#vt norman

[facelessstranger1867]

The Mountains are resigned; the Seas roil with rage

The Skies watch both with sorrow.

[facelessstranger1867]

Deep, deep, deep within the lake there is a coin. Engraved upon that coin is a face, a face you see only in dreams. And as the fog flows over the dark water, you may see it there as well: watching you like a ghost. You could walk into that lake, grab the coin, and see what the face is with clarity. Then again, perhaps the face is best left to the ambiguity of ignorance.

You may drown while searching for that tiny piece of metal that holds information that will not help you escape the thing that watches you, only showing you what it is that lurks above the water. Perhaps your asphyxiation is caused by going too deep with too little air to make it back to the surface; perhaps your asphyxiation is caused by the grasping hands of the dozen or so corpses that litter the lakebed, the reaching hands of those left suffocating forever, desperate to be saved.

It doesn't matter, so long as you stay dry, on the shore of this impossibly black lake. Black, black, blacker than the sky on a moonless night; when even the stars hide their light in fear. It does not matter that the fog is returning, so long as you don't go too far into it. For who knows what secrets are obscured by the earthen cloud, the face probably knows, but it does not wish to share it. The coin may have seen someone's shadow disappear as the encroaching mist swallowed them whole, but it does not wish to share it.

Perhaps the best thing to do is to simply turn away. Turn away and leave this strange lake with its strange fog and its strange face. Then again, it is the strangeness that keeps you here. It is a conundrum indeed, one that paralyses you as the fog passes over you.

[facelessstranger1867]

Account of the Hexington Blade

Hello all, I can't think of what to write here, but this is the second part to the Account of the Knights of the Roundtable. CW: Faerie Genocide, Victorian Pretention, Death under mysterious circumstances, Contrivance

Hello, I don’t know where I am, but I’m going to presume that it is a scholarly institution of the Society for the Preservation of Knowledge, based on what Mordred has been talking about.

“Were you asleep this whole time?” No, I awoke around halfway through Mordred’s account. Well, awakening would not be entirely accurate, because after all Mordred was still possessing my body, but I am conscious and aware now; that’s the important thing. It is fortunate we arrived here, because I was going to come here to give an account of my experiences with the blade that currently rests in my scabbard. I just have not had the time to visit because I have been defending my Hunter’s House, the one near Saint Arthur’s Church, during both the Blood Moon and the Blue Moon. Being haunted can be exhausting sometimes, everyone assumes that “Oh, she can just get her ghost to control her while we sleep during the Blood Moon” but as a result I have been quite tired these past few weeks thanks to my comrades’ tactical genius. Regardless, there’s no point crying over spilled milk and, like I said, I was going to come here anyway and now is as good a time as any. May I give my account? Wonderful. The story begins with Mordred being exiled to Avalon, land of the faeries, for the crime of treason. This was highly unorthodox for the time, merely mentioning a plot against the crown was cause for a beheading. I’ve never learned who exiled him, according to historical records of the time, the next king after King Arthur was Richard II in 1370, yet according to Mordred, he was not King until 1377. This leaves almost a decade with either no monarch or a secret monarch, I believe the latter is true as Mordred was exiled in 1370 after the death of Arthur Pendragon. If this historical curfuffle is seen as burning Moonlight, I apologise, but it is important to understanding what comes next. For, when Mordred was exiled to Avalon, he found out what Lancelot had done to the Faerfolk: he had massacred them, blood poured down from the trees like rain and the corpses of faeries, pixies and witches alike were littered about the place. Arguably worst of all, Morgan La Fae, Mordred’s mother and hand of Titania, was dead. I have never learned how she died, and I’m not going to ask Mordred because that would be undoubtedly cruel, but I have heard that it looked like a death most painful. It was as Mordred was staring at the corpse of his dear mother that Titania, Queen of the Faerfolk, with her enchanted spear called Gungnir, came to Mordred to comfort him and to offer him revenge. He swore an oath upon Gungnir that he would bring Lancelot to justice or, if the time for that had passed, to bring Lancelot his death. After swearing this, Titania would send him on his way, with a quest for vengeance.

Mordred would never find the Lord of Dolorous Guard, and as he lay upon his deathbed, he entrusted his sword to Aglovale Hexington. The next morning, Mordred La Fae was dead with a wound in his chest and two ravens feasting upon his entrails. Aglovale Hexington took up the blade and from then on, the first-born son of the Hexington line would inherit the blade after the previous bearer died. The blade is also no ordinary blade, as I’m sure you can tell, for it is possessed by the Phantom of Mordred, still bound by his oath to Gungnir to bring justice to Lancelot. For Gungnir’s enchantment was that any oath sworn upon it is unbreakable, even if the swearer dies, their ghost must fulfil the oath. This possession is what makes the Hexington blade as powerful as it is, for not only is it also unbreakable and ever sharp, Mordred can possess the bearer as needed or, I suppose, as wanted. It also prolongs the bearer’s lifespan, slowing their aging when in their prime: hence why I appear younger than I am and am able to perform feats my dear friends can no longer.

