Myrryn Larthessa

Myrryn Larthessa hails from Nimbrassa, a volcanic protectorate within Queen Thal'vanna's Drowned Dominion of Azurlith . Raised in The Ember Aclove, she was chosen to undergo the The Trials of Ascension, a series of brutal trials overseen by the Vassel Warlord Saekhal Varnoss, who selects emissaries strong enough to carry the Queen’s will to the chaotic surface world.

Now on her sacred Nyath’leth Valorym—The Pilgrimage of the Deep Queen—

Myrryn seeks to:

- Restore balance to polluted water

-Reclaim relics of the divine,

-Experience the elements alien to the sea (fire, sky, earth).

A Tidebound, she follows Thal’vanna not only in faith, but in obedience—her divine amulet acting as a tether to the Queen’s Oceanmind.

Physical Description

General Physical Condition

Myrryn is deceptively compact, standing at just five feet tall, yet her presence fills whatever space she enters. Her smaller stature belies a body carved by relentless tide trials and divine shaping. She moves with a liquid grace that suggests trained lethality—every step deliberate, every pivot calculated.

Her frame is streamlined and coiled, like a deep-sea predator: lean muscle tightly knit under smooth, ocean-dark skin. Her movements are fluid, with the precision of a ritual dancer and the tension of a coiled eel. She has the bearing of someone always poised to strike—or to kneel in prayer.

Her most striking physical trait is the dual anatomy gifted by the Current: humanoid legs with webbed toes for land traversal, and a long, sinuous mertail trailing from her lower spine. This eel-like appendage balances her land gait while unfurling behind her in water like a shadow beneath the waves.

Despite her short height, she never seems small. Myrryn's posture is erect, noble, and unwavering, often staring down much taller foes with the kind of confidence that only divine backing—and brutal conditioning—can instill.

Body Features

Her skin is a deep, velvet-blue, reminiscent of twilight surf, and across her back and shoulders dance faint, pearlescent patterns shaped like current spirals and tide-runes. These marks subtly shift in brightness with her mood or divine influence.

Framing her skull are headplates made of living, etched scale—like armor forged from reefbone, adding a crown-like ridge to her brow and temples. These plates gleam with salt-patina and carry intricate carvings from her enclave—memories inscribed into flesh.

Her fingers and toes are webbed, tipped with claws hard as stone and capable of splitting kelp rope or surf hide. Coral plating, naturally grown through rites and training, sheaths her shins, knees, and the tops of her feet—bonded not by straps, but by communion. These plates crackle when struck, then regrow like barnacles over time.

Facial Features

Myrryn’s face is long and elegant, carved by discipline and seawater. Her features are symmetrical and slightly angular, with high cheekbones, a narrow chin, and smooth lines marked by faint coral-etched scars and salt-burns from sacred rites.

She wears her dark blue hair in thick, salt-tangled strands, often braided and woven through with charms of kelp thread, tiny shark teeth, and polished reefstones. Thin tendrils occasionally float even on land—imbued with a touch of perpetual moisture.

Her eyes are bottomless black, completely void of whites or irises. They reflect light like polished obsidian and seem to drink in a room. When she channels divine power, glyphs spiral across their surface like tide sigils stirred into ink.

Over her left eye rests a tattered leather eyepatch, scavenged from a slain undead pirate captain. It’s plain, weather-beaten, and unmarked—worn as a symbol of conquest, camouflage, and quiet mockery. Beneath it, her eye remains whole, but she rarely removes it as she finds the surface world "too bright".

Identifying Characteristics

Sacred Dual Form: Her tail and legs mark her as one born of both depths and surface—a physical manifestation of Thal’vanna’s duality.

Trio of the Spiral Bloom: Adhered across her chest and lower abdomen is a trio of starfish—divine garments that glow in the dark unless suppressed. They emit soft, bioluminescent pulses in rhythm with the nearby tides.

Tidecall Runes: Her right bicep bears brands in ceremonial script, burned in by molten coral during her rite of allegiance.

Amulet of the Drowned Throne: Hanging from her neck is a living coral-encased shard that contains a droplet of ever-moving water, a substance that is an extension of the Deep Queen herself. Blessed not only by Thal'vanna, but also through the flowing will of Aquavanthe, It pulses faintly, a second heartbeat, and acts as both a spiritual tether and a source of subtle command. When she prays, it sometimes responds with warmth or pressure, like the touch of the sea itself.

Physical quirks

Her tail never rests, often swaying behind her with the rhythm of unseen waves.

She rarely blinks unless reminded to, leading to long, unblinking stares that unsettle those not used to her presence.

Salt constantly clings to her skin, leaving behind a faint crystalline shimmer even after drying off.

When standing still, she subtly sways, as if the ocean still tugs at her balance.

She speaks with the deliberate cadence of ritual chant, occasionally lapsing into prayers mid-thought.

Special abilities

Queen’s Call: Myrryn may, in moments of great emotional clarity or divine purpose, be overtaken by a prophetic vision or a physical compulsion. These moments are sacred, unpredictable, and unignorable.

Apparel & Accessories

Myrryn's surface disguise blends practicality with symbolism. Her salt-worn leather doublet is pirate-standard—cut from seal-hide and brine-scorched, with one sleeve entirely missing, revealing the tidecall runes beneath. The intact sleeve is reinforced with black coral stitching, functioning as armor in disguise.

She wears a utility gunbelt reforged from scavenged rigging, lined with cut aquamarine seaglass.

Coral plating and scavenged pirate leather cover her lower legs and feet, like reef-forged greaves, used for bracing and delivering crushing kicks. The coral is bonded directly to her flesh via a ritual ointment and murmured rites.

She wears no cape, no captain's sash—only what she has earned, bled for, or sanctified.

Specialized Equipment

Trained, tactical, and honed through doctrine

Druidic Seaform Mastery: Myrryn has been meticulously trained in sacred shapeshifting rites, allowing her to Wild Shape into specific aquatic creatures from an early age—shark, turtle, crab, octopus, eel, and seabird—all tied to mythic forms in Thal’vanna’s doctrine.
Tactical Hybridization (Ascension Path): Through a future divine relic, she will gain the ability to partially transform—manifesting squid limbs, shark teeth, or water-forged talons while retaining her humanoid mind and shape. These hybrid forms are considered acts of divine invocation.
Close-Quarters Coral Combat: With reefbone plating bonded to her shins and coral-tipped claws, Myrryn is a trained practitioner of undersea melee arts—focused on swift, punishing strikes delivered while swimming or in tight caverns.
Ritual Breath Control: Her training allows her to hold her breath for over an hour and survive in extreme underwater pressures, thanks to controlled coral-lung compression.

Mental characteristics

Personal history

Myrryn hatched in Nimbrassa during a trenchquake and was the sole survivor of her clutch. Her dual-tail and leg form marked her for divine purpose. Raised communally in the Ember Alcove, she was chosen early for pilgrimage training under the eye of Warlord Saekhal Varnos. She has never known her biological parents.

Gender Identity

Assigned female during early formation but recognizes morphogenic potential. As a dual-formed Tideborn, Myrryn views her gender as tide-marked—unchanging only so long as the Current wills it. She would accept transition as sacred duty if required.

Sexuality

Myrryn is currently abstinent due to her sacred exile status and three very persistent starfish. She views intimacy as a distraction from divine purpose and remains intentionally distant, though not inexperienced (her culture embraces ritualized group mating detached from emotion, and she is thoroughly book learned on the intricacies of sex).

Education

Myrryn trained in both martial and divine studies within the Ember Alcove of Nimbrassa. She learned pressure resistance, underwater combat, doctrine recitation, and communion through songstone trance. She also received scribe training and dream interpretation schooling.

Employment

Myrryn is a sanctified Tidebound Pilgrim, assigned by the Queen to cleanse polluted waters, retrieve relics, and carry the Current to unclaimed lands. She has no formal employment but is recognized as a divine agent under royal authority.

