Chapter Two: An Impossible Sea
Written by Ethan
Morwell awoke on the deck of his small fishing trawler, the intense smell of sulfur rousing him from an unplanned slumber. His head ached like it did after a long night of rabble-rousing, though the ringing in his ears and blurry vision made it apparent he'd taken a blow hard enough to pull him from consciousness. He ran his fingers slowly along his face and scalp, finally stopping when the free movement of his fingertips was interrupted by bloody, matted-down hair. There was a kink in his neck and it hurt when he took deep breaths, likely due to lying on the hard wooden deck for an extended period of time. His own condition, though concerning, was something he'd experienced countless times before. It was the condition of the boat that worried him.
The air was too calm and the boat too still; the soothing rhythm of crashing waves against the hull replaced by the creaks and groans of aged wood and metal upon rock. It was all too obvious that they had run aground, though he could not fathom how that could be.
The last he could remember, they were setting off from the port of Delvorn towards the waters they normally fished in autumn. The closest bit of land to them was well off course, an island called Kua-La Pei which sat right on the edge of the territory between the Capital Islands and what the local zealots called the Ring of Heretics. It was at least a five-day journey, impossible if not intended. They had only taken enough fuel for two days, so if he had been knocked out that long, he and Danvers were in trouble. The Predictors Guild had alerted them of the possibility of a storm right before they had set off, so this was just supposed to be a quick out-and-back. If they'd somehow drifted back to port in Delvorn, he was sure someone would have investigated the stranded ship and woken him up immediately. The authorities there were quite reactive, if not a bit overzealous; nothing out of the ordinary stayed out of the ordinary for long. Regardless of the how and where, something was amiss, and lying on the ground like a drunkard wasn’t going to solve anything.
Morwell slowly pulled himself to a crouch, balancing himself on the hatch that led to the hold. Pain arced through his body as he moved from his prone position, but he was able to ignore it. The training from his former life was still able to kick in unconsciously after all those years.
The deck was in a state of disarray: The boom had split in two and was lying at the stern amidst a tangled heap of netting, while a large jagged hole ran the entire length of the trawler's starboard side. The repairs alone would set them back three seasons. Danvers would blow a gasket when he saw the damage. Where was that old man?
“Danvers!” Morwell shouted through a dried mouth, caked nearly shut from heat and dehydration. “Danvers! We've run aground you old coot! Danvers!” There was no reply.
Morwell forced himself to stand, intending to check for the captain below deck. But before he could move, the grizzled fisherman finally took stock of his current location. It was an environment as alien as anything he'd seen in his well-traveled life.
The boat sat at the bottom of a deep canyon atop an outcropping of smooth, gray stone, emerging from dark black sand that covered the ground for as far as the eye could see. In the distance, he saw large mountains and plateaus dotting the horizon - unusual features for the part of the world he was in before he lost consciousness. It was a bleak landscape, devoid of life or recognizable landmarks, yet it felt somehow familiar. This sensation was odd, as Morwell knew he had never been anywhere quite this barren, but as his mind continued to clear, the realization eventually came to him. This place didn’t remind him of an actual location he’d been to before. The desolate canyon was strangely reminiscent of the old stone carvings that religions in the Central Isles used to illustrate their version of the creation mythology. The cradle of life, before life took hold.
Despite the fact that it was almost winter in Delvorn, Morwell’s current location was unnaturally warm and dry. Upon closer inspection of the dark sand, he noticed that it bubbled like porridge, steam rising intermittently through small fissures with a hiss and a pop. If he didn't get out of there soon, he was afraid he'd simmer to death.
Morwell removed the heavy jacket that he'd been wearing, revealing long, sinewy arms covered in scars and tattoos. A faded black chevron sat just below his shoulder; a permanent reminder of times he wished he could forget. Though he still possessed a large, intimidating stature, the simple life of a fisherman and lack of recovery serums had whittled away the layers of muscle he'd built over his years as a member of an Isorropia unit. But even as the effects of the boosters he had been injected with every fortnight for decades left his system, he still remained the most able-bodied individual in Delvorn - a testament to the lengths the Capital Islands went to maintain balance in the region.
