This particular story takes place around the year 160 GD. This is roughly two generations after the Battle of Red Tide, the first uprising spearheaded by the Cult of the Twin Serpent. As retaliation for Red Tide, Gwideon I killed the dark god Dagon--who possessed the soul of a man named Simon Fischer. As a result, the endlessly reborn creature called Drowning Simon is now under Demogorgon's thrall--against his own wishes.
Our story begins on a hot summer day in the south of Otep, in a place never known by winter.
Cursed By the Corrigans
I. The Witch and the Waves
Simon didn't care for the jungles. He was a man of the sea, a place of wind and sun and the smell of salt. The jungles were another matter; constant, oppressive heat and endless shade from towering trees. Simon found the whole place unpleasant and alien; of course, there were those who would say the same of Simon himself, but that was neither here nor there.
A wretch guarded the meeting room Simon had been directed toward. He bore a tattoo of a two-headed serpent on his forehead and a black halberd, probably forged from Cold Iron.
"State your business." demanded the wretch.
Simon's red eyes swept over the man's rust colored robes, shaved head, and sandals, then over his own attire; leather sea boots, seaman's jacket, and the bandanna tying down his pale hair under his captain's hat.
"Well, I ain't here to relieve ya, so's ya best step aside, matey."
At this, the wretch raised the halberd and sneered. "State your business, or I will strike you down in Lord Demogorgon's name!"
"Keep yer voice down, ya damn zealot. I been called here. They call me Drownin' Simon. Now, if ya still want to try strikin' me down, I'd love to see ya try."
The wretch stepped aside, his face blank once again. Simon's hand pulled back from the cutlass that hung from his waste. The temple's marble doors swung open and Simon sauntered in, seating himself on a bench and putting his feet upon on the table in front of him.
"You wear your insolence like a badge of honor, Fischer." came a scathing yet lyrical voice from across the chamber.
"Ay, well, we can't all be whores, Sapphire." said Simon, fishing around in his coat for his cigar case.
Across the room, an achingly beautiful woman sneered at Simon. She wore little more than a corset and tight bodice, with her dark hair falling down to her waste, cropped short above her dark eyes. Most men found her irresistible; Simon knew better.
A male voice spoke next, deep and velvety, the sort of voice that can make the most vulgar curses caress the ears like a sweet lullaby. "We are all in attendance, let us begin."
The voice emanated from a man in a deep red robe with the serpent tattoo on his forehead and again on the back of each hand. Like the wretch outside, his head was shaved. His eyes were completely black, a mark of his station--a prophet of Demogorgon. Simon didn't want to think about what sort of bargain the bastard must have struck for such a position--or what the price had been. The room's only other occupant was a hunchbacked scarecrow of a creature wearing a mask with a long, hooked nose. The creature called the Fletcher of Souls was utterly silent--not even the sound of breathing came from his direction.
"Shall we begin with a prayer of allegiance?" said the Prophet.
Simon lit his cigar in one of the room's torches and took a drag. "We're all here. If we weren't loyal, we wouldn't-a showed up. Let's get this show on the road."
Sapphire scoffed. "Simon, your petulance rivals treason. Men have been killed for less."
"And I'll bet the fear of death was a mark stronger in 'em, wasn't it? Now are we gonna sit around and yammer all day, or are we gonna accomplish somethin'?"
"We shall begin without the prayer." said the prophet. "You have been called here to continue preparations for the Lord's approaching plot. The Headless Witch has seen to it that the Underfolk populace is kept busy with the Grimstone Empire. The Fletcher has removed the chieftains of all the major Orc clans, pushing them into a leaderless frenzy in which they will not pose a significant threat. And Drowning Simon has put the Sea Bulls' flagship at the bottom of the ocean."
"Didn't get that damned bullfish, though." muttered Simon.
The prophet continued. "All commendable feats, and the Lord is pleased with your performance, but your tasks are not yet complete.