Accomplishments & Achievements

Survived the Rite of Trench Vigil and the Coral Branding.
Completed the Rite of Ascension.
Defeated the undead pirate captain corrupting surface waters and claimed part of his cursed ship to be reforged into the Tidebreaker.
Successfully sanctified her first body of surface water.

Mental Trauma

Myrryn carries unspoken grief over not knowing her parents and struggles with moments of isolation. Nightmares of being swallowed by untamed surface elements recur, as do visions of her own shell being emptied forever. She fears becoming disconnected from the Current, but more so, she fears flowing against it.

Intellectual Characteristics

Myrryn is highly literate in divine scripture, elemental theology, and aquatic biology. Prone to outdated speech, heavy theological metaphors, and factual confidence even when incorrect. She meticulously documents her observations in scriptform journals, an endeavor that leaves her motives all to transparent.

Morality & Philosophy

Myrryn is lawfully Neutral. She believes balance must be enforced, even through sacrifice. She must uphold the Deep Queen’s doctrine above all, but privately grapples with surface morality. Myrryn believes stagnation breeds corruption, and all things must flow or be purged.

Taboos

Refuses to remove her chastity garments without a direct sign from the Queen.
Will not enter freshwater lakes or stagnant rivers without preparing a sanctification rite.
Feels disgust toward surface dwellers who waste or taint saltwater.

Personality Characteristics

Motivation

Myrryn is driven by a singular, all-consuming purpose: to fulfill the will of the Deep Queen, no matter the personal cost. She sees her pilgrimage as sacred, and her every action is weighed against whether it serves balance and sanctity. Beneath this, however, lingers a quieter, personal hunger — to understand the land and validate her worth beyond doctrine. She is desperate not to falter, not just in service to her god-queen, but in proving that her rare form and path were chosen for something meaningful.

Savvies & Ineptitudes

Savvies:

Oceanic theology and doctrine
Underwater navigation and aquatic beast knowledge
Ritual speech and sacred combat choreography
Reading people’s intent through tone and tension
Endurance under pressure—literal and metaphorical

Ineptitudes:

Surface social nuance (e.g., sarcasm, flirting)
Humor (especially irony and satire—she takes things at face value)
Cooking anything not sea-based (everything tastes of brine)
Reading maps that aren’t tide charts
Casual lying — she can deceive, but it causes her visible discomfort

Likes & Dislikes

Likes:

Deep trenches, volcanic vents, and pressure-rich places
Coral architecture and slow-growing art
Singing sea hymns alone in caves
Storms — they make her feel seen
People who listen with reverence (even if confused)

Dislikes:

Warm freshwater (feels wrong on her skin)
Blunt or crude speech — especially irreverence
Large crowds with no hierarchy
Wasteful eating habits, especially overindulgence
Being called “short”

Virtues & Personality perks

Disciplined: Keeps an iron grip on emotion and mission
Protective: She guards innocents fiercely—even those she considers heretics
Devoted: Never falters in her rituals or responsibilities
Tactically graceful: Combines beauty and brutality in equal parts
Ceremonial memory: Remembers rites, names, and sacred lines perfectly

Vices & Personality flaws

Sanctimonious: Believes most surface folk are spiritually inferior
Judgmental: Measures people by how well they align with her queen’s teachings
Repressed: Denies her emotional and romantic impulses
Rigid: Has difficulty adapting plans or accepting dissent
Secretly insecure: Her perfectionism hides deep-rooted imposter syndrome

Personality Quirks

Her tail never rests—if she’s still, it coils or flicks rhythmically
Breathes rhythmically, sometimes audibly, when centering for prayer
Tends to tap a finger twice on her chest where the amulet rests before making decisions
Will speak in outdated or overly formal Common (“I beseech thee to relinquish thy loaf of bread.”)
Has an unconscious habit of grooming—she smooths her coral plates or brushes stray kelp threads back into her belt.

Hygiene

Fastidious in spiritual cleanliness. She will:

Refuse to sleep unless her starfish armor has been rinsed in saltwater
Perform a brief purification rite before and after meals
Braid her hair each morning in a mirror of still water (even if it’s just a puddle)
Carry scented kelp oil to maintain the sacred balance between smell and cleanliness

She is obsessive about sanctity but indifferent to typical surface standards of “grooming.” Her boots might be muddy, but her soul is spotless.

Social

Contacts & Relations

Queen Thal’vanna – Her goddess and ruler, whom she has only met once during her blessing.
Warlord Saekhal Varnos – The vassal ruler of Nimbrassa and the one who selected her for the Rite of Ascension. She respects him like a distant, severe father.
Varoz Thain – A rival Tidebound pilgrim. Once a companion, now a complicated figure of unresolved emotions, spiritual tension, and romantic restraint.
Surface Allies – Developing. She views most party members as “Assigned Currents” — forces she must flow with, even if she doesn’t understand them yet.

Family Ties

None recorded. Like many trenchborn tritons, Myrryn’s clutch was left unclaimed. Her “family” was the Ember Alcove—an order of elder tidecallers and martial trainers who raised her communally. She has no concept of parents, siblings, or lineage; only oaths and chosen bonds.

Religious Views

Myrryn is a zealot in practice, but not blind in faith. She believes Thal’vanna is the divine echo of water’s will, and that the Queen’s word is the anchor that holds reality in place. Her rituals are precise, her doctrine memorized—but she has begun to quietly question how much of her faith is divine truth versus weaponized devotion.
She believes that balance is more important than righteousness, and that corruption must be cleansed—even if the cost is personal.

Social Aptitude

She’s… awkward.

She speaks formally, with commanding presence but little emotional subtlety.
She expects others to defer, listen, or be corrected.
That said, she has genuine warmth for those who show spiritual curiosity or demonstrate courage.
When unsure of etiquette, she defaults to ritual behavior—offering prayers, blessings, or sea-glyphs instead of actual conversation.

Mannerisms

Often folds her hands behind her back like a commander.
Touches her amulet when hearing something sacrilegious.
Nods in slow, ritualistic movements—even when casual agreement is expected.
May bow her head when entering new rooms, especially those that smell of brine or wood rot (signs of desecration).

Hobbies & Pets

Maintains a daily journal where she records the state of the tides, her personal doubts, and the purity of each body of water she finds.
Enjoys singing tide psalms—not for an audience, but to test the acoustics of unfamiliar places.
Collects lost surface trinkets—not as treasure, but as curiosities to catalog in reverence (like dried matchbooks, hair combs, broken glasswork).

Wealth & Financial state

Modest by material standards. Myrryn carries very little gold, as personal ownership is seen as a form of spiritual clutter. Her true wealth lies in her relics (like her amulet and Tidebreaker) and social authority among those who recognize her divine role. She considers bartering sacred and views coin as a crude placeholder for trust.

View Character Profile

Alignment

Lawful Neutral

Honorary & Occupational Titles

Tidebound Ascendant
Pilgrim of the Deep Queen
Sanctifier of the Shielded Flow
Bearer of Tidebreaker
The One with Two Paths (a whispered moniker among coral clerics, referencing her dual anatomy).

Age

Birthplace

Nimbrassa

Children

Current Residence

Wandering sanctifier (AKA housingly challenged)

Gender

Female

Eyes

Black through the Sclera

Hair

Dark Blue (with silvers and greens)

Skin Tone/Pigmentation

Dark Blue

Height

5 ft

Weight

100 lbs

Quotes & Catchphrases

“The tide sees all, though it whispers in silence.”
“Do not mistake my mercy for your righteousness.”
“I am no emissary—I am the storm that drowns the rot.”
“Let it be sanctified… or let it be sunk.”
“You poor thing—how terribly untethered you must feel without divine current.”

She often adds “by the Current’s will” at the end of observations, even mundane ones.

Aligned Organization

The Ember Current

Other Affiliations

Known Languages

Common, Primordial, Aquan, Old Tongue (ritual use only), and conversational Selkine. Can read coral-script

The Journal Entry’s title

Begin writing your story here...