Taking in the wreckage of the boat and his new, alien surroundings, Morwell couldn’t help but wonder how his life had ended up here. He recalled the day he arrived in Delvorn, his assigned retirement location, for the first time. Most villages were elated to learn that they'd been chosen as the final destination for a member of the Capital Islands’ specialized forces. Not only was it an honor, and even though these men and women were being decommissioned, there was a real sense of security that came when they settled, especially in villages further from the capital. Yet despite this promise of added protection, the arrival of these individuals was all too often a sight that instilled fear in the community, not reassurance.
Morwell was a seasoned soldier, his face and body a tapestry marked by wounds and ink that illustrated the expansive and far-flung brutalism that had earned him the moniker “Caldwell's Beast.” This after his commander, Jonas Caldwell, who'd been by Morwell’s side since he was first recruited as a young orphan drifting hopelessly between the thousands of tiny islands that made up the Outer Rings.
The excitement of what Morwell might provide the island of Delvorn came and went as soon as the people first caught sight of him. Perhaps his presence would keep raiders away, but was that worth the price of housing a monster? Morwell wasn't necessarily a cold man, but he was an unflinching brute, and the severe damage sustained to his face after he was ambushed by Technik dealers had left him with a permanently scarred scowl. He did his best to ease the tensions caused by his looks, but even his smile was enough to send young children running. After weeks of isolation, he began to ponder the idea of taking his own life, an act committed by many of his peers once the flames of battle were extinguished by age or injury. Fortunately for Morwell, his salvation came in the form of a short, jolly man who lived his life at sea.
Morwell had been sitting by himself at the end of the bar at the local pub. He was on his seventh ale and third plate of food when the old fishing boat captain sidled up beside him.
“It's a real shame,” the stranger said, signaling to the bartender for another round.
Morwell turned to him, confused by the open-ended statement and unsure if the man was talking to him or not. Up until that point, he'd only had short bursts of conversation with shopkeepers and cooks - nothing of consequence outside of ordering the things he needed to survive.
“You agree?” The old man was staring at him now, his eyebrows arched impatiently, waiting for an answer.
“Agree to what? I don't understand the question,” Morwell replied.
“It's a real shame that you spend your whole life doing the work everyone needs done yet nobody wants to do themselves, and no one even bothers to say thank you.” The old man chugged his drink, draining it completely and signaling for another. “They don't know any better,” he continued, gesturing to the others in the bar. “They think the world would still keep turning even if we didn't exist. See old Burdly over there?” he exclaimed, pointing to a portly, well-dressed man sipping a fancy drink at the other end of the bar. “He barely acknowledges me, even scoffs when I step back on shore. I suppose some of it’s deserved: I do smell like a chum bucket after a few days at sea. Yet he never turns down a heaping plate of my good work when it’s steaming off the grill. He respects me, he just doesn't know it.”
Morwell gulped his ale and slowly turned to the old man. “Fishermen provide food, and all it costs is labor. What we ‘provided’ had a much deeper cost...”
“It’s all perspective, isn't it?” the man interceded, hearing the melancholy in Morwell’s voice. “If you asked these folks, they’d likely confirm your opinion of yourself and your past deeds. But if you asked the Sea Mothers, they’d say it’s the fishermen who should be considered barbarians, even worse than you think you were. Say, what were you, if you don't mind me asking? Big, rough-looking fella, must have been expedition force...Capital security for the tribunal?”
“Iso...”
The old man paused. ”Whoa. Maybe there's merit to your sulking.”
“No maybe about it, and I'm not sulking,” growled Morwell, clearly sulking. “I'm trying to get drunk but this ale is weak. This is a child's drink where I come from.”
The old man smiled, “Ahh, a man after my own heart. You're absolutely right...I get tipsier from inhaling salt water. Faullen Danvers by the way.”
The old man stuck out his hand. Morwell smirked and wrapped his massive mitt around the weathered hand of the comparatively-tiny fisherman.