“You mentioned that only sons have held the blade, yet you are the fair sex, how did you come to bear the Hexington blade?” Ah, you are more observant than I realised. I was not always female, I used to be the first-born son of William Hexington, before his death during the Bloody Sunfall. I was only 14 when I had to take up his sword, that monumental link in the chain of my noble line. We did our best, as several citizens can attest and, even if I was not as inspiring as Saint Beryl or as brutal as Winnifred Dracula, name anyone else who could kill a werewolf as an adolescent. It was 2 years after the nightmare that I realised that my male body was not the right one for me, indeed, I knew then that I was meant to be female. It was not until 1849, when the Eclipse Faithful were established, that I was able to use their power to switch sexes. It was agonising and yet even if that pain never faded, I would not regret the action of transitioning to the fair sex, as you refer to it. My brother, Michael, was not pleased with this change; neither was my mother, perhaps that is why... I shall speak no more of this; I came to speak of the legacy of Mordred, not to speak of my own turbulent family. I believe that is all I was going to say, but before I leave, I need to inquire as to whether you’ve seen a stone angel bearing a silver spear. We’ve been looking for it, so if you know its location, we would be grateful if you would share such information.

 “Apologies but I am afraid I have not seen who you are looking for.” Ah well, Good Night and may the Sun shine upon you.

[facelessstranger1867]

Account of the Knights of the Roundtable

If you're wondering why the knights of the Roundtable are being brought up in a Victorian story, just you wait, they're going to become a lot more relevant. Also, the person giving this account is the ghost of Mordred La Fae possessing a sword, possessing another person: that's why he refers to his "wielder" CW: Implied Violence, Victorian Pretension

Ah, the Knights of the Roundtable. We were the original hunters of monsters, or inhumans as is the modern nomenclature, and what great hunters we were. Tell me something, when the Bloody Sunfall happened, did you believe that the newly spawned horrors were based upon myth? I understand if you did. We of Arthur’s court were the reason you believed them to be myth, for we drove almost all of them to extinction. We even had specifications just like the New Church’s warriors.

I was the Exorcist of our group, thanks to my knowledge of the Other Side and the Next Place taught to me by my mother, Morgan La Fae. Of course, at the time we all believed in the power of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit but I knew better, the Other Side is a realm parallel our own and does not leave room for the Lord. Gawain never did pick a specific target, preferring to simply be a knight and nothing more. Dinadan, the jesting knight, was not only quite the prankster; he was our main hunter of werebeasts. His silver sword felled many of those moon-touched creatures, so many in fact that the only ones to survive were those that went underground: the Molefolk, descendants of the survivors of Dinadan. Percival, honorary grail knight, was the one who slew bloodsuckers. Lancelot, Lord of Dolorous Guard, was the slayer of the Faerfolk. If you have ever wondered what happened to Avalon, he is what happened. And Galahad, poor Galahad, he did not live long enough to specialise as we had. With the prowess he showed in his final days, he could easily have taken down any creature of the night. He was taken too soon, I know that much, even if I cannot share the truth of how he was taken.

We would don masks in the night and “purify” Camelot and her lands. We were not purifiers, I know this now, we did not make Britain pure, we massacred innocent creatures that had no say in their lot in life. Having been relegated to this blade as a phantom, I can see that what I did to the ghosts was not just nor righteous; I obliterated them from existence in an agonising manner that I pray is not inflicted upon me or my bearer. You may call me a hypocrite considering our position as hunter of the monstrous; by what right do I, Sir Mordred La Fae, a Knight of the Roundtable, call my fellows’ actions depraved even as I continue the slaughter in undeath? I have no say as to what is evil: not with what I did, not with what I was complacent in perpetuating. Listen well, all of us are trapped, trapped within the cycle of violence and instead of ending it, we give ourselves woollen blindfolds so as to keep us ignorant of the loop of carnage we were born into. In modern times, the Church and the Council keep war on everyone’s minds, even after the Sun has vanished. Before them it was us, the Roundtable, and our Holy Crusade. The veil that hides the violence of the human condition is often hallowed.

I do not expect this cycle to end, nor do I expect you to end it, I can only hope that you will witness it for what it is. That is the best any of us can do, to remove the blindfold and bear witness to the bloody gears of civilization. For when we acknowledge the carnage, we can begin to question the particulars of our time, I am sure you know that all too well. Apologies if you were expected something more akin to the Tales of Old, they were fabrications, all of them. Even still, do not tell the teller that their tales are false, for we, as humans, must put hope in something. Be that a deity, a political system or fairytales made by a cruel usurper.