Burned Journal Page – “The Ceremony of Reflections”

~ Hidden entry. Scrawled in haste. Ink blotched by the tide. Only this copy remains in memory. ~ Tonight was the Ceremony of Reflections. They placed us in the Luminous Vaults—one by one—each of us with a shallow bowl of moon-tide water. We were told to peer into the basin and watch. No spell. No song. Just see. The water did not show me doctrine. It did not show me the face of Thal’vanna. It showed me moments. Small, ridiculous, precious things. I saw Varoz—young, before the Watch ever weathered him. He was dripping wet, breathless with laughter, holding up a stinging coral to dare me into touching it. I remember how the burn swelled along my palm, and how I swore never to trust him again. I remember how he spent three days in silence beside me as penance. I forgave him on the fourth without a word. I saw my first dive. My fingers breaking the vent-warm surface above Nimbrassa. My lungs screaming as I touched open current. I thought it was the entire world. I thought I would never come back. I saw the memory of a lullaby—half-remembered, sung in the dark of the hatchery crèche. I do not know who held me. I do not know the melody. But I remember feeling warm, even in the cold. I saw myself. Before the rites. Before the training. Before I ever spoke the name of the Queen aloud. A girl, alone in the tide, clutching a shell she thought could whisper back. I was told to let these things go. To release them into the tide, let them be carried away like sand from a trench shelf. But I couldn’t. Not fully. So I did what no faithful should do. I wrote them here. One page. One breath of rebellion. One soft echo of who I was. I know it must burn. But I needed it to exist. Even just once. If only so that the Current knows what it takes to make a servant. And what it costs to make a weapon. This page was burned in the Rite of Salt and Silence. The memory is gone. But I remember.

The Ascendant's Wake

Journal Entry I – The Scribe’s Pearl Cycle 4 of the Coral Bloom, Season of Rising Vent Heat Today I was given my first journal. It came from Scribe-Tidecaller Vola during the midday rites, wrapped in kelp-twine and sealed with a bit of blue wax. She told me it was mine alone—though I must be ready to surrender it should the Queen’s voice need my thoughts. I bowed so deeply I bruised my forehead on the scribe-stone. It’s not like the storybooks. There are no golden clasps or floating ink glyphs. Just soft coral-pulp pages, pressed flat and cured in salt. My stylus is carved from a reef-tongue and hollowed to hold oil-based ink that clings even in water. I must re-ink every few sentences, but the act itself is meditative. Vola called it a “Vessel of Clarity.” I call it mine. She told me to begin writing as though I were already on my Pilgrimage. “Even the deep must dream forward,” she said. So, here is my dream: I will walk upon the land. I will speak above the tides and be understood. I will cleanse the springs, find the ruined temples, and wear the Queen’s radiance openly. I will bring the Current where it does not yet flow. Perhaps I’ll meet a surface creature who doesn’t fear the sea. Perhaps they’ll help me find a ruined island of black glass and moon trees, like in the old fables. Perhaps—no, certainly—I will not fail. I do not yet know what it means to be chosen. But I will be. I’ve already decided. Journal Entry II – The Ember Alcove Duel Cycle 12 of the Fire-Fed Tide, Mid-Current Phase The air shimmered with heat today. The flame vents beneath the sparring pools burned red enough to tint the water, and the coral blades warped slightly in their holders. We were told it would build endurance. I suspect it was meant to humiliate us. We trained in pairs. I was matched with Varoz. Again. I have bested him before—not often, but enough to make a contest of it. Today, however, was different. He fought like something had uncoiled inside him. His strikes were sharper, his shieldwork tighter, and his stance… no longer borrowed from the masters. It was his. He knocked me off the ridge. The crowd fell silent. The water hissed where my body hit the shallow ring. I tasted salt and blood and embarrassment. When I surfaced, he extended his hand. I did not take it. I stood on my own. He didn’t speak right away, which was worse. He only looked at me—looked, with those smoldering eyes that always seem one breath from boiling over. Then he said: “You were too focused on the hymn form. You didn’t bend with the tide.” He said it like a tutor. Or a priest. Or a friend. I hated it. …I hated how much I remembered it. He walked away without waiting for praise. I watched his back until he passed the edge of the reef-shield. The other initiates returned to their drills. I stayed behind to re-align the training corals. My arms were still shaking. I do not envy him. I do not admire him. I am not bothered. This entry is simply for technical review. I will request another partner next time. Or break him cleanly. Journal Entry III – The Drift Trial Cycle 17 of the Dimming Tides, Low Current They sealed my mouth with salt. Just a strip of woven kelp, soaked in ashbrine. “So your prayers stay within,” they said. “Let the Queen hear them directly.” They tied a stone to my waist. A shard of obsidian from the Trench’s throat, etched with the Doctrine’s second tenet. Nothing is hidden from the tides forever. Then they told me to swim. Not to a place. Not toward a goal. Just… drift. For a full turning of the moon. No current, no contact, no questions. Only water. Only silence. At first, I cataloged the fish, the stones, the song of pressure shifting in my ears. Then I began to forget what day it was. Then what hour. Then my own name. Not that I could say it. I hallucinated a sea serpent made of mirrors. I sang prayers into the weave of my mind just to keep something moving inside me. I started arguing with the salt strip in my mouth like it was a priest. I thought of Varoz. I hated that. But worse—I thought of walking. Of sunlight. Of gulls. And I missed them. I returned before they expected me. Not early—just more quickly than most. Vola said I must have been “deeply aligned.” They didn’t see the shivers. They didn’t hear the whimpers that only the trench rock heard. They didn’t know that when I slept last night, I dreamed not of water—but of silence. True silence. Without her. I do not feel chosen. I feel carved. I will not fail. But I know now… I could. Journal Entry IV – The Pressure Between Tides Cycle 1 of the Coral Fallow, Moonless Tide I’ve returned to the Ember Alcove for “reacclimation.” That’s what Vola called it. In truth, it’s a polite exile. They do not send fledglings to the coral baths unless they believe they might fracture. For twelve cycles I’ve been assigned nothing but kelp tending and reef meditation. They let me lie in the hydrothermal beds until my skin begins to blister. I have not been trusted with a blade. It feels like punishment without being named. Worse, it feels like permission to be soft. Vola visited two days ago. She brought me a memory-shell. I expected doctrine. Instead, it was a song—her voice, recorded during her own pilgrimage. A prayer, cracked with exhaustion, near-broken in pitch. It ends with a laugh. A laugh. She told me, “Even coral must be cut to grow.” She placed her hand on my head like I was a guppy and left. I didn’t laugh, but I didn’t cry either. And then—today—Varoz came. We sat in the trench hollow where the hydro vents flicker like fireflies. Neither of us spoke for what felt like a tide. Then he said, “They made me walk the sulfur path. Blindfolded. No anchor.” I stared. No one talks about that rite. It’s meant only for the Queen’s Wrath. “That’s forbidden,” I said. “I know,” he answered. “That’s why I’m telling you.” He didn’t elaborate. I didn’t ask. But for the first time, I looked at him and didn’t see victory. I saw heat—forged, too hot to touch without being changed. Before he left, he said: “You didn’t fail. You just saw her shadow. Most don’t survive the glimpse.” I should have thanked him. I didn’t. Instead, I came here. Wrote this. I have not dreamed of her since the Drift. Not once. I do not feel her. I do not miss her. But I do fear what I might become if I stop reaching. Entry V – Sculpting the Self ~A collection of untimed journal fragments spanning one full seasonal tide. Myrryn’s words grow sharper, more precise. Faith becomes discipline. The Queen remains silent.~

“Stagnation is death.” Doctrine of the Drowned Throne, First Tenet. I recite it now before every cut of the coral blade. The current does not ask me to feel. It asks me to move.