“Morwell.”
“No first name?”
“Morwell is fine.”
“Morwell it is. Say Morwell, you care to continue with that whole balance thing you and your Iso comrades adhered to?”
“Why? You got Techniks or Magis in Delvorn?”
“No, no. Not since some of your old comrades ran them out a couple years back. No, I’m talking about fixing the imbalance caused by an old drunk fisherman slowing down over time. At the current rate, these fine folks are on a crash course towards learning just how important I really am to this island, and my wee granddaughter is barely old enough to hold a line. I'm asking if you'd set aside your retirement and help me on my boat. Seeing as how you ain't going to be running for office anytime soon, it'd be a much better use of your time...and talents.”
After a couple more drinks Morwell agreed to the arrangement, and ever since he'd spent his days helping out the old man on the boat. By the end of their first season together their hauls had doubled and the town seldom went without fresh fish, even during the harsh winter months. The townspeople gradually grew fonder of the duo, and after a while their trepidation turned to admiration, and the men became key figures in Delvorn.
The relationship between the two men blossomed as well, and before long Morwell saw Danvers in much the same light he'd seen Caldwell before, as a surrogate father of sorts. At one point, Danvers’ granddaughter Laureena had even started to call him “Uncle Morwy.” It was something he never knew he wanted, never knew he needed, and yet once he had it, Morwell knew he would fight for it more fiercely than any mission the capital had ever assigned him.
Now, stranded in an alien landscape, panic struck Morwell’s heart as the fog lifted from his memory. They'd been about a half a day into their journey when Morwell had heard movement below deck. Thinking it may have been an artox - a large, rat-like amphibious creature that likes to slip on deck and gorge itself on fish guts - Morwell had grabbed his old service revolver and descended into the hold. There was a stowaway alright, but not what either he or Danvers had expected.
Laureena had always begged them to let her come along but Danvers had always told her it was too dangerous, instead leaving her with neighbors when they went on longer fishing runs. Being the clever, stubborn girl she was, she'd decided that instead of asking this time, she'd just hide in an empty barrel and pop out when they were too far into their journey to turn around, as she knew they couldn’t risk losing out on the last haul of the autumn season.
At first, Danvers was furious. “Laureena, I told you it was too dangerous, why'd you disobey me?”
“I didn't,” she'd said with a sly smile. “He brought me!” She pointed at Morwell.
“Laureena, it's not nice to lie,” Morwell had responded, shooting a confused look at the little girl.
“I was napping in a barrel, like I sometimes like to do lately, and Uncle Morwy just picked me up and put me in the boat. By the time I woke up, it was too late. You’d already left the harbor.”
Morwell shrugged. “Sneaky, but she's not wrong. Technically, I brought her on board. Guess I need to check the barrels a little more carefully from now on.”
The old man struggled to stay mad. The child had her mother's sharp wit, and every time a little of her personality came out in Laureena he loved the girl even more for it, though it made his heart ache equally for his daughter. Seeing as there was no way out of the situation, they gave Laureena small, odd jobs to keep her preoccupied and safe. The last Morwell could remember was seeing her mending a net on the bow, then darkness.
“Laureena! Laureena!” Morwell called out frantically. He was worried about Danvers too, but he knew the old man could handle himself just fine. Laureena was too young, too innocent, and too brave. A dangerous combination in an unknown land.
Morwell’s mind flashed back to one of his last missions: A quick arrest and relocation of a Magi who'd broken his parole by using a spell to eliminate blight from a farmer's field for an exorbitant price. On paper it was an easy task, as the Magi didn't have a violent record. Because of this, Morwell had been paired with a young Iso named Delagu, a Callan woman with high potential who simply hadn't logged enough time yet to get promoted.
The trouble was, Delagu was good. Too good. In their spars together he had always struggled to deal with her speed and agility. She had bested many veterans in training, only meeting her match in Caldwell himself (as most did). And she let these victories in camp - safe-space victories against peers - go to her head. Before long, her reputation wasn’t built on her prowess in combat, but on her flippant, conceited attitude and penchant for not following orders.
