|Linked to||The Abyss of Graves|
Story description[edit | edit source]
The waters flow gently around you. Alive. Curious. Adoring.
Trigger conditions[edit | edit source]
Interactions[edit | edit source]
There is something in the darkness. No, there is someone in the darkness.
Your hand disturbs the hem of a black dress. You look up: a pale face. Her features seem washed away; as fluid as her gown of ink.
"I cannot remember how long it has been since I had a companion." Her voice quavers. Her arms reach out around you, far longer than they have any right to be.
|Enter her embrace
She will be alone no longer.
The folds of her dress drape about you. They are snug and familiar as your bedsheets. Sleep takes you.
You awake. You are home in your lodgings. There is the crack in the ceiling you know so well, and the chip on the bedpost. The covers float lazily off you. The darkness is abyssal, but your candles glow with St Brendan's fire. You swim to your window. London's streets are empty, and not as you remember them. Your favourite haunts are joined in a row, all within convenient walking distance. Silent, deserted; reserved only for you. Beyond them are houses centuries older, all abandoned.
A playful current tugs at you. A familiar voice. You open your window, and allow the current to carry you to Lady Black's colonnaded palace. Perhaps today, her Ladyship will desire conversation, or a swim through her glowing gardens. Perhaps (you shudder) she has decided to resume the violin. Or perhaps she merely wants to sit at her watery hearth in companionable silence.
What would she do without you?
|Game note: Your crew was plagued with strange dreams after you vanished forever into the zee. The records of these dreams were collated into a single volume. The Ministry of Public Decency burned most of them. Most.Game note: This will end your game. But future captains will receive a bonus.|
|Tug your line! Ascend!
How many zailors can claim to have escaped Lady Black?
The coffin speeds upwards. Lady Black follows you, silently. She does not labour to keep pace. She examines you through your face-visor with fierce interest, as though trying to commit your every feature to memory.
After seven minutes she sighs.
After fourteen minutes she plucks a strand of her coiling hair, and ties it to your line.
After twenty one minutes, as your zubmarine comes into view, she grasps your hand. She squeezes your fingers urgently. Then her hand slips from yours, and she is gone.