Vola gifted me a reed-etched copy of The Saltflow Codex. I have memorized the opening canticle. Every syllable tastes like stone and steel. Every word is a scar I welcome.

Varoz is being called to Flamewatch duties again. We sparred before his departure. I landed no hits, but I did not yield ground. When I bowed, he touched his forehead to mine.

I did not breathe until he left.

My knife-hand has blistered from ritual shell-cutting. I do not heal it. Pain is part of shaping. Coral reshapes when broken—why should I be different?

The Queen still does not speak. I think I no longer need her voice. I have the text. The rites. The Current.

That is enough.

I passed the Echo Chant Trial without echoing. They said my mind was “too fixed.” I said: “Good.”

I took my oath today to serve on the surface, if called.

I am ready. I do not need comfort. I do not need praise. I only need purpose.

Balance the shore. Third Tenet. The land must be carved clean. I will be a chisel.

I sleep less now. That is fine. The tides do not rest. Why should I?

I no longer ask to hear the Queen.

I ask only to be used. Journal Entry VI – The Return and the Rising Tide Recorded during the Season of Midswells, Ember Moon in waxing phase Varoz returned today. The last I heard, his flamewatch had been deployed to the molten rift beyond the Vent Scar—an unstable trench where even coral dies. A tidecaller whispered that his unit was “compromised.” Another said the survivors numbered fewer than three. That was cycles ago. Long enough that we stopped asking. I found him in the Deepveil Garden, resting near the bioluminescent lilies that only bloom during half-tide. His armor was gone. He wore only a robe of woven reef threads, and even that looked like a weight. He did not greet me when I approached. He only shifted slightly, giving me space on the stone ledge beside him. His eyes were open, but not focused. The glow in them—the fire—was quieter now. I waited. Breath in, breath out. One cycle. Two. He said: “I had forgotten the sound of gardens.” Nothing more. I didn’t press. I could feel it—whatever happened, whatever broke, he had not begun to heal from it. Not yet. Perhaps never. I wanted to say something doctrinal. Something wise. Instead, I said: “You are not alone in your silence.” He didn’t answer. But his shoulder shifted just enough to graze mine. He let it stay there. That night, I returned to the tide-temple for deep meditation. My skin itched along the ridges of my spine. My blood felt warmer. The priestess who cleansed my shellwater paused as she anointed my back and whispered, “You’ve entered your cycle, haven’t you?” I blinked. I had not noticed. It is the beginning of a mating swell. Journal Entry VII – The Swell Beneath the Bones Third Moonrise of the Coral Blooming, One Month Before Brood Tides The mating swell began three nights ago. It started as it always does—without warning, but with perfect timing. The vents beneath Nimbrassa darkened from red to gold, a sign that brooding temperature had been reached. The sea thickened with spores. The coral canopy opened, seeding the water with phosphorescent film. The tides felt heavier, as if every current turned inward. Everything is louder. The pressure hums. My spine aches in pulses. The senior priestess of the Doctrine Chamber, Herald-Tide Ysiri, who normally speaks like carved basalt, is now speaking in poetry. I passed her yesterday and she giggled. Two of the forge-bound acolytes began humming to one another across chambers. Not words. Just sound. Tuning forks of flesh. The silence between them crackled like steam. I cannot think. Not clearly. I document to discipline. To remain whole. Biological observation: The swell is ancient and near-universal. It is not just mating—it is the prelude. Over a full tidecycle-and-a-half (three surface weeks), our bodies soften or harden in preparation. Hormonal tides crest. Certain glands swell or recede. Some Tidefolk grow ornate markings. Some lose hair. Some change entirely. This morning, one of the twins from the Spiral Choir—Elren, who has always been slender and soft-spoken—stepped into the training pool and emerged broader, rougher, taller. His voice deepened. His scent changed. No ceremony. No announcement. Just change. He will remain as such until the swell breaks at the waning third tide. Then, like the eddies beneath moon-split waves, the body may revert—or not. The sea remembers, but she does not bind. No one blinked. It is sacred. It is normal. It is unspoken. Those chosen for pilgrimage must not mate. Even those of us still in training are expected to withdraw. Abstain. Anchor ourselves through meditation, fasting, and exposure to icy current. We are separated from the central caverns now. The air is drier here. The water sharper. I have not seen Varoz. I’ve looked. I told myself it was to assess his well-being. Or see how he has changed. Or determine if he had changed. But it was not discipline that stirred me. It was something darker. Something I do not name. I am ashamed of it. I have re-memorized the Fifth Doctrine twice to burn it from my thoughts. It has not worked. The Queen is quiet. Perhaps she understands. Or perhaps she watches, waiting to see if I will drift. I will not. But I am not still. Journal Entry VIII – The Break Beneath Still Waters Cycle unknown. Drifted far from the alcove. Written with trembling hand in sacred ink. It began with a tremor. A phantom ripple crawling down my spine, so sudden and precise it felt like a command. I heard no voice—but I felt something. Something deep. Familiar. Overwhelming. Not from Her. Not from Thal’vanna. But from the Current itself. I let myself believe it was a calling. That the tug beneath my sternum was a test of faith, not a flood of base instinct. I told myself the waters would not carry me astray. I found him shielding the alcove. Varoz stood at the throat of a narrow crevice, his trident braced, his armor gone. His body was marked in ritual ash, as if he had tried to scrub the swell off his skin. He was alone, a single sentinel between the surging world and the few who wished only to be left untouched. Behind him were five Tidefolk—young, frail, and hidden in retreat. He had made himself a wall between them and the fever-sickened crowd. He saw me. His expression did not change. “You shouldn't be here.” I had no answer. No defense. The tide between us swelled. My hands trembled—not from fear, but the ache that had followed me like a shadow since the Swell began. The challenger came without warning. He surged from the dark like a reefshark in heat—broad-finned, teeth bared, delirious with the Swell. His intent was obvious. Crude. Final. He reached for me. Varoz was faster. His trident clashed against the challenger’s carapace. I felt my body move without permission. I joined the fray. He struck. I kicked. Together, we fell into the motions of combat like twin currents. I don’t remember striking to wound, only to banish. The merman fled, snarling and humiliated. We were left breathing hard, too close. Too raw. Varoz’s hands gripped my shoulders. My body leaned into his. And then: “If you do not leave right now, we will do something we can never undo.” It was not a plea. It was a tether. I left. Not out of obedience. Not out of clarity. Out of fear. I have not slept. The iceflow vault feels colder than ever before. I waited for Her—Thal’vanna. For Her judgment. For Her rage. Or even Her silence, sanctified. But I heard nothing. Not even a whisper. And now I am left with a single, festering thought: I was not called. I was carried. And I chose to drift. I did not just deny the mating swell. I denied the Queen her faithful vessel. What if She never looks upon me again? Journal Entry IX – The Salt of What Does Not Hatch Second tide after the ebbing of the Swell. Recorded in oil-runed coral along the spine of the brood season. The brooding began yesterday. The water near the Ember Grottos has gone still—thick with quiet. The pressure that once roiled through the trench now coils inward. It is the weight of incubation, and of death. The nesting vents are full. Dozens—no, hundreds—of fertilized broods now cling to the magma-cracked nests. Slime-covered bulbs flutter like sea flowers, stirred gently by the warmth. The midwives do not intervene. Only the strong will hatch. Only the strong will swim. This is sacred. This is the cost. I was assigned to monitor hatchings from above, not below. It is an