When they arrived to detain the Magi, Delagu had run ahead hoping to gain favor with the Isorropia officers who had tagged along to monitor her progress. Expecting a single Magi, she'd readied an avtimag bomb and prepared to erase the Magi’s capacity for sorcery. Despite being a less-lethal option, it was still an extreme measure for such a low-level offense. Anything magic that an avtimag field comes into contact with is rendered permanently inert, and though the bombs didn’t kill Magi themselves outright, to some the loss of their abilities was a death in and of itself.
As Morwell raced to catch her, he heard the whirring of machinery then an agonized scream punctured by silence. The Magi, fearful of being exiled to the Outer Rings, had hired some Technik thugs for protection. Delagu was fully prepared for magic, but not for mechs. The metallic appendages tore her to pieces in an instant. Pride before the fall.
Morwell needed to find Laureena and Danvers fast. Whatever this place was, it was nothing like what they knew on Delvorn or on the sea, and both the captain and his granddaughter were simply too stubborn to sit around and wait for help. Morwell rushed over to the canvas bag he brought everywhere with him, a remnant of his time in the military. Inside was his service revolver and a few other gadgets, including some avtimag bombs he kept with him in case they ever got boarded by Magi pirates. Possessing Iso-grade weapons was technically illegal now that Morwell had been decommissioned, but it wasn’t like his old unit noticed when they went missing. They were the strongest possible defense against magic, and he was a firm believer of being thoroughly prepared. Morwell loaded up the rest of the free space in the bag with food parcels and water for himself and his friends, assuming they too had probably gone a while without.
Though his instincts told him they were likely no longer on board, Morwell swiftly opened the hatch to the decks below anyway, shining his wrist light around to see if the two had secured themselves below deck and weren’t responding to his calls. Outside of a small pile of now-rotting fish, nothing was there.
Next, he raced over to what was left of the small cabin that housed the steering wheel and bunks, praying he wouldn't find their bodies beneath the debris. He flung away large pieces of broken wood, relieved to see his friends weren't there either, though it meant for certain that they had left the boat and were now wandering somewhere in this new, harsh environment.
At this point, Morwell was becoming desperate, a sensation he had rarely felt before beginning his new life in Delvorn. As a member of an Isorropia unit, Morwell had grown calloused to loss. Dealing with the full spectrum of criminals willing to push the limits of magic and technology was deadly work. His defense mechanism against it was to never grow attached, which aided him when he needed to make the tough choice between a successful mission and the lives of those around him. He learned this callousness from Caldwell. Danvers and Laureen had helped him unlearn it. They gave him strength, but in doing so had reintroduced a weakness in him that he was simply unequipped to deal with.
As he searched the deck, Morwell took notice of a large rock formation off the bow of the boat. It was an unusual shape, smooth and covered in indentations that looked more like etched symbols than anything the natural world could produce. There was a gaping, impossibly symmetric opening in the middle of the formation, with a level bit of rock leading up from the sandy surface that dominated the landscape. Looking around, he couldn't imagine his two companions could have gone in a different direction. Once he noticed small footprints in the sand leading to the odd landmark, he was convinced.
The distance from the bow to the rock formation couldn't have been more than 100 meters, though he didn't dare begin his journey on foot. It appeared there was a layer of liquid just below the surface, so the sand wouldn’t have the stability of a normal beach or riverbed. While Danvers and Laureen may have been light enough to cross the distance without issue, Morwell's large frame was too heavy to gracefully glide across the surface of anything fragile, a lesson he learned while wandering the jungles of the Outer Rings in his early years.
The key to traversing a surface like this was evenly distributing one's weight, which wasn't an easy task for someone like Morwell who was the size of two normal-sized men stacked on top of each other. He didn’t have time to fashion anything that could attach to his feet, so the battered ship would have to function as a platform instead.