"Headless Witch," said the prophet, turning his gaze to Sapphire. "You must tread carefully. Gladin the Blasphemer is rumored to be training recruits in his particular brand of mounted combat--the Lord is sure you recall his brutal efficiency, and wishes for you to prevent such tutelage. Stop him by any means you can--poison the steeds, turn the students against one another, the details mean little. However, the Lord states that Gladin himself must not be harmed in any way--his death would put the Empire on edge, a scenario we cannot afford at the moment. You are also instructed to keep your identity from him for the same reasons. It would be best if outside influence went entirely undetected."
"The dwarf may have a strong arm, but he's always been slow. This shouldn't take long." said Sapphire, staring at her flawless fingernails.
"Indeed. Fletcher, your assignment is the type you are suited to. There is rumor of a cult of devil worshippers outside the city of Ember. Locate them and eliminate them. They have the chance to complicate the Lord's plans."
The hunchback leered forward, and the sound of claws rubbing against one another could be heard.
"As for you, Drowning Simon, your assignment is more complex. There is a chain of islands to the Southeast called the Draelic isles. They swear fealty to Gwideo Empire, but the Imperial presence there is minimal. The entire chain of islands is considered to be an insignificant backwater."
"I know, I been around that area before. Me pearl's a few weeks' sail from the isles." said Simon.
"That is why you have been chosen for this assignment. There is word of nine powerful witches, one on each of the Draelic isles. They are sisters, and most assuredly Fae. They are called--"
"The Corrigans." said Simon, blowing smoke out his nose. "I heard of 'em."
"Yes, the Corrigans. They are powerful witches who, should they choose to take action against our Lord, could prove a sizeable threat. Our information reveals that the eldest sister, Celeidh Corrigan, is their leader and easily the most powerful of the family; without her guidance, the other eight sisters are easily cowed. You must go to the isle called Leinster and deal with Celeidh Corrigan."
"Would that be dealing with words or irons?"
"Whichever. The Lord wants you to bring back either an oath of fealty, or her head. He does not care which, so long as she is dealt with."
"Killin' a witch." said Simon, eyeing Sapphire. "Shouldn't be too hard."
"It wouldn't be, but there is another matter to be dealt with on Leinster. A cult of the Old God Vecna, God of Secrets. They call themselves Secretkeepers. Though Vecna has not been openly worshipped for generations, the Lord thinks that you would understand that living, vibrant gods are not the only ones who can pose threats, yes?"
The image of his late Lord, Dagon, passed through Simon's mind. "And what shall I do with 'em?"
"The Lord is, again, flexible. They must either swear subservience to Lord Demogorgon or have enough of their number killed that they will not be a threat. There is no preference as to which, but by their clandestine nature, they may prove difficult to eliminate with force."
"Anything they do I should know about?"
"They venerate Vecna, and have power over secrets. You can imagine the implications."
"Aye." said Simon, snuffing his cigar out on the table in front of him. "Am I gettin' me new ship, then?"
The prophet smiled. "Yes. In light of your success against the Sea Bulls, the Lord has thought it fit to reward you with the flagship you requested."
"Haha, praise Dagon!"
The prophet's smile vanished. "Praise Demogorgon, indeed."
"Aye, as you like. Is there anythin' else we need to cover, or can we be about our errands?"
"There is nothing more upon which the Lord wishes me to elaborate." said the prophet. "We will close with a prayer and offering to Lord Demogorgon."
The prophet pulled a chain hanging from the ceiling. The great marble doors swung open and a pair of cultists pushed an iron cart through. A young man lay on the cart, chained down and screaming. The prophet withdrew a curved knife from his robe.
Simon noticed that the prayer couldn't be properly heard over the screams of the offering.
*
Simon stood on the dock with fifty odd men of a dozen odd shapes behind him, each of them with a trunk or bag in his possession.
"And what in the name Dagon is that supposed ta be?" Simon growled at boatswain, pointing at the black shape amongst his flagship's masts.
"That," said the boatswain, rubbing his hands, "is the Serpent's Talon! The Lord has recognized that the true strength of the Mobb is in infantry engagements, not prolonged sea battles! This great device must merely be unhooked from the crow's nest and will swing downward, impaling the enemy ship's decks, turning ship-to-ship combat into an infantry skirmish!"