Fare thee well, think on my words carefully, I know many things but I cannot share them lest my bearer be denounced as an apostate, so I will entrust you with the responsibility of discovering them. Oh, I believe my bearer wishes to also give her account before we depart. I wish she had told me she was conscious before I dragged us up here but such is life.

[facelessstranger1867]

A few things to clear up

Hi all, I know I said that I wouldn't be posting any stories for a while because I've been busy with college and, of course, writing Slayer of Doves. This is true, however, there are some things I would like to make clear going forward (as well as a few announcements!)

I am still working on Slayer of Doves, it is currently sitting at 38,383 words. It is taking a lot longer than I initially thought, but t is still being written. Feel free to pester me to get back to writing it rather than mucking about on Tumblr.

I intend to make a list of important terms and clarify what it is they mean in the context of my cosmology. I do realise that this is essentially cheating at world-building, but I want to talk to people about the world I'm building. Feel free to send me an ask about bits of my cosmology, once I've made the first post about them.

As at least 2 of my followers know, I do editing and proof-reading as an aside to my own writing. I am actually planning to open a Ko-Fi, that way I can keep doing editing and proof-reading for free but also, if you are so inclined, make a bit of money off of it. Again, if you can't afford it, or just plain don't want to, don't feel any pressure to tip. Feel free to send me any works you'd like me to proof-read and edit, in the mean-time. I will look at literally anything, so long as it's not made by AI.

I have a website now, with all the stories I've posted here (and some that I haven't) I made it for college, but I'll probably keep it after college, just so I have an archive of all my stories. Stories — Three Eyed Writing Desk feel free to have a read, if you like. There'll be more to come on that one, but I will still be posting future stories here.

[citywithasoundtrack]

LIVE MUSIC PRONOUNCED DEAD AT (LEICESTER MUSIC) SCENE

Why are live music venues struggling more than they used to?

An article by V.T. Norman

As of 2024, live music is dying. There are fewer venues than ever before and fewer artists willing to perform live. After all, it is much easier and much cheaper to put songs on Spotify. But this death is indicative of the overarching lack of easy access into music and the arts. There are fewer Youth centers with recording booths; almost anywhere that will record music requires obscene prices that smaller artists can’t afford and, overall, the death of live music is just a sign of the changing times and lack of funding for the arts under modern Austerity in the UK.  

Live Music Venues such as the Donkey and 2 Funky Cafe have been struggling as of late; furthermore, concerts and gigs are not as popular nowadays in the whole of England. This is due, in part, to the rising popularity of music streaming services such as Spotify and Deezer. Also, live music is one of the industries that struggled heavily during the Pandemic and is still struggling to recover. Furthermore, bands are more towns and cities whilst on tour. According to Culture Secretary Lisa Nandy, “too many parts of the country have become cultural deserts”. In the last year alone, more than a hundred music venues closed down as a result of the rising prices and sinking profits. According to singer-songwriter Sam Duckworth, “What it really means is that [fans in] certain parts of the country have now either got to travel long distances or hope to be the one non-major city on a tour.” These two opinions share the same overall message, though, live music is dying and the culture is being drained from everything in England.  However, according to local music students, the death of live music venues is due to various other contributing factors. 

One claimed that the lack of accessibility for smaller bands and costs exceeding profits at these events were the reason behind the reduced events and, therefore, reduced profits for the venues that would host them. Another believed that the lull was a result of the “busier world” we live in nowadays, people simply do not have the time to go to live events. A third student believed that the lack of big venues in Leicester as well as lack of bands exacerbates the problem.  

So, given the shuttering of venues and decreasing number of locations for a decreasing number of tours, what can we do to solve this issue? How can you, as an individual, and our culture, as a nation, help keep live music alive? 

Firstly, go to see more live music. The more people turn up, the more money is put into these struggling venues. This approach means that everyone wins: you get to see songs performed live and they get to have more money to spend on these gigs. This solves the main issue, but it is only a temporary solution. If the prices of tickets keep rising the way that they are currently, then eventually, no-one will be able to afford to go and they will close anyway. Secondly, support politicians that support the levy of money between venues. Currently, there is a push for the government to mandate larger stadiums and venues to redistribute one pound per ticket into smaller venues to keep them in business. Finally, if you are so inclined, contribute the live music directly by starting a band or making music. If you have any interest in song-writing or performing, then consider helping local bands or even performing at local venues, such as the Donkey, both for the love of music and to keep live music from dying completely.  