He began tossing bits and pieces of the broken boat onto the sand, spread out evenly to distribute weight until he felt assured there was enough to get him across safely. Before hopping down, he attached a length or rope to the ship, just in case his plan didn't work out and he was forced to retreat and re-plan. Confident in his approach, Morwell slung his bag over his shoulder and slowly lowered himself over the side.
The temperature rose significantly as his feet touched a large chunk of wood that had broken off the deck. He began sweating profusely as he balanced himself on the makeshift platform, picking up the battered planks of wood from behind and then slinging them out in front of him to continue the path forward.
After what seemed like hours of grueling work, Morwell finally got close enough to reach solid ground, relieved that the heat from the sand dissipated as soon as he reached the rock formation. In fact, it was eerily cool here, like walking into an underground wine cellar while the summer sun bakes away at the house above.
He took a moment to rest, untying the rope from his waist, popping open a water skin, and pouring the contents into his mouth. As thirsty as he was, he left the rest for Danvers and Laureena. Morwell was conditioned to survive harsh environments and situations, but they weren’t. It wasn't worth escaping if he had to escape alone.
As he regained composure, Morwell took notice of his surroundings. What he had assumed was a cave now looked more like the entrance to a dwelling. The stone around him was weathered but definitely carved by the hands of someone or something, strange shapes and hieroglyphics covering every centimeter of the large, gaping entrance. In a way, they reminded him of cave markings he'd come across in the Outer Rings, though these seemed significantly more refined and consistent. And while he was definitely no expert in ancient languages, the markings were pictorial enough in nature to give him a clear sense of their intention.
The bits closer to the edge of the space, nearest the sand, illustrated a group of humanoid beings rising from the water and moving onto land. The series continued, showing these humanoids developing the land and technology and spreading further across a series of islands and landmasses, some of which he recognized from maps in his Iso days. Whoever created these works used a style that elicited a positive response: Smooth lines flowing from one picture to the next, the characters in each appearing strong and confident. However, halfway through, the tone changed abruptly.
It was as if a different artist took over from that point, the smooth lines turning jagged and the pictures getting bleaker and bleaker as they continued towards the cave opening. From what he could deduce, the progress of these humanoids had resulted in something they could not control, something that reduced their numbers and destroyed their lands. A fiery shape became frequent throughout, a symbol of destruction that grew larger and larger as the carvings became more abstract and terrifying.
The carvings changed again directly before the entrance, with the illustrations becoming noticeably richer in detail. An oval shape appeared to come from the sky, stopping above the fiery shape that had dominated the carvings to that point. The bottom of the oval opened and tiny dotted lines, which he assumed represented rain, poured out. The next scene showed the fiery shape shrinking and finally being encapsulated in an orb, surrounded by the humanoids raising their hands in celebration. The oval shape then drifted off into the sky, and the illustrations were replaced by unusual symbols of a language Morwell couldn’t place, but sensed was long forgotten in this world.
Morwell didn't know what to make of this visual parable, and felt uncharacteristically uneasy as he ventured towards the opening where he hoped to find his friends. He’d never had to think about deciphering pictographs or anything like that in the past, as each Isorropia unit always had a few individuals on hand that were well-versed in the languages, cultures, and histories of the people they interacted with. This was an absolutely essential part of their ability to enforce the laws of the Capital Islands, with diplomacy first and force as a last resort. It wasn't a perfect system, but it was heads and tails above the inquisitors of old who had left a trail of destruction in their wake under the guise of “keeping peace.”
As Morwell moved closer to the entrance, the temperature spiked again, like stepping out from a cool breeze into a house on fire. The sensation stopped him in his tracks, but the heat still grew, as if it were drawing closer and closer though he stood still. He stepped to the side of the entrance and found some relief, but it was short-lived. His arm hairs begin to curl and singe as the source of the unnatural heat continued to make its way towards the entrance of the rock formation.
With the heat now unbearable, Morwell was sure that whatever was coming to greet him could be his end. His blood boiled beneath his skin and he could smell the hairs burning inside of his nostrils with each breath. Instinctively, he reached into his bag and pulled out two avtimag bombs, knowing that nothing born of the mundane world could produce such oppressive heat.