Simon's hand strayed to his sidearm. "It's a two-ton shaft of iron, you witless landlubber! There's nothin' worse to have in your damn sails durin' a storm! Now get it out of my damn ship before I make you a figurehead for me bow!"
"But the tactical advantages it facilitates--"
"Ain't worth it if she's on the bottom of the deep! You're damn cultists may not be able to handle 'emselves without the earth beneath they feet, but me boys and me sunk everything the Sea Bulls could make float--we don't need no lightnin' rod in order to make us unafeared to cross the ocean. Now get that damn thing down from there."
"I think not." said a voice behind Simon that was all too familiar.
Simon sneered over his shoulder at Sapphire's beautiful form as she waded through his men. She parted them like a prophet walking through a field of the faithful. Simon's blood boiled to see his men fawning over her--unconsciously, his pale skin shifted a shade towards orange, with spots becoming visible along his neck and ears.
"And how the hell does the Headless Bitch think she has the right to tell Captain Fischer what goes in his ship?" growled Simon.
Sapphire smiled triumphantly. "Because Captain Fishmonger agreed to take the ship as-is. Lord Demogorgon wants to see if the Talon is a viable weapon, and you and your crew are his test subjects. Speaking of which, I find it hard to believe that this paltry lot can crew a ship this size."
Simon would begrudgling admit he'd made the same observation. His old ship, Scourge of Shoggoth, had been barely half the size of the new flagship. His crew might be enough to sail her, but not to man her guns.
Simon heard many of his crew murmuring agreement, enthralled by Sapphire's glamers. His hand twitched on the sidearm, while his right hand began to move instinctlively towards the cutlass.
"Luckily for you, Simon, I care enough for the Lord's plans to have accounted for this problem. I have thirty men and women, hand picked and ready to serve."
"And I'm sure every last one of them is ready to sink a dagger into me back as soon as it's to 'em. Get yer damn demon-worshippers out of me hair, Sapphire. I'll pick up some boys along the way. And besides."
Simon spat on her boots. "It's bad luck to have a woman on a ship."
Sapphire sneered and beckoned to one of Simon's men--Blackbeard Ironfist--and the dwarf undid his bandana and began wiping her shoe off. "We both know that killing you doesn't do any good. Let's just say it's in my best interests that your mission succeeds. Besides, if one of us doesn't do the other a good turn sooner or later, we're going to wind up turning our irons on each other instead of those filthy Imperials."
"I don't trust you as far as I can spit, Sapphire. You ain't nothin' but a lyin' whore in me book, and ya know it. But I ain't got time to pick 'em over meself. You send yer boys along, and we'll see if that's worth changin', ya hear?"
"Couldn't agree more." said Sapphire, a smug grin resting on her perfect features. She strode off through the crowd, which parted before her once again.
Simon beckoned to his first mate, a half-breed of mixed human and elven stock who called himself Asrael hands. The aging sailor came over.
"Get the men settled, I'll get the new lot aboard. Start takin' a look at that Talon, see if there's a way we can drop the cursed thing without tippin' the ship over."
"Aye, cap'n." said Asrael. "But ya best get Eddy Brushes out on the side. This ship ain't got a name, and you know an unnamed ship's bad luck."
"Aye, so it is."
"Any idea what you'll call her?" asked Asrael.
"I think I got an idea." said Simon, looking at the Talon among the masts.
"And what in the name Dagon is that supposed ta be?" Simon growled at boatswain, pointing at the black shape amongst his flagship's masts.
"That," said the boatswain, rubbing his hands, "is the Serpent's Talon! The Lord has recognized that the true strength of the Mobb is in infantry engagements, not prolonged sea battles! This great device must merely be unhooked from the crow's nest and will swing downward, impaling the enemy ship's decks, turning ship-to-ship combat into an infantry skirmish!"
Simon's hand strayed to his sidearm. "It's a two-ton shaft of iron, you witless landlubber! There's nothin' worse to have in your damn sails durin' a storm! Now get it out of my damn ship before I make you a figurehead for me bow!"