But, rather than looking at what you can do; let us investigate what it means for music that grassroots bands are becoming rarer and rarer. To begin this line of inquiry, pop is becoming more popular as a result of the convenience of streaming services. Pop is, after all, short for popular: it is described on Wikipedia, and therefore often defined as commercially-oriented with a wide audience. This pairs nicely with the convenience of, for example, Spotify. However, due to how much more Pop music there is: it is becoming harder to enter the Pop scene. The change in music for Pop has been described by Lisa Nandy as “pop is getting posher.” One could infer that this genre has gone from something that the Upper-classes would never associate with, to yet another gentrified genre; yet another artform made dull by the Bourgeoisie. In fact, the death of live music can be tied into the broader, slower reduction of style in the Upper Crust of society.  

In the Gilded Age, when the Industrial revolution led to an unprecedented amount of Wage-slavery and poor labour practices, the rich wanted to flaunt their wealth. They would wear top hats, monocles and generally the kind of attire one could wear with the kind of money that, for example, oil barons have. Of course, nowadays, you have to be more subtle about your immense wealth.  

They don’t sell corsets and monocles anymore: it is all Gucci, Supreme and Louis Vuitton. People don’t live in mansions anymore; they live in strange, liminal spaces. It is no longer the floral style of wallpaper; it is the Sad Beige Mom style. And what is most interesting is that, as a result of the convenience of phones, the logos for these companies’ web design have also had to move more towards minimalism. The domino effect of this being that minimalism has become the new standard by which status and beauty are decided. A print t-shirt is considered gaudy; vibrant colours are seen as the sign of the poor. The rich don’t wear gold and fur: they wear beige, white and maybe accents of gold (if they are feeling particularly ostentatious). The most valued paintings are not impressionist or surrealist or even realist: they are minimalist, lines on coloured backgrounds. Rothko paintings are often sold for millions of pounds and, whilst art is subjective, the sheer minimalism of these paintings does not evoke aesthetic pleasure, in me at least, it evokes annoyance. Whilst it is true that art should not always be a pleasurable experience, it should evoke emotion at the piece itself and its own merit; rather than make its audience roll their eyes at the obvious lack of effort.  

This push towards minimalism in art also extends to music. Many modern songs simply cannot be performed on a live stage, in front of a cheering crowd, because it would be dull. For an example of what I mean, compare the song “i miss your warm hands” by “i don’t like mirrors” with “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head” by “Dean Martin”. Yes, these songs are different genres, the former being slowcore and the latter being swing, but they reflect the different philosophies regarding art in our Day and Age. Everything, from the number of instruments, to the rhythm, to the tempo and even the capitalisation: it all reflects this move towards liminal minimalism. I know many who would love to see Ain’t That a Kick in the Head live, even if it is a cover. I do not know anyone who would go to see i miss your warm hands live. Please keep in mind that this is not an indictment of the Slowcore genre or even i miss your warm hands: it is not an artform that is doomed from the start, and it can be appealing. Even if you enjoy minimalism, which I personally do not, you must admit that the energy and excitement of concerts is a large reason behind why people go to them. But people do not want energy anymore, according to popular belief.  

The people do not want excitement, they want relaxation: a break from the endless, spinning vortex of social media, work and school. People do not want culture, they want convenience. In our modern day, convenience is worth its weight in gold. That is the reason that live music is dying, because it is inconvenient. Why leave the comfort of home, where you can listen to all your favourite songs whenever you want? Who wants to listen to a callous, flawed song live when they could much more easily digest the smooth stone of minimalistic music: alone, at home, after a long day of ennui.  

In conclusion, live music is dead, and Capitalism killed it. That is the main reason behind the push toward minimalism and comfortable but unexciting music. Because, at the end of the day, minimalist art (for music is but art in sound form) is cheaper and quicker to produce; broadly inoffensive and, insidiously, it tricks the lower classes into believing that all critiques of this new movement are not worth listening to. This is, effectively, a microcosm of the Capitalist society in which we live. Just as it is considered strange to criticise the Oligarchy, it is considered strange to criticise the move towards digital, minimalistic music. Just as Capitalism creates cheap, quick goods over quality goods; this new move away from personality and charm is favoured over the effort it takes to plan a concert. Live music is portrayed as the inefficient ways of the old; Music Streaming Services are portrayed as superior in every way.  