honor to be spared the retrieval. Below, the Tideguard wait with song-blades sheathed, their faces impassive. They will raise only the surviving spawnlings. The rest... will become nutrient. Some do not burst their sacs. Some are eaten by others in the cradle. Others die from pressure, heat, or simply... weakness. None are mourned until the naming tide—when the surviving young are blessed, and the others are remembered in silence. I wept during the anointing ceremony. Not for the fallen. But for what we are. What we’ve always been. Each spawnling lifted from the water was pressed with a mark of glowing ink and offered a droplet of sanctified trenchsalt. Their names were spoken once—never again. I could not stop thinking: what if that had been me? Would my name have vanished like theirs? No one scolded me for crying. That frightened me more than if they had. When I returned to the doctrine chambers, Warlord Varnoss was waiting. He said nothing—he never does—but a Tidebinder placed a scroll into my hands. It was black coral, ringed in seared obsidian. I did not need to unroll it to know what it was. The Trial of Fire Walking. It is not ceremonial. It is correctional. Or so it is whispered. I have heard tales—of scalding tunnels carved through volcanic jets, of chanting beneath flame-cracked vaults. Some return blistered. Some do not return. But all who pass are changed. It was the trial Varoz endured before his silence. Before his fire dimmed. I found him near the Deepveil Garden again. His posture was still, but the fire behind his eyes flickered when he saw what I held. He said nothing at first. Then, without looking at me, he muttered: “Walk slow. Let it hurt. If you rush, you’ll burn everything you’re not ready to give up.” I didn’t understand it then. I think I still don’t. But I committed it to ink anyway. It felt important. I can’t help but wonder—was the fight during the Swell the trial? Was this entire cycle orchestrated? Am I being watched? Has Thal’vanna been guiding me… or testing me? And worse… what if I passed? Journal Entry X – Ash Beneath the Skin Three days after the Trial. Fingers still too raw to write in coral. This is transcribed in bloodwater ink. I do not remember the beginning. Not clearly. They do not blindfold you. That is the cruelty. You see every step before you walk it. You smell the steam, the sulfur, the copper in your own mouth as your skin prepares to blister. The path is long. Cracked stone and red light. Jagged obsidian teeth beneath your feet. The heat does not come all at once—it seeps into you. Seeps through you. Then turns. There were no chants. No guards. Just the low thrum of ancient geothermal pulses… and the pressure of your own heartbeat in your skull. You are given no water. You are offered no help. You walk. You burn. You are witnessed. My body failed halfway through. I fell. Knees kissed the molten glass. My breath left me. I saw her—not Thal’vanna, but some warped vision of the Queen I hold in my head. Not divine. Just disappointed. I dragged myself through the final corridor. My skin bubbled where it touched the floor. My vision flickered like a dying angler’s light. And still—I walked. I don’t know who found me. I awoke in the healing salts, my fingers red as reef-blood, my thoughts thick with doctrine. I passed. Of course I passed. But no one said so. Instead, they let me rest. That… was worse. Varoz visited me yesterday. He brought a stonefruit from the vent gardens, peeled and chilled. He tossed it beside me without a word and sat at the edge of the saltpool, his legs still scarred from his walk. The burns never fully fade. For a while, we just sat. Breathing together. Listening to the water ripple against the basin’s walls. Finally, he spoke: “I knew you would walk it. I didn’t think you’d come back with your mind intact.” I laughed. It hurt to laugh. He winced as if he felt it, too. “You didn’t tell me it whispers,” I said. He stared at the ceiling. “I didn’t want you to think I was mad.” “Are you?” “Only when I think about you.” We both froze. He didn’t look at me when he said the next thing. “I had a dream. Not long ago. I was underwater, but the tide was upside down. I couldn’t breathe unless I swam upward—into the air. Into the sky. I think…” “You’ve been called.” “Yes.” Not formally. Not in rite or scroll. But the Current doesn’t always need parchment. I could feel it around him—like a ripple echoing through pressure seams. The kind that precedes pilgrimage. We both looked at one another then. The kind of look that could say everything, if allowed to. But instead, I said: “You’ll do great things.” He smiled. Just once. Then left. The burn still itches. Not the skin. The place inside me where something cracked and healed wrong. I should feel proud. I should feel blessed. I should feel ready. I feel… hollow. But perhaps the Current requires space to fill. Journal Entry XI – The Salt and the Stillness No date. No location. This entry was carved into coral after the rite had concluded. Words were forbidden during its making. I do not know how long I was alone. The current does not measure time in pulses. It moves. It simply moves. And so did I. I was led in silence to the Salt Chamber—bare, circular, hollow as a womb. No light save the soft shimmer of salt-glow clinging to the ceiling in constellations older than speech. The Tidebinder who greeted me said nothing. She placed a single crystal basin in the center of the room, filled with still, mirrored water. She pointed to my throat. Then to her own sealed lips. The vow began. Three days. Three full tides. No food. No gesture. No chant. No murmur. I was to become nothing but stillness. The ache of silence was not in my throat. It was in my mind. Thoughts formed like bubbles and popped against the inside of my skull. Memories. Regrets. Impulses. They wanted out. I denied them. At first. On the second tide, I began to cry. No sound escaped. Only salt. The sacrifice came next. They allowed me to choose what to cast into the vent. I carried it for hours, circling the basin, holding it in both hands: a page from my very first journal. My words, shaky and arrogant, describing the wonder of the Spiral Reef. My hope. My innocence. I burned the edges with trenchflame. Then I fed it into the vent. It hissed, shriveled, and vanished. I felt like something bit me from the inside. And then: the Sea-Glass. It was laid on the floor before me—a slab, dark and smooth and ancient, rippling with the memory of the Deep. I gazed into it. At first, I saw myself. But not as I am. As I will be. I saw a creature wreathed in divine monstrosity. A silhouette forged of pressure, instinct, and purpose. Four sinuous octopus tentacles surged from my back like sentient limbs, curling with practiced grace and lethal intent. They rippled with intelligence—not mine, not entirely. My lower body was elongated, my feet swallowed by a coiling eel-tail, shimmering with sparks. Lightning webbed along its surface in twitching arcs, buzzing with barely contained rage. My mouth was no longer a mouth. It was a ring of shark’s teeth, layers upon layers, clicking in rhythm with an unseen pulse. Seapetral wings stretched wide from my shoulders—long and wet-feathered, translucent and laced with deep-sea glow. Not for flight, but for guidance, for gliding along unseen currents. One hand was no longer a hand, but a crab-like pincer, massive and jagged, pulsing with marrow-deep strength. Across my chest and shoulders, a thickened turtle shell hide had begun to form—knotted plates of earthen coral, protecting the soft heart still buried beneath. I could not breathe. She—it—was beautiful. She was terrifying. She was me. When I blinked, the vision was gone. The Tidebinder approached. She branded the glyph between my shoulders. Her hand trembled as she did it. No words were spoken. None needed. Later, in the isolation vault, I wept until my throat bled. Not from sorrow. Not from joy. From emptiness—a vacuum so vast I feared even the Current had turned from me. I had burned what I was. I had seen what I must become. I had been silenced, sacrificed, stripped, scarred—and still, the Current remained mute. No Queen. No Current. No self. Just the sound of my own broken breath echoing in sacred dark. And then— A voice. Her voice. Low. Deep. Not heard, but felt—in the marrow, in the water, in the void between heartbeats. Not a question. Not a blessing. Not forgiveness. Just one word: “Rise.”

