Deep Sea Embers

This tranquility almost suggested safety and peace, yet it was marred by a subtle scent of blood—a warning sign easily overlooked by an oblivious visitor, oblivious to the ship harboring secret cultists.

Lucretia, fully aware of her surroundings, sensed the ship’s masters had detected her presence. An invisible hostility seemed to permeate the ship as if unseen forces were searching for her. In response, she expertly wielded her ornately designed “command wand,” tracing glowing symbols in the air to conceal herself.

Beside her stood Rabbi, a plush rabbit with an unnerving appearance. Despite its disturbing look, Rabbi appeared anxious, surveying the surroundings before whispering, “Didn’t the old master come with you?”

“Do you wish to meet him now?” Lucretia asked, looking down at the toy.

Rabbi shook as she replied, “No, no, Rabbi is just curious, Rabbi doesn’t want to…”

With gentle amusement, Lucretia responded, “Papa will come later. I’ve arrived early to ‘cleanse’ this tainted place. He needs some living Annihilators for a specific communication ritual. But if he were to arrive directly, it’s likely there wouldn’t be any survivors left.”

Rabbi, partially understanding, then remembered, “Oh, the ordinary cultists’ demons will be terrified by the old master and flee into the shadow realm, right?”

“You do remember some useful things,” Lucretia acknowledged.

Proudly, Rabbi exclaimed, “I’m smart!” Then, becoming mysteriously eager to please, she added, “In that case, Rabbi has a suggestion…”

“A suggestion?” Lucretia inquired.

“Maybe we just need to keep the ‘Saint’ alive… From what Rabbi observed, the ‘Saint’ has already consumed his symbiotic demon. He won’t perish meeting the old master…”

Lucretia raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the suggestion.

…

An ominous presence enveloped the ship, casting dark shadows across its decks. This disturbing force was fleeting, leaving behind a trail of unease. Communication faltered in deeper sections of the ship, and the behavior of wandering cultists grew erratic and unpredictable.

In the brightly lit and luxurious ship’s grand assembly hall, a tense gathering of Annihilators was underway, summoned by the Saint. These followers, steeped in dark teachings, huddled and whispered anxiously amidst an atmosphere of repression and caution, discussing recent unsettling events on the ship.

On an elevated platform, about a dozen cultists were isolated and displayed before the Saint. Each was bound with ropes soaked in a magical potion and wore collars that suppressed their symbiotic demons’ powers, while armed priests stood guard, indicating these individuals were under close surveillance.

The murmurs centered on these restrained cultists, speculating about their involvement in the recent ‘Dream of the Nameless One’ operation and the swirling rumors concerning the dream and the Sun Offspring, intensifying the tension in the room.

Overwhelmed by the chaos, Richard found himself unable to discern the whispers around him, which turned into a deafening cacophony, heightening his irritability. Most disturbingly, he could no longer hear the familiar guiding voice in his head.

“Where had Rabbi gone?”

In his confusion, Richard noticed Dumont nearby, who seemed to glance his way with hesitation and confusion. When Dumont attempted to speak, no sound came out; instead, Richard saw a white, cotton-like substance between Dumont’s teeth.

Then, the Saint’s commanding voice boomed from the platform, intensifying the pressure on Richard, Dumont, and the others.

“You brought something aboard… Where have you hidden it?”

Several of the bound cultists twitched involuntarily under the Saint’s intense scrutiny, their instincts still responsive to fear. Others, however, remained eerily still, numb to any danger.

The Saint, adorned with an intricate arrangement of intersecting black bones, emitted clicking sounds that resonated deeply. Amid these sounds, Richard’s fragmented sanity flickered, briefly regaining clarity. He remembered who he was but was immediately confounded by his situation.

Hesitantly, he looked toward the platform, where the commanding voice demanded, “What did you see in the Dream of the Nameless One? What did you touch? What did you do after returning?”

In a moment of clarity amidst his confusion, Richard urgently thought—

“The Sea Witch, it was the witch and her servant!”

He thought he had shouted this, but his attempt to speak resulted in a grotesque display. His mouth opened wide, and after several strained, guttural sounds, he expelled a large clump of cotton, shocking everyone present.

More cotton lodged in his throat, effectively silencing him. As his moment of lucidity faded, Richard’s gaze fixated on the white cotton on the floor—a substance he seemed to regard as exceedingly precious.

“My cotton… my cotton… my cotton!”

His voice, muffled and distorted by the cotton, produced only indistinct murmurs. In a frantic effort, Richard leaned forward, trying to reclaim the cotton he had expelled. The ropes binding him caused him to lose balance and fall to the floor in a rigid heap. On the ground, he writhed in a disturbing, desperate manner, trying to grasp the damp cotton with his mouth.

Thud, thud.

Others around him, Dumont, Visen, Sulok—all who had ventured into the Dream of the Nameless One with Richard—succumbed to the same strange compulsion. They collapsed, drawn uncontrollably toward the allure of the cotton, engaging in a frenzied scramble over the clump Richard had spat out.

“Don’t take my cotton! Don’t take my cotton!”

Richard’s mind was a whirlwind of panic as he mentally screamed. He tried to push Dumont away with his head but was met with a bite on the ear from Visen. A savage, animalistic struggle ensued as they fought over the cotton, stripped of all reason and humanity, driven only by a primal urge for the cotton.

The assembly hall plunged into a state of pandemonium. Even the typically unflappable Annihilators were deeply disturbed by the macabre spectacle. They watched in horror as their former companions, bound and incapacitated, engaged in a vicious brawl over the mysterious cotton.

“Execute them!” a decisive command echoed from the platform.

“Bang, bang, bang—”

Obedient to the Saint’s directive, the armed priests sprang into action, firing their heavy-caliber handguns at Richard and the others. Simultaneously, some cultists summoned the powers of their symbiotic demons, unleashing a barrage of magical attacks—bullets infused with dark energy, bolts of lightning, and clouds of corrosive fog—upon those who had lost their humanity.

Under the fierce attack, Richard and Dumont’s bodies were easily torn apart. Their skin, fragile as old cloth, ripped open with a sickening noise, releasing clouds of cotton that showed no trace of blood or flesh.

Within moments, all the Annihilators suffering from the “cotton” plague were dead.

But the ensuing eerie silence was brief. The cotton that had spilled from their bodies began to move again, aggressively consuming and tearing at itself. It seemed the compulsion that had driven their former hosts—the obsessive struggle over the cotton—continued in these lifeless fibers. Amidst this chaos, a flurry of something else began to emerge from the tangled heaps.

Rising from the chaotic scene was a cloud of spores, as delicate and fine as dust particles. These spores began to spread through the hall, diffusing into the air like a thin, almost ethereal fog. The sight of this spreading mist instilled a sense of impending danger and horror even in those previously unaware of the situation’s gravity.

However, as the spores started to expand their reach, they suddenly encountered an unseen barrier, as if hitting an invisible wall. Almost immediately, they were forcefully pulled back, drawn towards the original pile of cotton by a powerful, unseen force.

On the platform, the figure known as the “Saint” assumed a commanding stance. He opened what appeared to be a crown-like cage made of interlocking black bones. From this structure, tendrils emerged, extending from his grotesquely oversized brain. These tendrils writhed in the air, creating an unsettling spectacle.

As the tendrils reached out, they efficiently captured all the escaping spores, leaving none to escape. Then, in a sudden and dramatic turn, a fierce flame erupted, engulfing the still moving mound of cotton. In moments, the cotton and the contained spores were entirely incinerated, consumed by the relentless blaze. The sudden ignition of the flame seemed almost magical, showcasing the formidable powers wielded by the “Saint.”