[facelessstranger1867]

The Dreamt Prelude

Hi all, here's another teaser for Slayer of Doves, wherein you'll finally get to learn the name of our intrepid hero, Todd. Also, one of the dream sequences I've written to do ominous eldritch foreshadowing with. That being said, this might be the last story I post for a while, as I am quite busy with college and actually writing Slayer of Doves. CW: Dreams as prophecy, War, Aliens, Existential Dread, IDK

When sleep came, his sister Dream followed suit, bringing Todd back to his home in Aphneios. He was in his cottage by the sea, once more, and was in the midst of painting Fruit Bowl no. 5. The feeling of the palette in his left hand, and the paintbrush in his right, brought a measure of comfort to the painter. The Pink Sea was visible from his window, witnessed through a sunbeam. Though, something was off about the way the light entered his eye, as though it were through ill-tempered glass. When he attempted to touch his face, he found that he did not have one: only the mask that hid his abject terror.

Then, he was at the public cafeteria, the smell of cooking meals reaffirmed the existence of his face. He was sat opposite to Hippolyta and Ninna, as they spoke of what the aliens’ intentions might be. Hippolyta spoke with a troubled cadence,

“If humans are capable of such violence and evil, yet still believe themselves righteous, imagine what the aliens might be capable of.” When she spoke, it was as though her voice was filtered through water: muffled and difficult to make out. Yet their meaning rang clear as day to Todd, humans were cruel. No, perhaps it would be more accurate to say they can be cruel. In either case, the invaders must be capable of equal cruelty. The thought rolled through his unconsciousness, attempting to find its source. It did not make much sense to Todd, why would he think of humanity in the third person? He supposed that everyone thinks of humanity as a whole, as being separate from themselves. Ninna retorted, with their kind demeanour,

“Hopefully, kindness” they said, their voice also muffled as though by water. Then, a noise so loud as to deafen Todd appeared, alongside mud flying into the air. When he looked to Ninna, he found that they were little more than gore in a crater of mud. He tried to scream, but his mask got in the way once more. He had no mouth with which to scream, and all that he called his face was now the rubber gas mask.

Then, he was on Whitesand Beach, looking out at the sun in the sky as he laid upon the soft, warm, powder-sugar sand. He felt safe, comfortable in paradise, as the Pink Sea’s lapping waves continued their gentle rhythm. He felt so comfortable, that he did not notice as the sand embraced him. It swallowed his feet first, then his legs, every second it continued to devour him massaged his relaxed muscles. At least, it was like that until it devoured his head. When he was fully swallowed by the shore, the warm embrace turned to a cold, wet trench surrounded by dying soldiers. Something was approaching from No Man’s Land, and it wanted him dead. He raised his gun to fire and, with an emphatic bang, shot something dead. But then, they returned, continuing to walk towards him with murderous intent. He fired again, bang, and this time the blinding flash sent him somewhere he had never been before.

He was in a hole: a hole filled with filth and rot and flesh and death. In it, he was wounded; broken by the mistakes of a commander he would never meet. A dove came to visit him, but its eyes spoke to its true age. It was not the avian it proclaimed to be, rather it was something far more insidious and far, far older. It cooed in a mocking innocence,

[facelessstranger1867]

Account of a Siren Attack pt. 2

This is from my Victorian Alternate Fiction, and this the second part of a two-part story. If you haven't read the first account, I'd recommend doing so, as it provides a bit of context missed out in this one, and is generally a good primer for what's to come in this one. Full disclosure, this was originally going to be the Captain Ahab, before I realised that Moby Dick was written before 1867, so I changed him to be Captain Abraham Jackson. CW: Mind Control, Big things in the sea, Implied Violence, Near-Death experience (drowning), Victorian Pretention, Vengeance

Good Night, my Lady, I have come to tell you of an encounter I had with a Siren on Her Majesty’s Ship Athena. I have done many a terrible deed, but none quite as terrible as sailing us toward that damnable monster. I told many lies to get us in that position, but I beg that you believe what I am to tell you. Now, where should I begin? Shall I start with the disastrous expedition I have only recently returned from? The decades leading to it, where I prepared to meet that sea-hag once again? Perhaps I should start with my first encounter with the beast, the event that sparked my vengeful mission. What say you? 

“You knew of the Siren before the expedition?” Yes though, to be perfectly honest, that is putting it rather lightly. My first encounter was in 1846, as we were attempting to establish contact with our neighbouring countries. I was but a seaman at the time, and as we were on our way to Italy from a port in Cagliari (Capital of the island of Sardinia, near Italy), a great light appeared in the distance. At first, we assumed it to be a simple lighthouse but no, there was never a lighthouse in the stretch of Mediterranean between Cagliari and Italy. In fact, there has never been any land where this “lighthouse” was, I checked on an Atlas when I returned. However, as we sailed past it, I noticed that there was something eclipsing the light: the shape of a woman. As a chorus of angelic voices began to harmonise with the wind, I became enchanted: my will being broken in an instant like thin porcelain as the tenebrous lady, I realised, was as beautiful as a true goddess of the Sea: her features being so divinely statuesque as to set my heart aflame and to never wish it extinguished. I did not try to look away, though even if I tried, I am doubtless that I would not be able: fixated as I was upon the divinity. She made a movement of beckoning and all of us, bewitched by her harmony and her beauty, snapped into motion like puppets, bringing the ship closer. 

