as clearly as he could despite the eerie echo in his voice. The Captain refrained from speaking, still struggling to break free from his grasp to try and kill him again. Out of patience and running out of time Rethandus crushed the captain's wrist beneath his crippling strength, already looking around for something to throw him into. “Where is it?!” he shouted into the human's ear, burning his face with his icy breath.

 “F-fuck you…!” the Captain hissed. Rethandus immediately responded with violence, slamming his knee deep into the human's stomach. Tightening his grip around the pirate's throat, Rethandus lifted him high into the air while he desperately clawed at the Death Knight's hand with his unbroken arm. “Never…!” he gasped out while his face began to turn red. “I'll… NEVER… aaauuck…!” He was no longer able to breath, let alone speak, as the Death Knight's fingers burrowed into his throat. Rethandus held him suspended in the air, watching him kick and thrash violently while his face began to puff up and turn blue; he intended to strangle him until he died, deciding it would be faster to search the ship for his treasure than play these games.

Something caught his attention; the sound of something heavy was rolling around in the nearby cupboard, as the ship began to tilt back and forth from the churning waves. Once the Captain was on the brink of asphyxiation he released him, letting him collapse and crumble onto the cold wooden floor. Rethandus remained as silent as the grave while he walked across the length of the cabin. His burning blue eyes fixated on the source of the noise as soon as it rolled again. He ripped the intricate steel lock off with little effort, carelessly tossing it aside with one hand while he opened the cupboard with the other. The Death Knight's eyes grew wide at the polished gem, and the malevolent soul that was trapped inside it; it seethed with an insidious hatred he could barely comprehend, nearly burning at his eyes with the sickly yellow glow it radiated. Of all the objects he would retrieve for his master, this one was easily the most unsettling.

 “The Defias…” the Captain coughed, still struggling to catch his breath. His wounds were starting to catch up to him, and the blood loss was taking a serious toll on his recovery; without medical help he wouldn’t last until dawn. “We will… never forget this…” Rethandus remained silent, calmly plucking the gem out of the cupboard to slip into his pocket. He approached the last survivor of the Jester’s Folly with haste, swooping down to catch him by the throat to drag him to the corner of the cabin. With his free hand he ripped the lid off a nearby barrel, revealing a large quantity of ale this human was likely going to treat himself with for his discovery. The Death Knight remained silent while he plunged the Captain’s broken arm into the ale, using one of his charging runes to freeze the ale barrel solid. “What… why don't you just kill me?!” he demanded, crying out in pain as the unbearable cold stung his flesh and froze his blood within the barrel.

 The weather was making a turn for the worst; the waves slammed into the sides of the Jester’s Folly with reckless abandon, and without a crew to maintain the ship, it wouldn’t be long until this storm swallowed the vessel whole. Rethandus froze his boots to the floor as the ship spun in place, but he wasn’t about to wait around to see what happened. The sails began to tear at the mercy of the howling wind and pouring rain, causing the pirate corpses scattered across the deck to slide off into the devouring sea. Rethandus summoned his Death Gate for his hasty escape, but before he stepped onto the other side, he turned to see a colossal tidal wave headed for the Jester’s Folly.

“A Captain always goes down with his ship.” Rethandus turned his gaze toward the tortured human and held it there for a full second, before disappearing to safety on the other side.