Journal of Chief Signalman- Olinwa Aura Galanodel Nosseturfan (Adult Property of the Galanodel Family Head)
[Marked for destruction]
The colossal Barque cut through the ocean with remarkable speed. The vessel was truly a magnificent craft, orders of magnitude larger than anything else the crew had seen or set sail upon in their long and storied lives as sailors and marines. The three masts stretched up to the heavens, thick as coast redwood and as tall as the naralis Cyprus tree, the fore and main mast, rigged square with sails wide enough to cover the central square in Amal. The mizzen now flutters gently, the soft and foreign coastal winds of the north hub barely able to move it. The whole crew had more than small doubts about their ability to control and manoeuvre the leviathan, even with the bloated roster, not that any of them would ever utter such concerns…of course with God on side, miraculous things can be achieved…and they were. Of course, it was one thing to put faith in the LORD Analor and his ministers in order to set sail on a new and unwieldly craft, it was quite another to sail into the jaws of hell. Had the Nix let it be known that the tempest and the hyperbole were the destination, before their secretive embarkation, it was certain that many of the crew would have chosen early oblation. Both would mean bidding farewell to ones family and to earthly existence, but oblation at least assured you a place at the right hand of the protector. A watery grave or being devoured by the monsters of the deep…whether on orders from the council of seventy or not…did not offer this certainty…the path to Analor’s grace was narrow and one can be easily led astray by earthly politics. The Uruks of Analor are not like the weak-willed heretics to the east, it takes a great deal to incite rebellion against the Nix masters, and there has never been a mutiny…but if ever there was going to be one, it was as the vessel approached the PNR, the point of no return, where no vessel can escape the pull of the tempest. No sane sailor would venture within a hundred miles of the PNR, except perhaps pirates desperate to avoid The Holy Navy’s patrols. There had been a very tense moment, when realisation dawned upon the crew. No one spoke in dissent, no one moved to resist…no one moved at all. The entire crew were overcome and beset with a sudden paralysis, certain that they could not refuse and certain that they could not assent, all committing that sin of bad faith which could convince a person that if they did nothing at all, that they could be absolved of responsibility. The Presiding Patriarch put an end to that sort of thinking quickly enough, a simple reminder of the divine power and authority with which he was invested was enough. One of the senior crewmen…or was it a marine…it’s difficult to remember all of the new faces…a master technical sergeant, that was the one…she had been ordered to kill a leading hand for insubordination, but she had just stood there…her eyes wide…her dark face without expression… she was advanced in age compared to the rest of the crew and it was said that her oblation had been suspended to allow her to support the Holy mission aboard the HNS Deliverance… The Presiding Patriarch excommunicated her there and then and a bolt of wrathful vengeance fell from the clear blue sky, sent from Analor himself and killed her where she stood. Such a shame…had she not taken on this holy duty…she would be with the LORD now, sat at his side and enjoying the bounty of the loyal. Such miserable and tragic irony the mortal realm is beset with. Needless to say, the marines quickly whipped the sailors into order after that, but they needed little encouragement.
They all thanked the LORD and thanked the Presiding Patriarch in the end. They would never have believed the majesty if they had not seen it for themselves. The monstrosities beneath the waves, many times the size of The Deliverance, swam around and beneath the ship as it moved deeper into the tempest’s pull and further away from the PNR. They stalked almost curiously at first and in smaller numbers, but as the days went by and their numbers grew, there immense size and volume turning the ocean’s surface into a shadowy maelstrom for as far as most dared to look, they became increasingly frantic…they began thrashing about in the water causing it to roil and roll stirring up vast waves and unpredictable currents…but the vessel remained steady. Indeed the waters around the craft were entirely undisturbed, an invisible force seemed to surround the ship on all sides, for a number of metres, which remained impenetrable to anything but still waters. As the creatures agitation grew they began to emerge from the depths, showing the hellish forms that no man before had lived to describe. They were myriad in their kind, some with smooth dark skin encompassing their bodies, covered in thousands of small and evil eyes, gaping maws with rows of teeth which reached well back into their colossal heads. Others had transparent peel, where any one with the constitution to look upon it could see their inner workings. These had long fat, dark appendages over which they appeared to exercise little control. They seemed mutable in form, able to transform their bodies in shape and area, sometimes inflating themselves like gargantuan pufferfish so that their surface side would almost tower as high as the main mast. They were also capable of creating and opening orifice in their flesh wherever or in whatever quantity they desired to consume other creatures. With these the could blow ferocious gales and jets of water which could travel as far as the eye could follow. There were other monstrosities too, more or less hideous than those here described; some simply gigantic imitations of otherwise recognisable marine life, others whose visage was so upsetting that sailors lost their minds in the simple act of witness and whose recounting would serve no other purpose than to horrify and unman. After nearly a sevenday and as the immense clouds of the tempest filled the entire northern horizon and the waves began to stretch as high as the Grand Candi and Worshipful Pagodas back home, breaking into mist and nothingness as they made contact with the bowsprit…the beasts turned their attentions to one another and a demonic melee began, a great slaughter. The dark ocean turned unnatural shades of red, purple and green as they creatures slew one another in a murderous frenzy…yet more of the crew were lost at this time to a catching madness and confined to the brig pending sentence for low moral fibre upon arrival in safer waters.
