Storm Strider

A dozen warships, two lighthouses, and the shadow of the Whirlpool City stood in Marisol’s way—the final stretch to her destination ten years in the making.

They didn’t fire a fourth warning shot—it was completely unnecessary—as Captain Enrique immediately shouted at one of his Harbour Guards to toss him a swirly blue conch from the lower deck. He snatched it out of the air, turned a dial on the side, and spoke through the empty shell with a voice every bit as loud as the lighthouse guards.

“We ain’t Marauders or anythin’ of the sort!” he bellowed, marching from the helm to the front of the ship where Marisol stood, standing wide and open in the crossing beams of light as he jabbed a finger at their crudely painted sails. “I am Enrique Delgaro, Captain of the ‘Caralonia’, frigate of the Fifteenth Harbour Guard Naval Squadron! Aye, we may not be flyin’ the colours of the Whirlpool City, but we can explain! Let us through and dock first! My daughter ain’t givin’ birth on these accursed seas!”

A second voice cut back from the other lighthouse, booming across the sky. “Who is your Squadron Admiral?”

“Alvaro Banez! Just get that old sod outta his mansion and have him look at my face! He’ll tell ye–”

“Admiral Banez is dead, alongside the rest of the Fifteenth Naval Squadron! None of them returned from their patrols across the Deepwater Legion Front!”

Enrique’s face twitched by her side. “What? The drunk’s dead? What in the gran creador’s blasted name happened to–”

“Nevermind what happened to Admiral Banez! We have hereby confirmed your identities as the Black Frigate known as ‘Caralonia’!”

Marisol’s heart lifted for a brief second. Enrique immediately turned to shout at his Harbour Guards to raise anchors, and–

“We still do not give you permission to pass and dock!” the lighthouse voices roared, and the hundreds of Harbour Guards on the warships in front of them waved at them to stop moving. “Defence Protocol ‘Black Storm’ is currently underway! By decree of the Harbour Imperatrix, no vessel is allowed to enter or leave the Whirlpool City! Move your vessel forward by only a hundred metres and drop anchors so you may join our ranks!”

A fourth warning shot was fired, splashing up a geyser of water right next to Marisol once again. She flinched at the explosive sound; her paltry reaction was nothing compared to Enrique’s fury, and she watched, with great anxiety, as he climbed halfway up the ratlines to shake his fists at the lighthouses.

“Fuck do ye mean ‘Black Storm’ Protocol is underway?” he bellowed. “Last time an Imperatrix ordered for its activation was three goddamned decades ago, when Corpsetaker was risin’ from the depths and the Swarm Queen first appeared—the hell’s goin’ on inside the city? You’re tellin’ me there ain’t a single ship movin’ in and out of the city right now?”

“Nothing has been entering and leaving for an entire month already! You are no exception to this protocol!”

Enrique fumed even harder, his face burning red with anger. As he roared through his conch and exchanged conversations with the lighthouse guards, Marisol took a step back and gulped, glancing at the little water strider on her shoulder.

What’s that? she asked. ‘Black Storm’... Protocol? Is it something I need to know?

The Archive was quiet for a moment before replying.

[... Unlike the capitals of many major battlefronts, the Whirlpool City has many protocols set in place to deal with all sorts of emergencies. Defence Protocol ‘Black Storm’ is the harshest defence strategy of them all—complete shutdown of all movement, trade or military, in and out of the city,] it said, pointing a leg forward at the base of the city. [I told you a while back that the Whirlpool City constantly emits mist and wind in order to create an artificial storm outside the city. ‘Black Storm’ is the harshest storm the city can create. No leviathan or invading force would be able to push through this storm and attack the city.]

But why–

[The lighthouse guard said as much.]

[The last time Defence Protocol ‘Black Storm’ was activated, it was the day the Swarm Queen killed the Worm Mage, and it was the day Corpsetaker threatened to destroy the Whirlpool City from the inside-out.]

[A danger equivalent to that is currently underway, and the Harbour Imperators believe the only way to defend against it is to stop all movement in and out of the city.]

…

Marisol gritted her teeth.

And how long until this protocol lifts?

[Until the danger ends.]

When is that?

[I do not know.]

I don’t have all the time in the world. Catrina doesn’t have all the time in the world. I need to–

“My daughter is in labour, and damned if this ain’t the shittiest storm to give birth to a child in!” Enrique snapped, practically screaming into his voice-amplifying conch. “You ain’t know half the shit we’ve been through the past two months, aye? We were eaten by a giant remipede, attacked by Whitewhale Marauders, and then our entire warship went into freefall! Twice! Even if ain’t for my daughter, we’re runnin’ out of food, supplies, and only the gran creadors know how much time this warship’s got left in it!”