Morwell sprinted as far away from the entrance as he could, back past the pictographs to the edge of his makeshift bridge, his toes now on the edge of the boiling sand that he'd tried so hard to avoid earlier. He turned and faced the entrance again and saw a flaming form that burned like the sun taking shape inside the cavern.
Hunched and cramped in the sizable passageway, the entity dwarfed even a man of Morwell’s stature, though its true size and form was difficult to discern due to its fiery composition. What appeared to be long, simian-like arms drug behind it creating canals of fire and glass as the heat of its body kissed the sand. It didn’t have legs, rather it propelled itself atop a mass of white-hot tendrils that swam through the ground as if it was water. The one part that could easily be distinguished, however, was the creature's head, which was encased in a metallic helmet that appeared to contain the fire that raged across the rest of its body.
As it lurched through the cave, the fiery form began to pulsate, with each contraction releasing short yet intense waves of heat that traveled past the stone threshold and across the shore. It seemed as though the creature was battling with some unseen force, a force that was fading and losing control with each passing moment.
Morwell dropped to a knee, unable to support his weight as his breath turned to steam and his eyes sizzled beneath his eyelids. He tried to brace himself on the makeshift path but accidentally plunged a hand into the boiling sand instead, causing his fingers to immediately blister and peel. Pain escaped his body in raspy gasps, but he clenched his teeth and continued to reach for the path blindly. His obliterated hand soon met the edge of the wood, and with what strength he could muster, Morwell pulled the plank up and swung it around to extend the path back towards the boat. In his hobbled condition, it was a fruitless effort to try and retreat, but years of training had kicked his body into survival mode. Any intention of escape was short-lived.
With one last pulsating expansion, the creature emerged from the stone entranceway and broke free from whatever invisible adversary had been trying to contain it, sending out an unfathomable surge of white-hot energy in all directions like a shockwave.
The effect was instantaneous, like gunpowder ignited or a flareup on the surface of a star. In that moment, Francois Alintus Morwell, Isorropia Specialist First Class, legendary hero of the Fogilia Uprising, nightmare of illegal Magi and Technik operations, was reduced to a charred, skeletal state, his burnt bones falling to the ground in a clattering heap. As Morwell’s incinerated remains struck the ground and turned to ash, the avtimag bombs he had held simply exploded from the heat, casting a blue haze in a wide perimeter around the fallen man that extended into the rock entranceway.
The fiery form seized, recoiling as it was bombarded with the Capital Island’s strongest defense against magic. Blue shimmering particles of avtimag material clung to its body, smothering and extinguishing the flames and causing it to violently shudder and thrash. As the containment field took effect, its limbs shrank and retracted, diminishing into the metallic helmet as its magic was permanently leached away and contained by the blue, glistening light. Whatever horrible power the creature was about to unleash upon the world was no more; Morwell was never one to leave a fight unfinished.
As quickly as it began, the chaotic scene devolved into eerie silence, as the remains of a once unstoppable man and the remnants of some primordial terror lay quietly smoldering on the shore of an impossible sea.
Fate Index:
1. Protagonist dies
2. Someone important to the protagonist dies
3. Protagonist meets first love
4. Protagonist has great power but loses it
5. Protagonist’s identity is thrown into question
6. Flashback episode
7. Protagonist learns unsettling information
8. Protagonist joins or befriends powerful creature
9. Protagonist leaves home for the first time
10. Something consequential turns out to be an illusion
11. Shift in power
12. Betrayal
13. Protagonist finds powerful item or treasure
14. Protagonist discovers great power
15. Semi-permanent transformation
16. Permanent transformation
17. Protagonist takes up cause of beleaguered
18. Protagonist becomes antagonist
19. Protagonist becomes famous
20. Protagonist becomes infamous
Outcomes Used:
1. Protagonist dies
16. Permanent transformation
Added outcomes:
Kill co-writer’s protagonist
Goonie squad
