As Tyrian recounted his story, Duncan became deeply absorbed in thought, his expression reflecting the weight of the tale. Around them, the Vanished resonated with its captain’s introspection as if in solidarity. The otherwise noticeable creaks from the ship’s aging timbers faded, replaced by a surreal, ghostly quietness. The ship gracefully glided over the expansive sea, echoing the stillness of the surrounding waters.
After a considerable duration, Duncan’s contemplative eyes lowered, settling on the wooden deck beneath his feet. While it wasn’t visible to the naked eye, he imagined what was concealed beneath the ship’s outer layer. Far below the ship’s physical framework, in a dimension that defied the usual bounds of reality, the spine of Saslokha was hidden, submerged in an enigmatic, shadowy realm. This spine had replaced the original keel of the Vanished—a keel Duncan Abnomar light-heartedly dubbed the “little twig.”
That very “twig” had tragically been claimed by the mysterious subspace a hundred years prior, alongside the first Vanished.
“Father…” Tyrian’s voice, laced with a hint of anxiety, snapped Duncan out of his deep reflection, “Is there anything else you wish to ask?”
Duncan paused momentarily before replying, “One final inquiry. After the Vanished was completed, there must have been artisans who contributed to its making still residing in this world. Specifically, the elves tasked with molding the keel…”
“Many likely lives on,” Tyrian answered, “though finding them might pose a challenge. After the ‘incident’ involving The Vanished, all things connected to the ship became forbidden and shrouded in fear.
window.pubfuturetag = window.pubfuturetag || [];window.pubfuturetag.push({unit: "64ce79d606107d003c23ea27", id: "pf-5140-1"})“Those craftsmen who had a hand in crafting the Vanished either changed their careers or relocated to distant cities. The elves, too, decided to live under the radar, seeking refuge in remote locations. Documents and designs pertaining to the ship were secured and deemed ‘sealed objects,’ hidden securely within a sacred church…”
“The prevailing sentiment was that all connected to the Vanished bore a curse. This sentiment wasn’t restricted to Duncan’s lineage but extended to all involved in the ship’s creation and anyone privy to its mysteries.”
The heaviness of Tyrian’s revelations left a palpable silence between them. However, it was Lucretia, often referred to as the “Sea Witch,” who interrupted the quiet.
“We shouldn’t dismiss rumors as mere tales. Their caution back then is understandable,” she intoned thoughtfully, “For instance, the shipyard previously used to construct the Vanished fell victim to an unexplained, fierce blaze the day following the ship’s descent into subspace.”
“This voracious inferno devoured everything, turning even robust steel and hardy stone to mere ash. However, in a peculiar twist of fate, the blueprints and records of the Vanished, stored securely in an office, remained untouched by the flames.”
“In the subsequent years after the ship’s creation, an unnerving pattern emerged. Close to half of those engaged in its construction found themselves haunted by chilling nightmares, inexplicable sicknesses, and even terrifying visions that blurred the line between reality and imagination. For some, the weight of these horrors became too much to bear, and they tragically chose to end their lives. Others, on their voyages at sea, inexplicably disappeared without a trace. There were those who descended into a terrifying madness. On the rare occasions when they emerged from their insanity, they spoke of hearing ‘the true voice.’ Such claims eventually led them to be restrained in mental facilities, where they lived out their remaining days. In a bleak and twisted way, the ones who lost their sanity were considered by some as the more fortunate, given the sheer scope of misfortunes that befell others.”
window.pubfuturetag = window.pubfuturetag || [];window.pubfuturetag.push({unit: "64cc9e79c7059f003e4ad4b0", id: "pf-5109-1"})“The elven artisans who were integral in molding the ship’s keel seemed to be an exception. One might argue that their inherent racial attributes provided a shield against these malevolent effects. On the outside, they appeared to be resilient against whatever curse plagued the others. Yet, witnessing the grim destinies of their human peers deeply disturbed them. Their choice to shed their identities and seek refuge in far-off lands can be seen as a desperate bid for self-preservation in light of such harrowing events.”
Duncan, visibly engrossed by Lucretia’s detailed account, remained silent for a while, processing the information. Breaking the silence, he questioned, somewhat perplexedly, “But the detailed archives regarding the original construction of the Vanished, they still exist in Pland, right?”