We tore apart the masts with our fervour, using them as oars or, more accurately, stilts upon the rocky seabed. As we got closer: the light becoming so bright as to blind us; the choir becoming so loud as to deafen us, I felt wet, fish-like hands covering my ears. Then, silence, and as the song was prevented from wrapping around my mind, the illusion of the goddess was broken. I looked away from the false idol, and saw… the truth: of what was happening; of what we were sailing towards; of what that thing really was.  

What we believed to be the Goddess of the Sea was, to my now-disillusioned eyes, a monster of unfathomable scale. I could say it was the size of a whale, but in all my years upon the Seven Seas, I have never seen a whale as large as that thing. It is difficult to describe just how enormous that leviathan was: the light was as tall as a lighthouse but from what I could see, its back was crooked and bent down. Furthermore, its body came from beneath the rocky beach it sat upon, meaning that the great beast I witnessed was merely part of a greater hall; oh Sun, it could have been the smallest part of a continental kraken. Anyways, as the ship crashed into the sharp boulders sticking out from the coastline with a great snapping of the wooden hull; the wet, fish-like hands that deafened me to the Siren’s call pulled me off the ship. From beneath the waves, I saw my confederates launch themselves from the wreckage to get closer to the leviathan; I saw strange fish-men wearing garb similar to the ancient Egyptians, wielding swords similar to those of antiquity I have since seen, emerge from behind the siren. Though I did not see what they did to those poor, doomed sailors, I do know that no-one else survived that particular attack: I can only hope their deaths were swift and painless. The salt got to my eyes and I shut them in pain, as I was dragged deeper into the depths, I felt my lungs begin to burn. I tried so hard to keep myself from drowning, though I know not why: there was no way for me to survive such a dire situation. It felt like hours, days, an eternity of fighting the freezing water from conquering my body for trespassing upon the depths but eventually, I let out the breath and attempted to breathe in.  

They never tell you how terrifying drowning really is: exposed in the water to whatever horrors dwell down there, suffocated as though buried alive without the comforting embrace of the earth. My lungs felt as though they were being pierced by a thousand icy needles, and every failed breath only added to the pain. The taste of salt flooded my nose and tongue, my eyes in agony, no noise could be heard except the sound of my own flailing limbs, rendered numb by the bitter chill of the Night’s Sea. It was only when consciousness finally fled me that the pain escaped me. As my faculties fled me, I dreamt. I saw creatures that were too fish-like to be human yet too human to be mere sea-beasts, wandering a shining city upon the seabed. There were markets that sold treasures, food and clothing; the guardians of this place wielding weapons and armour similar to those of Sparta. There were children swimming through the streets, playing some game or other, the rules of which I could not possibly comprehend. At its heart lay a tower, which I was taken within, and inside was the ruler of these strange aquatic humans: a king by the name of Nerites. He spoke to me, though I am ashamed to admit that I did not understand the words he spoke nor do I remember them; I have since been learning the language of Greek in case I should meet him again. I could not respond, with my throat still filled with seawater even in that dream of former glory, but I was granted a gift from the King Nerites: a conch shell that would allow me to breathe in that drowned, shimmering dream. 

Then, I awoke inside a cave mouth, my head still beneath the water and with a fresh pain in my throat. I was wearing strange spectacles that were so tightly woven about my head as to prevent my eyes from being blinded by the salt. Upon realising I could potentially see what had given this strange object to me, I spun around to see the same kind of fish-men, that I saw in the dream, swimming away with weird tools in their hands, tools that I could not ascertain the purpose of even with my restored sight. I took a breath in, and realised that I could, in fact, breathe underwater. The thing in my throat creates a lump that I am sure you’ve already noticed, however, it can miraculously let one breathe liquids and air as an amphibian. I can still eat and drink as I did before, and clearly can speak normally; not only that, but no scar was left upon my neck, meaning that it could not have been implanted via surgery. Curious, a device placed into my throat without surgery, which allows me to breathe both air and water whilst retaining all other functions. Curious indeed... 

