Beneath The Waves

The waves, ancient and age-old waves, stirred as if breathing for the first time after hundreds of years. To honor its waking, wind screamed, howling like an angry God about to begin its dance of destruction. Darkness crept slow and steady, settling over the ocean surface quietly, merging with a thick curtain of fog, exhaling thick gray smoke into every gap. Wind raged, ripping stones from mountains, tearing tree trunks from their roots, and dragging boats, unfortunate enough to sail into the swirling gasp of crashing gale. 

The ocean of wrath rose with its mighty force, ready to take its throne back once again. Its breath whispered the names of the damned, chosen to enter the realm of decay and rot. Thousands of years later, The Maw Of Orsa awakened to restore order and now the world, plagued by greed, lust, and sin, would kneel for its mercy.

1

Elijah Mercer looked up at the darkening sky, at the heavy, solid clouds, the merciless gray, bearing it teeth down at earth. Mad wind hissed wordless warning, one only meant for those could extract macabre from mayhem. Elijah shuddered as a vision slammed in his head, a vision so vivid that it gripped his throat, choking the last breath out of his soul. He gasped, struggled to breathe through his closing throat as the vision gained power and vividity.

Waves.

He saw crushing waves, rising from the bosom of a sinister, black sea, rising to touch the sky, or dominate it, he did not know. He did not want to know. He dared not get too close to those waves. But like a helpless explorer lost inside a nameless city, he had to stagger in his chair and experience the mad roaring of the crashing ocean. Its scream erupted in his head, pushing so hard against his skull that Elijah clutched his head, digging his nails into his scalp to make it bleed, to make the sound stop, to go mad…

‘What is the name of Devil are ya doing Elijah?’ Like a slash of lightening the grff voice pierced through his mind, yanking him back to the present, making him aware of the reality that surrounded him. The shadowy inn with its heavy rum-soaked air greeted him, reminding him that he was not drowning in some unknown cosmic horror.

Elijah forced himself to look at the large man with red beard and flaming red hair with fear. Bart Drummond or Bart the Butcher to those who dared to cross his path stared at him with red, unfocused eyes. His breath stank of rum and decay, a rancid blend meant to make people shrink in horror. But no one dared to shrink away from Captain Bart. Shrinking meant dying a cruel death. In the flame of tavern lantern, Bart’s crooked smile looked menacing as if the Devil himself smiled from the hell.

‘The priest’s son is softening,’ growled Bart, he stomped his booted foot on the floor, roaring out in laughter. The sailors of The Devil’s Wake joined in immediately, laughing loud and hard, shaking the wooden walls of the tavern. Somewhere in the background an old man retched foul alcohol filled waste out adding to the stench of piss, rum, and rotting food.

Elijah sat frozen in his chair, still reeling from the vision he had, questioning its conjuring, fearing its vividity. His fingers tightened around the warming wooden mug he held since sitting down at this table in the evening. He had barely drank, or took bite of his grilled pig, hoping to stay low. But the Quartermaster noticed.

Silas leaned forward almost toppling over Elijah. He peeked at the almost full mug with a raised brow. ‘What’s the matter Eli, you don’t like your drink?’ he asked. ‘Too strong for ya?’

The laughter rose along with the stomping of foot.

Without stopping to think, Elijah picked his mug and drowned the rum in one savage gulp. The rum waved down his throat like molten lava, scalding everything it touched, scorching him from within.

A helpless gasp stumbled out of his lips as Elijah bent forward clutching his belly. The laughter around him went quiet all of a sudden. He felt the pressure of every pair of deadlight upon him.

Watching him.

Waiting for him to collapse.

Outside, beyond the border of the town, beyond the filth and stench, The Maw breathed its first storm.