Morris swiftly chimed in, “Yes, they’re still housed there, meticulously safeguarded as ‘sealed objects.’ You, Vanna, and I have had this conversation before. If I’ve grasped it correctly, these items aren’t meant to be destroyed. In fact, they shouldn’t be, given their link to that other dimension. Attempting to destroy them could inadvertently bridge our world with the eerie dimension tied to the Vanished.”
Duncan’s response was immediate and decisive, “I must get those records.”
Morris appeared momentarily startled but recovered quickly, saying, “Understood. I have contacts within the city-state of Pland. Although these records have been deemed treacherous and sealed away for over a hundred years, given our pressing situation, the officials might be inclined to collaborate…”
Duncan, cutting Morris off mid-sentence, called out, “Vanna.”
window.pubfuturetag = window.pubfuturetag || [];window.pubfuturetag.push({unit: "663633fa8ebf7442f0652b33", id: "pf-8817-1"})Responding almost instantly, Vanna’s voice echoed, “Yes, Captain. How may I assist?”
“You have a direct line to the Storm Cathedral in Pland, correct?” Duncan’s voice bore an uncharacteristic gravity, “Request them to assemble all materials related to the ‘Vanished’s design and ensure they’re set aside at the Cathedral.”
Vanna hesitated briefly, possibly out of reverence to the Storm Goddess, but eventually concurred, “Understood. How do you plan on collecting the records? Should I dispatch Ai? I can alert our associates there to prevent any misunderstandings…”
Duncan’s response was firm, “I’ll handle it personally.”
Vanna, evidently surprised, responded, “You intend to go in person?”
……
In a charming, mid-sized antique store located in Pland’s lower district, Duncan carefully placed the newspaper he’d been engrossed in on the wooden counter. As he did, his eyes drifted to the window, captivated by the brilliant rays of sunlight that penetrated the glass. The sun’s warmth illuminated the store’s interiors, painting everything in a soft golden hue. A subtle smile played on his lips as he reflected, “Every day, I find myself here, enjoying my tea, going through the latest news, and basking in this soothing sunlight. Perhaps it’s time for a change of pace.”
A distant voice broke his reverie, seeming to originate from within his own thoughts. “…Understood. I’ll reach out to the city’s cathedral immediately,” said Vanna, her voice echoing and then diminishing into silence.
With meticulous care, Duncan folded the newspaper and slid it into a designated slot on a nearby rack. He then began to walk towards the wooden staircase that led to the store’s upper level. Along the way, he paused to grab his neatly hung coat from a hook.
Beyond the confines of this shop, the Vanished was relentlessly journeying across the expansive spiritual seas. Wind Harbor, another locale, found itself lost in a perpetual dream, its reality distorted. Elves from different corners of the world were falling prey to a mysterious, deep sleep. Yet, in this vintage store, a timeless tranquility reigned supreme. It was a haven, a protective bubble that kept the external world’s turmoil at bay.
However, as Duncan was adjusting his coat, readying himself to leave, the antique store’s entrance door swung open with purpose. The door’s gentle bell rang out, its chime momentarily disrupting the store’s calm ambiance.
Duncan’s eyes shot up, and they landed on a silhouette, which was made even more pronounced by the backlight of the sun. The figure was familiar. “Miss Heidi? A pleasant morning to you,” he warmly greeted, identifying his visitor. “I apologize for any inconvenience, but the store won’t be open today. I have some tasks to attend to.”
“Mr. Duncan… or should I say, Captain,” Heidi responded, stepping further into the illuminated space, her attention entirely on Duncan, who was evidently preparing to depart. After a brief hesitation, she continued, her voice laced with concern, “I may need your help.”
Duncan, intrigued by her sudden visit, raised an eyebrow, “What’s the matter?”
The memories of the incident involving Taran El and the trapped elven girl were still fresh in Heidi’s mind. Ever since uncovering the truth about the Vanished and Duncan’s role in it, she’d been distant, avoiding the store and its enigmatic owner. Seeing her now, particularly seeking assistance, was quite surprising.