“Link up with the other warships docked between our lighthouses! There are spare supplies for all of us to tide ‘Black Storm’ over with!” one of the lighthouses shouted back. “We cannot, however, under any circumstances, let anyone enter the city during this protocol! Not you, not your daughter, or anyone else! This is for the good of the Deepwater Legion Front!”

“It’s one girl! Two girls, actually! I’ve got here a makeshift Hasharana who skated all the way from shore to city with nothin’ but her fuckin’ glaives for legs! At least let the two of them–”

“We cannot–” the lighthouse voice suddenly cut off, and Marisol heard loud scuffling noises on the other side of the conch. Then, a different voice snapped back at Enrique. “The hell are ye houndin’ us for, man? Ye think we don’t wanna get back to our wives back in the city? Ah’ll tell ye what, ah’ve been stuck out here for three weeks! Ye think fishin’ in this storm is any easy? We’ve been pickin’ and sharin’ bones these past few days!”

Enrique clicked his tongue loudly. “What, and the Imperators ain’t tell you nothin’? What’s goin’ on inside the fuckin’ city?”

“Hell if ‘ah know, man, but orders are orders! Nobody’s gettin’ in and out, and that’s all there is to it!”

As the two of them began screaming at each other once again, Marisol stumbled unwittingly. A particularly powerful wave smashed into the side of the warship and made even the reinforced hull rattle. She clung to the railings, knuckles white as she tried to stabilise herself, but a second wave smashed into the other side and sent her flying away from the railings; still Enrique managed to cling onto the ratlines and continue shouting, completely oblivious to the fact that the storm was intensifying around them.

And it wasn’t a natural storm.

As Marisol clung onto the ropes dangling off the centre mast, her skin pricked with unease; it was a deep, unsettling sensation that crawled up her spine and made her shiver from head to toe. It wasn’t the cold rain. It wasn’t the never-ending thunder. It was… the waves beneath the ship, twisting and writhing like something swirling just beneath the surface was trying to break free. It was a gnawing sense of dread she couldn’t explain—the feeling she was being watched, but who? The sensation that something was approaching, but from where?

She whirled in a panic, cold sweat beading down her brows as she scanned the churning black sea behind them. There were no Marauders in pursuit. No leviathan fin breaching the turbulent waves. They were in the presence of a dozen more warships and two lighthouses built by the Whirlpool City, the most reliable faction in the Deepwater Legion Front. What, exactly, was she even so terrified of?

Her ‘fate’?

How would that even possibly come true?

…

… A shrill scream from the captain’s cabin silenced both her thoughts and Enrique’s shouts.

They turned at the exact same time, staring through the foggy, dimly lit window on the cabin door. A single lantern illuminated the cabin, and Marisol could see the shadows refracting through the glass.

Marisol saw half a dozen Harbour Guards crowded around Catrina, trying to accompany her through the delivery; Marisol saw her arms trembling, head tilted so far back it looked like her neck was going to snap; Marisol heard, with great clarity, as she let out a howl so sharp and violent that it sounded downright inhuman, and then–

Blood splattered onto the glass, blotting out all light seeping out from the cabin.

Silence.

The waves stopped smashing against the sides of the warship.

And neither Marisol, the captain, nor any of the Harbour Guards standing above deck could move as she listened to a single pair of footsteps approaching the cabin door—a single, bony hand curling around the doorknob and pushing it open from the inside.

The door swung out slowly, gently, creaking on its hinges, and for a second, Marisol saw nothing.

There was no light inside the cabin.

So when the ghost she’d seen—on the very first day everything went wrong—had to fold itself down in half just to fit through the doorway, she couldn’t help but feel ‘fate’ had finally caught up with her.

…

The milky white ‘ghost’ stood in front of the captain’s cabin, surrounded by three dozen Harbour Guards, and unfolded itself to its full height. Three metres tall. Skinny as a skeleton. It looked vaguely humanoid; if Marisol were to squint at it from afar, it’d look like it had two legs, two arms, and something resembling a head, but it wasn’t a human.

Its body was more akin to a stick made of seven chitin segments. It had two antennae curled like horns. It had a slender head with two beady red eyes. It had twelve arms and two legs—two appendages jutting out each segment—and save for the few splotches of flesh and blood stuck to its body as it’d burst out of Catrina’s belly, its chitin was so pale and ghostly that she could see right through into its pulsing, writhing blue organs.

It stood on its two legs as though trying to be human, but it really, really wasn’t.

[... MARISOL VELLAMIRA.]

[RUN.]

[Objective #11: Survive the Mutant skeleton shrimp]

[Time Limit: Undefined]

[Rewa–]

The status screens fizzled as the Mutant stomped, splitting the warship down in half.