"But the tactical advantages it facilitates--"
"Ain't worth it if she's on the bottom of the deep! You're damn cultists may not be able to handle 'emselves without the earth beneath they feet, but me boys and me sunk everything the Sea Bulls could make float--we don't need no lightnin' rod in order to make us unafeared to cross the ocean. Now get that damn thing down from there."
"I think not." said a voice behind Simon that was all too familiar.
Simon sneered over his shoulder at Sapphire's beautiful form as she waded through his men. She parted them like a prophet walking through a field of the faithful. Simon's blood boiled to see his men fawning over her--unconsciously, his pale skin shifted a shade towards orange, with spots becoming visible along his neck and ears.
"And how the hell does the Headless Bitch think she has the right to tell Captain Fischer what goes in his ship?" growled Simon.
Sapphire smiled triumphantly. "Because Captain Fishmonger agreed to take the ship as-is. Lord Demogorgon wants to see if the Talon is a viable weapon, and you and your crew are his test subjects. Speaking of which, I find it hard to believe that this paltry lot can crew a ship this size."
Simon would begrudgling admit he'd made the same observation. His old ship, Scourge of Shoggoth, had been barely half the size of the new flagship. His crew might be enough to sail her, but not to man her guns.
Simon heard many of his crew murmuring agreement, enthralled by Sapphire's glamers. His hand twitched on the sidearm, while his right hand began to move instinctlively towards the cutlass.
"Luckily for you, Simon, I care enough for the Lord's plans to have accounted for this problem. I have thirty men and women, hand picked and ready to serve."
"And I'm sure every last one of them is ready to sink a dagger into me back as soon as it's to 'em. Get yer damn demon-worshippers out of me hair, Sapphire. I'll pick up some boys along the way. And besides."
Simon spat on her boots. "It's bad luck to have a woman on a ship."
Sapphire sneered and beckoned to one of Simon's men--Blackbeard Ironfist--and the dwarf undid his bandana and began wiping her shoe off. "We both know that killing you doesn't do any good. Let's just say it's in my best interests that your mission succeeds. Besides, if one of us doesn't do the other a good turn sooner or later, we're going to wind up turning our irons on each other instead of those filthy Imperials."
"I don't trust you as far as I can spit, Sapphire. You ain't nothin' but a lyin' whore in me book, and ya know it. But I ain't got time to pick 'em over meself. You send yer boys along, and we'll see if that's worth changin', ya hear?"
"Couldn't agree more." said Sapphire, a smug grin resting on her perfect features. She strode off through the crowd, which parted before her once again.
Simon beckoned to his first mate, a half-breed of mixed human and elven stock who called himself Asrael hands. The aging sailor came over.
"Get the men settled, I'll get the new lot aboard. Start takin' a look at that Talon, see if there's a way we can drop the cursed thing without tippin' the ship over."
"Aye, cap'n." said Asrael. "But ya best get Eddy Brushes out on the side. This ship ain't got a name, and you know an unnamed ship's bad luck."
"Aye, so it is."
"Any idea what you'll call her?" asked Asrael.
"I think I got an idea." said Simon, looking at the Talon among the masts.
*
The Cursor pulled up her anchor and set sail the next morning, as the sun rose. Simon stood at the front of the flagship, the twin serpent design flying beneath a larger flag bearing Dagon's symbol, a pair of black eyes beneath a finlike crest.
Around one in the afternoon, Simon called the Chaplain Sapphire had installed into his cabin, where they had a serious discussion that lasted more than an hour. In it, the Chaplain, a man named Hayt, contradicted Simon and challenged his leadership no less than eleven times. At sunset, Simon forced Hayt down a plank of wooden built into the side of the Cursor for just such a purpose, informing the crew that questioning his authority would not be tolerated.
The rest of the journey to Leinster was uneventful.
Around one in the afternoon, Simon called the Chaplain Sapphire had installed into his cabin, where they had a serious discussion that lasted more than an hour. In it, the Chaplain, a man named Hayt, contradicted Simon and challenged his leadership no less than eleven times. At sunset, Simon forced Hayt down a plank of wooden built into the side of the Cursor for just such a purpose, informing the crew that questioning his authority would not be tolerated.
The rest of the journey to Leinster was uneventful.
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