The Pilgrimage of Myrryn Larthessa

~ Sacred Journal of a Tidebound Ascendant of the Deep Queen, begun upon her Rite of Ascension ~ Journal Entry I – The Day of the Current’s Calling Cycle 7 of the Moon’s Dissolving Wake, Morning of Ascension The water did not move this morning. Not a ripple, not a whisper. Even the song-gliders held their fins, suspended in reverent stillness, as if the very currents dared not interrupt what was to come. The silence was not absence, but presence. I felt it in my marrow. A watching. A waiting. Today, I rise. Today, I climb. The enclave gathered in hush. No chants, no fanfare—only the sacred breath between tides. Vessels of blessing were placed around the central bloom. I was guided into the basin of braiding, where the eldest among us—Salt-Sister Nerien—wove my hair into the ritual coils, entwining strands of bleached pearl, vent-cured trenchglass, and tiny relics of the Ember Alcove’s past. Each thread whispered a lineage I now carry. When she finished, she pressed her hands to my temples and said only this: "Step without flinching, for the sea does not beg the land’s permission." The Tidecaller stood beside the war altar. Warlord Varn did not speak. He does not need to. His eyes—those ember-lit spheres of weathered judgment—met mine as he held out the Shell of Choosing. I thought I would feel fear. I felt heat. Purpose. The shell, warm and pulsing like a heartstone, was placed to my chest. My blood stilled. The Current turned inside me. Not with words. Never with words. But with sensation—like the weight of being seen. I felt a pull, not outward… but upward. A direction without map. A burden without protest. The Queen had looked upon me and judged me ready. And then came the anointing. From the Coral Womb emerged the trio—Vael’shune, Coril’thyne, and Shuun’vali—the living vestments of pilgrimage. Starfish, golden and radiant, grown in the sanctums beneath Azurlith, chosen to cling not merely to flesh but to spirit. They were placed upon my bare skin in ritual silence. The moment they latched, I felt them see me. Not with eyes, but with faith. Their limbs pressed firm, warm, alive. My modesty, my armor, my oath made flesh. Coril’thyne twitched with tension. Vael’shune pulsed comfort. Shuun’vali did not move—but something in my breath calmed. I will never remove them. Not even in death. The rite was swift. There is no lingering after the Current calls. No ceremony to stall what must be endured. I was given dried kelp rations, my sanctified journal, and the weapon I trained beside since my second shell-breaking. No armor. No escort. Pilgrimage is not war. It is witness. And yet— My legs already ache from the climb, and I have not yet left the reef. I am not made for stone. I am made for depth, for sway, for silence. But still—I will go. The surface will see me, and through me, it will see Her. Journal Entry II – Surface Dawning First Tide Above, Mid-Cycle of the Exhaling Current I crested the tide’s edge at dawn. The moment my head broke the surface, I expected revelation. Instead—agony. The sun is not warm. It is terrible. A blinding eye of fire, hung without veil. I turned my face and hissed aloud. The brightness pierced not just my vision but my thoughts. It left no shadows to hide in. I covered one eye with a strip of coral-dyed cloth torn from my travel wrapping. A crude patch, but necessary. Even filtered, the light seared. I do not yet understand how surface folk endure it without wilting. Perhaps they are mad. The air is dry, abrasive—like being scrubbed from the inside. Every breath leaves a sting at the back of my throat. But it is alive. It dances. It trembles with scent and heat and invisible motion. The air has a flavor—dirt and pollen and something… winged. Wrong. There are birds. No, screamers. They do not sing like the kelpfinches of home. They wail, wheeling in the sky like drifting madness, as if challenging the sun to fall and fight them. Their sound grated my bones. I ducked as one passed overhead. It did not notice me. I am humbled. Not by grandeur—but by discomfort. The world above is not sacred—it is offensive. But perhaps that is why we are sent. To find order in what defies it. I have found a cove. It is sheltered by stone ribs, jutting like the bones of some ancient leviathan breached on the land. A pool rests within it—a spring, cold and strange. I tasted it. It is not tainted. But it is unanchored. Untouched by salt, unclaimed by the Current. It sits still, as though awaiting purpose. I shall remain here tonight. I will keep vigil over this water. It may yet bear witness to the Queen’s will. Already, I see the signs of land-born imbalance. The trees are loud. The insects louder. Even the sky has no consistency—clouds scuttle and morph with no rhythm. The surface changes too quickly. No wonder the Queen watches from below. I write this beneath a canopy of tangled wood, laid upon stone warmed by sunlight. My skin is drying. My limbs ache for the pull of tide. But my calling is clear. I will bring sanctity where none flows. I will carve stillness into the chaos. And in time, this land will remember the sea. Journal Entry III – The Fable’s Falsehood Second Tide Above, Deeplight Phase The city was not waiting for me. It never was. I reached the place from the tome today—the one from the Scribe's Vault. The page had depicted towers of alabaster, glittering and crowned with banners sewn from starlight. “A citadel above the sea,” the book said. “A haven of beauty and knowledge, whose arches once sang in harmony with the moon.” I memorized every word. As a child, I pressed my fingers to the page and swore to find it. I have found it. It is nothing. Shattered stone. Crumbled terraces. No alabaster, only weathered chalk. Bramble devours the archways. Moss chokes the crumbled foundations. A twisted column leans like a drunk against the hollowed bones of a central hall. And beetles. Dozens—maybe hundreds—swarming the floor, the walls, the air. The book did not mention the stench of mildew or the shattered bones tucked into the roots. It did not describe the silence—the wrongness—of a place once proud now forgotten. I sat on the cracked basin of a dry fountain and turned three full pages of the tome, looking for something—anything—that matched this wreck. I found none. Not even the stars above matched the sketches. The book lied. Or time did. Or I was never meant to understand the difference. I nearly wept. Not from despair—no, despair is a surface emotion. This was something colder. Emptier. A current unmoored from the tide. A child’s dream torn open to reveal only rot inside. Still… Still, I sanctified it. I pulled the glyph-salt from my satchel. I drew the Fifth Spiral across the cracked stone with my own blood-mixed ink. I offered words. Not holy ones. Honest ones. I said, “You were something once.” I said, “You mattered.” I said, “Be remembered.” Then I bowed. The Current flows even through missteps. Even through ruin. Perhaps especially through ruin. I do not know what purpose this place once served. But I know what I serve now. I lit a blue flame in the center of the ruin and left it there—steady and slow-burning. A beacon. A whisper to the Queen, in case she still listens here. Let this ruin bear witness to my vow: Where stories lie, I will walk. Where fables fail, I will remain. The book ends here. I continue. Journal Entry IV – The Nightfall Ambush Third Tide Above, Moon Drowned I knew I was being watched. It began as a prickling at the nape of my neck. A shift in pressure—unnatural, too still. The birds had stopped their screaming. The wind did not rustle. Even the insects stilled their wings. The ruin’s shadows stretched longer than the sun allowed. Then, laughter. Not the warm kind. Human—perhaps—but frayed at the edges, hoarse with drink or disuse. I retreated toward the cliff path, my shield raised, my blade loose in my hand. I whispered to the Current for stillness. For clarity. Steel answered first. A blade scraped rock just behind me. Then another. The first attacker wore rusted chainmail that stank of fish rot and mold. The second was hooded, quick, and silent. There may have been a third. I couldn’t tell. It was chaos after that. I fought. Not well. Not as I was trained. The shield saved me from the first blow. My cutlass bit flesh on the backswing. But numbers overwhelm technique, and the ground above water is treacherous—slick with moss and uncertain footing. I was shoved, struck, dragged. Something cracked across the back of my head. My eyes filled with white. I fled. I don’t remember choosing to run. I remember pain. The way blood feels when it leaks into your mouth. I remember stumbling through bramble, my foot catching on root after root, thorns dragging across my legs like punishing tongues. And then—water. Not warm. Not welcoming. Cold and cruel. I fell into a tidepool at the cliff base. Salt in the wound. Rocks in my ribs. I couldn’t move. I may have wept. I don’t know. There were voices. Not the cruel ones. Softer. Liquid. Not words, but pulses of sound—clicks, hums, the wet whisper of curious shapes passing through kelp. I saw nothing. I remember light—bioluminescent, flickering