“Captain? What happened after you awoke? How did you end up here, in England?” Oh, right, apologies for the diversion. After I woke up, I tried to find where the sky was, a task far more difficult in this eternal blackness. Eventually, I managed to make out the tiniest dot of light amidst that never-ending teal-black. Swimming towards it, praying that it was not that vile sea-witch pretending to be of the divine, I tried desperately to keep my mind focused on the task: to try and ignore the deaths of my crewmates, some of whom I knew all too well. Perhaps ignore is not the right word, perhaps leave the memory for a later date is more accurate. As I broke the surface, some sailors of a nearby ship, HMS Porcupine, began yelling and throwing rope to me. I climbed aboard and learned that the ship was returning from Italy, the mission to establish contact having been successful; only a few hours away from England. I told them my story of our trip to Italy from Cagliari; of the Siren that doomed all but me; the dream of a shining city beneath the waves: the rest of the trip was very quiet. I know not why we were there, perhaps Captain Corelli was never on that particular mission and took the ship simply to hunt down that blasphemous being beyond anything in the natural world, as I have. These are the things that cause me concern as I plan my next voyage, for despite this potential cycle of vengeance and death, still does my heart burn to see that sea-witch impaled upon my harpoon. 

Once I returned to England, departing HMS Porcupine, I remained in the Navy for nearly 20 years. I performed as many assignments and duties it took until finally, finally, I was promoted to the rank of Captain of my own ship, HMS Athena. This is what I had been waiting for, for now I could take my very own crew to hunt down the Siren that tormented me every night that sleep did not come. However, unlike the captain that brought me to meet that creature for the first time, I realised that I needed my crew to be more loyal to me: more prepared for the horror that awaited us on the Island that should not exist between Cagliari and Italy. So, I spent a year with them, performing the assignments given to us by the Grand Admiral, as well as performing small asides where we slew sea-beasts. This was to prepare them, both physically with armaments such as harpoons and cutlasses; but also mentally, I believed the less confused and more loyal the crew member, the less the Siren Song would affect them. I was wrong, of course, when we eventually entered its territory, all those without adequate protection were entranced by her song, its song.  

All this preparation, this decades-long plan to eradicate this scourge from the face of the earth, would all culminate in the expedition I just returned from. I told my men we were going to retrieve an artifact which would help rebuild the British Empire to its former glory: “The Land where Sun never sets.” heh, if only we knew the sorrow such a title would bring upon us now, a broken empire on an earth with no Sun. This was a lie. I shan’t waste your time with fanciful language. I deceived the crew that I had only relatively been acquainted with so that I could chase the demon that had killed my old crewmen to finally slay it. Speaking now, I realise how selfish that was; how foolish for me to think it would end differently. Alas, it has already ended in failure, I am merely here to recount how it ended as such. Anyways, before we sailed towards the vile thing, I ensured we had earplugs for each of our crew, as well as enough harpoons to impale an army, let alone a whale. We chartered the swiftest route and found that it would only take two days at most, if the winds were fair and, unfortunately for us, they were. Matter of fact, the whole trip was unnervingly easy, as though the Mediterranean itself wished to see the confrontation between I and that rotten leviathan; it certainly felt as though Neptune’s eyes were upon us.  

The first day of the Expedition went exactly as planned, we stopped at the port in Cagliari, the same one that Captain Corelli had stopped at, and loaded the extra harpoons onto the boat in case we needed them. That Blood Moon we spent as a crew, in the cabin, there was an air of anticipation among us all. I think we all knew that something was going to happen, even the crew who I had deceived seemed to know that a life-altering event would occur. It was as we were on our way to the Island that should not have been there, which I have taken the liberty to name Cetus after the sea monster from Roman myth, that one of the crew on watch reported seeing a Galleon with an unknown flag. In the dark of the Evernight, I merely presumed that it was an Italian ship but as we neared Cetus, it became clear that it belonged to no Navy. It began to approach our ship and I told my men to ready their weapons just in case they had ill intentions. As we neared each other, I shouted to them, demanding to know why they were approaching: they did not respond, at least, not with words.  

It was then, as they fired their cannons, forcing us closer to the Siren that I came to two conclusions: 1. That only those deafened to the song of the Siren would be unaffected, loyalty to your country would mean very little when confronted by that which you believe to be divine. And 2. A monster such as that, which leaves only shipwrecks and all their treasure behind on the rocky shore, would make for a pirate’s greatest weapon. I tried to order my men to turn around, but by then, a bright light appeared directly ahead of us; that moved far too much to be a lighthouse; that was all too familiar to me. I had only barely managed to get my earplugs in before the song began. Once again, it snared all my crew in an instant and they began to tear apart the ship to draw us closer to that sea-witch. At that moment, I had to choose between allowing us to draw closer so that I might finally slay the vile beast; or abandon ship. I chose the former and armed myself with a whale iron, fastening it to what remained of the mast. The plan was originally to attach the harpoons to the ship and pull it away from the rocky shore, to Cagliari where we would kill it if it hadn’t already died during the trip. The light became blinding as I rushed towards the bow of the HMS Athena, my weapon poised to strike directly at the foul creature. Then, at the moment of reckoning; that piercing vengeance that had been nearly 2 decades in the making: my footing slipped, or perhaps, to think on what I remember, I was grabbed by something, and I tumbled into the sea. Once again, I was beneath the waves but this time, thanks to the earplugs I had in, I could not hear the dying cries of doomed men as they threw themselves, of their own stolen volition, onto the rocky shore. The water was black with stygian blood and sanguine darkness, but the light of the Siren was luminous enough for me to see the corpses floating on the gentle waves. Unlike my first attempt, I did not attempt to resist the things bringing me to the depths, as a great depression washed over me as I realised that, even if I lived to see that thing dead, I would need to spend even more decades in another vengeful haze. It would still hold sway over me, were it not for what I learned at the shining city in the lightless depths, a city I would learn was named R’lyeh from those that escorted me there.  