With a hint of trepidation in her voice, Heidi began, “It’s about the sleeping sickness that’s plaguing the elves.” She paused, taking a moment to collect herself, “The sickness’s spread is alarming. And it’s not just the usual deep slumber that concerns me. The city’s health center has been admitting elves showing peculiar symptoms. I believe it’s crucial for someone like you, who understands the depth of the situation, to evaluate it.”
Duncan’s face turned grave, understanding the gravity of her words. “So, the Dream of the Nameless One has intensified its grip. But don’t fret; addressing this is my primary concern.”
Before he could say more, Heidi interjected with urgency, “It’s not just the increase in elves falling asleep. The symptoms now are more pronounced and troubling. I implore you to visit the health center and assess the evolving situation.”
Duncan gave a nod, his expression mirroring the gravity of the unfolding events. The stakes, it seemed, were rapidly rising.
Every word Heidi uttered seemed to come with decreasing confidence within the walls of the antique store. Her voice, which had begun strong, gradually dwindled into uncertainty. It was as though she was standing at the crossroads of her thoughts, each path leading her to a different conclusion. Then, she voiced a question that was as unexpected as it was intriguing: “If I wish to seek your assistance, must I make a sacrifice?”
Duncan, who had been engrossed in calculating the amount of time the cathedral would need to get things in order after Vanna’s notification, was momentarily jolted out of his musings. He looked up, surprised, “Sacrifice? What are you talking about?”
Trying to contain her obvious embarrassment, Heidi rushed to clarify, “In my exchanges with my father, I was always cautious not to delve too deeply into topics surrounding you. He had hinted that life aboard the Vanished is otherworldly and that you’ve been kind-hearted toward humans. Yet, he never really got into specifics about any practices or, well, sacrifices that might be required when asking for your assistance…”
Duncan raised a hand to signal her to pause, his face reflecting both amusement and confusion, “Wait a moment. I don’t demand sacrifices or participate in any peculiar blood rites. The Vanished is a fleet with a welcoming community that promotes mutual aid and is actively engaged in various welfare initiatives for city-states. Hasn’t Morris or Vanna ever briefed you about our ways?”
Heidi’s blank expression was all the response Duncan needed. She seemed genuinely flabbergasted.
Shaking his head with a playful smirk, Duncan reached out and picked up a small bronze statue that rested on a nearby display shelf.
The statue, an antique that represented the royal amulet from the Dark Age of the Isom dynasty, was ironically crafted just the prior week.
“The original tag on this is 800 soras, but with a discount, it’s down to 12. If you’d like, you can purchase it at its full price, and we can consider that as a token fee for my help. How does that sound? In the interim, while the cathedral organizes everything I’ll need, I can accompany you to evaluate the situation of these affected individuals.”
……
Morris stood, aghast, in the middle of the kitchen, eyeing the eclectic assortment of items Vanna had gathered for what she called her ‘channel’ creation. “Are you genuinely considering using these… things to forge a conduit for spiritual resonance?” he blurted out, barely concealing his skepticism.
Vanna, in the midst of her bustling activity, stopped and looked directly at the elderly gentleman, her eyebrows raised in genuine curiosity. “Is there something amiss?”
Morris took a deep breath, trying to phrase his concerns diplomatically, “Well, I just find this approach to be quite… unconventional. This isn’t just some everyday ritual; it’s meant to create a bond with the revered city-state’s cathedral. Given its importance and sanctity, shouldn’t you be using more traditional, and dare I say, noble spellcasting ingredients?”
Vanna’s eyes briefly wandered to her eclectic mix of items spread out on the wooden kitchen table in the heart of what was infamously known as the “witch’s mansion.”
“With a sacred flame, sacred fats, sacred spices, and coupled with earnest invocations, I’m confident that I’ve acquired the four pivotal elements for the ritual,” she stated matter-of-factly.
Morris looked at her, almost comically wide-eyed, “You can’t just slap the term ‘sacred’ onto every mundane item and assume it will magically become potent! It’s preposterous to think that sautéing some onions can evoke the divine might of the goddess!”
Vanna simply stared back, her silence amplifying the stark difference between her avant-garde methods and Morris’s deeply ingrained expectation of a stately, ceremonious ritual.