above me like stars swimming backwards. I remember something warm pressed to my wounds. Something singing—not a voice, but a rhythm, like a current looping back upon itself. I awoke in a bed of soft kelp. My armor was gone. My blade set beside me. My wounds were wrapped in eelgrass. Salted moss covered my brow. The sea does not abandon her own. Journal Entry V – Dream and Whisper Fourth Tide Above, Current Veiled Last night, I dreamt I was beneath the sea—but it did not feel like home. The waters were wrong. Heavy. Foul with something that moved against the Current. I saw a ship—a hull blackened by time and tide, its planks swollen with rot and stitched with barnacle scars. Sails wept thick brine, not water but blood-salt, and hanging from their masts were charms of teeth and sinew. It creaked as it breathed. Then I saw the eye. Not of a sailor. Not of a beast. An eye grown from the wood itself—veined, ancient, lidless. It watched me. I tried to speak. Tried to call upon the Queen’s name, to invoke her doctrine, her law. But my mouth filled with sand. My voice fled. Only bubbles rose—black, ink-thick, devoured before reaching the surface. And then a whisper. Not a voice in my ear, but a presence in my blood. It said no words. It needed none. The weight of it bent me. Crushed me. Filled me. I awoke gasping in my kelp shelter, the taste of rot still clinging to my tongue. The tide had not risen. The morning was still. And yet… There were sea urchins encircling my resting place. Half a dozen, perfectly spaced—each cradling small shells etched with sigils I did not write. They shimmered with saltlight, flickering like prayers trapped in glass. The message was clear. The Queen sees. Whether it was truly Her—or some echo, some servant, some fragment of the Current—I cannot know. But the corruption is real. And it is close. And it is mine to cleanse. Journal Entry VI – Currents of the Unseen Fifth Tide Above, Moon Faint The urchins have not returned, but their message lingers in the rhythm of my pulse. I feel it now even in stillness—a tug beneath the sternum, as though the Current itself is laced through my ribcage, pulling gently, persistently, toward the west. I began my search at the edge of the bramblewood near the ruin’s fall. There are signs—subtle, but not natural. Trees splintered not by storm but by force. Moss blackened not with rot, but with something deeper, as if the very tide recoiled from it. Birds will not land here. Insects hiss when I pass. Even the freshwater tastes bitter. I found a clearing where the grass did not grow. A ring of scorched earth, half-buried anchors strewn like bones in a forgotten graveyard. There was no ship—but something had been moored here. I knelt at the center and placed both hands to the soil. It throbbed with pressure, like a pulse out of step with the world. The Queen teaches that pressure is memory. That water does not forget where it has been, or what has moved through it. I whispered the Doctrine’s fourth tenet: “Claim the drowned and the lost.” In reply, the earth shivered. Not violently—but as if exhaling. I carved a sigil of reclamation into the dirt with my blade. I sprinkled salt into the lines. Then I sang—not a hymn, but a dirge, old and half-remembered, from my childhood in Nimbrassa. A lullaby for the lost. For the drowned. When it ended, I opened my eyes. There, resting at the edge of the ring, was a single coin. Barnacle-bitten. Sea-worn. Pressed into the dirt where no sea should be. Its face bore a drowned crown. I have my proof. Tomorrow, I follow the scent of salt and rot. Tomorrow, I track a the undead. Journal Entry VII – Salt and Smoke No Tide. No Moon. Only Blood. It began at twilight. I followed the brambleline westward, coin clutched in hand, until the treeline thinned and the earth wept salt. There, hidden behind a veil of smoke-snagged trees, I found the hull. Not beached—entombed. The ship lay rotted within a crater of poisoned earth, embedded like a splinter in the world. Her masts hung limp with wet, black sails. No crew in sight. And yet… I heard them. Voices that rasped like dragging anchors. Chains that clinked without hands. Footsteps where no one walked. I hid within a thicket of reeds and watched. Myrryn Larthessa, daughter of the Deep Queen, hiding like a guppy in eelgrass. Shame curled in my belly—but doctrine demands understanding before judgment. And this was no mere pirate haunt. This was a wound. The “Blackstar Siren,” the ship from my vision, had not sunk. She had risen—dragged herself from the sea like a bloated corpse seeking vengeance. Her captain still ruled from the decaying forecastle, nailed to his wheel by reef-iron and arrogance. An undead revenant, crowned in a helm of blackened bone coral, steering nothing but memory. His crew lingered around a festering tidepool in the ship’s shadow. Half-sunken men with seafoam dripping from their eye sockets. Crabs nested in their ribs. I counted eight. I could not fight them head-on. So I prayed. And I baited. I circled the clearing and found their water source—a brine-choked spring corrupted by the ship’s presence. Using bone tools stolen from a washed-up carcass, I carved sigils of minor warding, not to repel, but to guide. I crushed saltbloom fungus, known for its hallucinogenic spores, and scattered it in the windward direction of the crew’s campfire. I laced my dagger with eel-oil to make it smoke and hiss when struck. Then I sang. One clear note of the Salt Canticle, pitched into the dusk. Loud enough to stir the current. Soft enough to confuse the source. The dead followed. One by one, they wandered into the trap—staggering, shivering, enchanted by memory or madness. When four entered the spring ring, I struck. Shape Water. The tidepool froze solid in an instant. Trapped limbs. Cracking bones. Screams like whales drowning. Thunderwave. A gift from the Queen. I loosed it at the ice—shattering the frozen spring, sending shards through rotted flesh like shrapnel. Entangle. Roots I had prayed over in advance coiled upward, ensnaring the limbs of those still crawling. They wailed. I pressed forward. One rose from the wreckage. Too close. I could not cast again. So I struck him with the butt of my coral blade—and when he grabbed my wrist, I bit him. Shark-teeth sharp from a tideblessed dream. The taste of brine and rot filled my mouth. Two remained near the ship. I had to reach the captain. I ran. Not through shadow—through light. I tossed my lantern into the spring, the oil igniting the corrupted bloom. Blue fire licked up the reeds, casting a holy illusion of cleansing where there was none. The dead paused. That was enough. I leapt the trench—my body pushed beyond its landbound training—and slammed onto the deck, landing in a crouch I didn’t recognize. The captain turned. He grinned. “My bride,” he rasped, voice like drowned coral. “Came to finish what the sea began?” I answered nothing. He drew his blade—long, curved, not rusted at all. Preserved. Revered. The sword of a godless tyrant. He struck. I parried. I struck. He laughed. He struck again—this time cutting my shoulder open. I screamed, but did not retreat. Instead, I seized his wrist, twisted beneath it, and used the motion to wrench the helm from his brow. He staggered. That helm sang with necrotic hunger. I tossed it into the flame. He howled. Then—Shape Water again. Not to freeze. To blast. I reached behind me, to the pool of sacred spring water I’d cleansed days before. I pulled it toward me like a whip, slammed it into his chest with all the will I had left. He fell backward. Onto the broken helm. It pierced him. Again. And this time, he did not rise. The Aftermath: I was bleeding. Exhausted. Half-drowned on land. But I still heard the Current. And I still saw the water—tainted. Crying out. So I did what I was forbidden. I took the amulet from my throat. I pressed it to the ruined spring. And I said the words. “Let the Deep know your name. Let the Current reclaim.” The water turned blue. Then white. Then still. And the amulet cracked. A droplet of divine water—its last—released into the spring. The Current blessed it. And I was left with an empty coral husk. Journal Entry VII – Hollow Tides No Amulet. No Voice. Only the Current. The silence was immediate. Not the kind born of peace or solitude—but a hollowing. A pressurized stillness behind my ribs, like something had been siphoned from me. My amulet—the spiral coral and the droplet of divine water once nestled in its heart—was now a pale, dull husk. No glow. No warmth. No pulsing tide. Just dead coral. I had never been without it. Even during rites of silence, even during the Drift Trial—its presence had been a constant pressure, an echo of the Queen’s current brushing the edge of my thoughts. Now? Nothing. Not even a whisper of Thal’vanna’s gaze. The spring behind me shimmered clean now—sanctified, still swirling faintly where I had released the droplet. A sacred act, necessary, yes—but forbidden all the same. I had not been given permission to pour the last of Her grace into this place. I had no idea if she would forgive me. But I had to try. I found the captain’s helm still burning. I