I struggle to remember the beginning of this particular visit, as though it were an elysian dream and I, its dreamer. I remember the brightly lit citadel, and its strange guards of shifting, turquoise electrum. I remember my confused terror at what lay at the centre of the building I was in, though not what it was that caused me such distress. I remember entering a bizarre chamber, like a casket but made of glass and filled with a liquid of a colour unlike any seen on earth. After entering the chamber and letting it fill with that bizarre substance, I was in R’lyeh once again.  

As I had learned the language of Greek, I was able to understand their speech, at least, partially. For, just like English and its many protracted ancestors such as the one displayed in the works of Geoffrey Chaucer, the language spoken by Modern Greeks is not identical to that of Ancient Greeks. It was, thankfully, not so different as for me to be unable to get a grasp on what these sea-people were. I got the chance to speak to one of the guards standing post near the Market, asking the name of the city and where exactly it was. They told me it was named R’lyeh after the “1 loyal manic fashioner” and that it was a place inside of a dream created by a god that created both them and humanity. I felt a great dread then, the sort only felt when your beliefs on the truth of reality are shattered; what you believed to be absolute truths are proven false with such banality as to seem common knowledge. I wanted to ask more about this Deus Ex Machina, but was swiftly escorted by soldiers dressed in much more opulent armour to the throne room of the king whose name I learned was Nerites. He bid me remain silent, as before, and then he did something I did not expect. He told me, in perfect English albeit with a thick accent, his name and title, Son of Nereus the Old, and that this attempt will not be the last attempt to kill that enormous creature of the Rocky Shore. I wished to ask more but he raised his hand and continued. Nerites, who had seemingly vast knowledge on the true nature of this world, told me of the siren’s true nature, that it was created by six demi-gods, the Mad Shapers, driven mad by the Blood Moon that had granted them the gift. Inside the creature, was all of the Atlanteans’ pettiness, spitefulness and desire for vengeance; whenever someone goes to slay it in a vengeful crusade, it grows stronger. By this point, I felt my mind begin to shut down in confusion and dread. I began to awake in my casket, but did not regret being silent, for I had learned what I must do to kill that rotten Leviathan.   

I tried to swim all the way to the surface but was so exhausted that all I could do was sleep and pray that I would wake up near home. I remember not my dream, and when I awoke, I was on the shore of Bournemouth, around a month ago. From there, I returned to London, my home, where I found a letter of discharge from the Navy. Accidentally or not, my actions had led to the deaths of all aboard but me and 1 crewmate, and that could not be tolerated under her Royal Majesty. This news has upset me greatly, the Navy had been my sole devotion besides revenge, and to learn that I was so easily tossed aside... Returning to my original point, I have begun to formulate a new plan on how I will rid the ocean of that sea-hag once and for all.  

“How do you plan to do that, Captain?” I am going to put together a fleet of my own, though not of soldiers; whalers rarely feel that call to vengeance as they pursue their mark and, with preparation, should also be able to resist the song of the beast. After that, I will sail back to Cetus to finally down the mighty monster. That is all I have to say, though there is one thing I would like you to tell me: did anyone else from that doomed voyage come to state their piece? 

“Yes, Sean Murphy, he told me that he hopes you do not attempt to hunt down the Siren.” Oh? Well, I’m afraid he has little say in the matter, I have dug this grave for so long that I have no choice but to fill it with that Sea-Witch's corpse; lest my life mean nothing at all. Is he still in the Navy? He always seemed the loyal type to me.  

“I am afraid not, matter of fact, he’s retired from sailing altogether to live a peaceful life in New Avalon. Not everyone responds to that sort of nightmare with zealous fury.” Perhaps not... Thank you, my Lady, I wish you a Good Night. Hopefully Neptune will bless us with success and I can return to tell you of victory, rather than catastrophe.