left it. Let the embers consume what they could. Instead, I turned to the shattered wreck of the Blackstar Siren. The hull was splintered—but not ruined. Its timbers still whispered of dark tides and false dominion. Beneath the bow, I found the keel-plate still intact—marked with infernal sigils, now blackened and cracked. I touched it. It hummed. But it did not resist. I cut it free with the drowned captain’s own cutlass. It was heavy. So heavy. Far more than wood should be. But I dragged it from the pit, lashed it to my back with seaweed cord and strips from the sails. As it settled against me, it felt like a burden not just of timber, but of atonement. A sanctified shield, forged from heresy. It wasn’t a relic yet. But it could be. If the Queen allowed it. ~ Three days. I walked inland at first, avoiding roads, speaking to no one. I slept in tidepools where I could find them, curled in seaweed and sanctity. I sang the Coral Canticle through gritted teeth, hoping the sound would reach Her. Nothing answered. On the fourth day, I found a stream that flowed eastward. I followed it. Not because I was guided—I wasn’t—but because it flowed, and that felt like something. I miss Her. Not just the power. Not just the warmth of the amulet. I miss the certainty. The undercurrent of purpose that hummed in my veins when I walked with the Current’s blessing. Now, every step is mine alone. Every decision feels like blasphemy. I’ve never been this alone. On the seventh day, I reached the edge of the Coral Path. The sea opened before me. I stood on the cliffside, breath caught in my throat, and whispered, “Please see me.” Then I dove. ~ I did not return to the Coral Throne. I’ve never seen it. The Queen’s voice does not echo for fledglings. Instead, I carried the blackened keel across half a kingdom of shifting tides to Nimbrassa, where the vents still sing beneath basalt and bloodcoral. I passed the gatewatchers. No one stopped me. No one needed to. They felt the current ripple around me. Varnoss stood waiting in the Ember Chamber—still as carved obsidian, his arms folded over that massive trench-forged breastplate. He looked older. More coral than skin now. I dropped the hull at his feet. He crouched low and set his hand against the grain of the burned brinewood. The scorchmarks pulsed faintly with residual warmth—echoes of sanctification. He traced one groove with the back of a weathered knuckle. Then, without looking up: “I’ve seen others come back with less.” A grunt followed. Barely a sound, more a pressure in the water. Approval. Begrudging. Heavy. But real. He stood. And walked away. Journal Entry IX – Currents Unbound Recorded in the Sulfur Vein Archives, beneath the Ember Alcove, Nimbrassa I have not left Nimbrassa in three tides. They say it is for “debriefing.” That I must be “observed.” The healers murmur of soul-scarring, but offer no treatment. The truth is simpler: they do not know what to make of me. One day I was a fledgling barely fit for land-breath. Now, I carry the Queen’s wrath in sinew and form—anointed not by ritual, but by war. The wildshapes have come. Six of them, already—born of instinct, of pain, of memory. I feel them inside me like dormant storms, slumbering and twitching behind my ribs. The octopus was the first. Fluid, clever, watchful. The crab followed—unyielding, armored, slow to anger but devastating when stirred. The eel coils in my spine, hot and twitching with a hunger I do not yet understand. The shark dreams of blood, though I have yet to feed it. The turtle lends me its shell when I falter. And the sea petrel... the only form that brings me peace. I train now with the Flamewatch. It is not combat, not exactly. More a refinement of presence. They test my responses to pressure, pain, and provocation. They ask me to walk with my instincts—not surrender to them, but ride them like the crest of a wave. Their captain—stone-eyed and crackling with lava scars—said I “move like a memory that wants to be forgotten.” I am not sure if that was meant as praise. ~ The rumors reached me two days ago. Varoz. Gone. Absent without order. “Burned his markings,” someone whispered during ration prep. “Shed his armor in the steaming trench and swam upward.” No one speaks his name now. The Flamewatch acts as though he never existed. But I saw the tension in the younger acolytes. They are afraid. Not of what he did—but of what it means that someone like him could vanish. Desertion is rare. Among the Tidebound, it is unthinkable. Unless… Unless it was not desertion. Unless the Queen herself turned him loose. ~ Scribe-Tidecaller Vola—my elder, my first anchor in this world—has begun her final drift. She lies in a bioluminescent tidebed, her skin more kelp than flesh, her eyes filmed with saltglass. She does not speak often. But when I visited her today, she opened one eye and smiled. “The pages will dry. Let them.” I asked her if she feared what lay beyond. She closed her eyes again and replied: “The current does not end. It only changes course.” I wept. She did not comfort me. That night, a priestess told me: “You must learn to let the tide claim its own. Even the coral breaks where it must.” I did not answer. But I gritted my teeth so hard, I split the stylus I was holding. Journal Entry IX – The Still Before the Surge Final day in Nimbrassa. Night of the Hollow Current. The water tonight was silent. As though the vents themselves held their breath. They summoned me at dusk. No fanfare, no procession. Just a ripple runner sent to collect me from the tidepool chapel. I knew who it would be. There’s only one figure whose shadow bends the coral like that. Warlord Saekhal Varnoss. He did not greet me. He did not sit. He stood like the blade he is—saltworn and unyielding—and gestured toward the tide basin, where the salt-scribed floor swirled faintly with the light of the Deep Current. “You're being sent,” he said. Not asked. Not prepared. Sent. He didn’t offer a map, nor name the destination. He simply stared at me, eyes like burnt coals left to smolder. “You walk the next step blind,” he continued. “Which means it’s your real one. This isn’t a pilgrimage checkpoint. It’s the descent. You don’t come back the same. If you come back.” He reached behind him and held out the shield. Tidebreaker. Refashioned from the sanctified hull I had nearly died to retrieve. Living coral fused with aged brinewood, shaped now into something brutal and reverent. A sigil of the Deep Queen etched into its face. And in the center—just beneath the spiral of divine glyphs—was a glassy droplet, faintly pulsing. I reached for it, but he didn’t release his grip right away. “Don’t fuck this up.” That was all he said. Then he let go. Journal Entry IX – The Still Before the Surge Final day in Nimbrassa. Night of the Hollow Current. The water tonight was silent. As though the vents themselves held their breath. They summoned me at dusk. No fanfare, no procession. Just a ripple runner sent to collect me from the tidepool chapel. I knew who it would be. There’s only one figure whose shadow bends the coral like that. Warlord Saekhal Varnoss. He did not greet me. He did not sit. He stood like the blade he is—saltworn and unyielding—and gestured toward the tide basin, where the salt-scribed floor swirled faintly with the light of the Deep Current. He didn’t offer a map, nor name the destination. He simply stared at me, eyes like burnt coals left to smolder. “You walk the next step blind,” he continued. “This isn’t a pilgrimage checkpoint. It’s an ascent.” That's when he presented them. A new amulet and- Tidebreaker. Refashioned from the sanctified hull I had nearly died to retrieve. Living coral fused with aged brinewood, shaped now into something brutal and reverent. A sigil of the Deep Queen etched into its face. And in the center—just beneath the spiral of divine glyphs—was a the favor of Thal'vanna, faintly pulsing. “Don’t fuck this up.” That was all he said. Then he dismissed me. ~ I write this now from the healing chamber beneath the Ember Alcove. The same place Varoz once rested after returning from the Molten Rift. The same stone ledge where he said nothing and everything at once. It smells like brine and ghost-lilies. The steam curls around my legs like old memories. I lie beneath the trickling vents, letting the heat bloom in my chest like a second heartbeat. I think of his voice. Not his words. Just the sound. Low. Steady. Ragged when tired, rough when amused. I think of the scar on his forearm where the coral never quite healed smooth. I think of how he never looked me in the eye when he lied. I think of the last time I almost touched him. I wonder if I ever will again. The Trio glows softly against my chest. Vael’shune pulses in slow, rhythmic waves. Coril’thyne flickers sharply, as if trying to snap me back to purpose. And Shuun’vali—the center—glows steady. No judgment. Just knowing. I feel it now, in silence. The way I was taught. No sobs. Just the flow. Let the salt run freely. I tell myself it is cleansing. But truthfully, I think I am afraid. Not of failure. Not of pain. But of what might be left of me, what I will become, when I succeed.

Myrryn Larthessa