Once the ocean no longer teemed with the eldritch abominations and they were left in the wake of The Deliverance an uncanny calm spread through the ship’s crew. Whilst the crushing weight and power of the tempest was yet to be confronted, the indomitable might of Analor was clear for all to see and blessed serenity flowed them, making even the most lapsed or ill-disciplined follower of the tenets, devout. Each morning and each night, those not on duty would mass on deck and cry and sing the soft choruses of the meditations and mantras, calling for the Patriarch to bless them, offering their prized possessions to him as homage and thanks. Whilst the offerings were of little monetary value, they held huge sentimental value to the crewmembers and the Patriarch accepted them willingly. Once the crew had run out of possessions they offered promises and solemn oaths which pleased the Patriarch greatly. During the blessings he would stand in the centre of the poop deck, his long slender arms stretched out to the heavens, allowing the sleeves of his purple, red and gold robes to slip down to his elbows, his long golden hair would flow down his back and as he titled his head back to face the now perpetual darkness of the sky, his locks would touch the surface of the deck, his pale white face and high cheekbones making him look boyish and betraying no signs of his centuries. He would speak the words of blessing with a softness but the words would carry to every nook of the vessel, entering into the mind and soul directly without traversing any intermediate space. The ship and its crew were ready to face anything for him, for the council of seventy and for Analor…there were even those aboard the ship who whispered the blasphemy that the Patriarch was the embodiment of Analor or perhaps his son. Such heresy, for which mothers would turn in their sons and daughters their fathers on the homeland, were tolerated…when whispered at least. Such was the gaiety and confidence of the crew at this time that the passage into the tempest was barely marked, and certainly not with the same gravity as the crossing of the PNR.
As The Deliverance passed from the outflow into the feederband of the storm, the seas were so violent that it was impossible to see above the waves on any side of the ship. The craft was surrounded on all sides by walls of water which would peak and trough exposing yet greater briny mountains in the distance. It would have been easy to believe that the vessel was submerged were it not for the dark skies, swirling with violent and opaque clouds which could be seen above as lightening flashed illuminating this alien environ in blue and white. When The Deliverance finally passed into the eyewall, the band of thick cloud, fog, wind and rain surrounding the eye of the maelstrom, it became impossible to see anything on the upper decks. One could not even locate the end of their own nose by sight and many crewmen were lost, the deck crew, ratings and even a few of the Nix officers were never seen again, presumed overboard. Yet more sailors were lost attempting to replace them and ensure the safe running of the ship. It was most fortunate that the passing had not been formally marked and that it had not taken place during the Patriarch’s blessings or many more would have been abandoned to the depths. Despite all of this, the crew did not lose faith. Analor’s guiding hand and Presiding Patriarch’s miracles had seen them safe through the travails thus far. On the Patriarch’s orders the deck was abandoned and the crew were told to instead put their faith in the LORD, which they did readily. The galley replaced the poop as the location for prayer, hymns and blessings and for a time, as the ships swam placidly through the swirling miasma, it was as if the ship was heaven on earth. There were great feasts, hearty drinking and games, many of the younger, single crew married and passed the days with their new wives and husbands enjoying the benefits of matrimony from their bunks and hammocks. The revelry did not hide the absence of the Patriarch for long however. The crew had become accustomed to their blessings, and whilst it was not uncommon for the Patriarch to miss the occasional benediction, after two days…or rather…two lengthy sleeps…it was hard for most to measure the passage of time in their present conditions, the Uruk ratings started to become concerned. The Officers did their best to reassure them that the Presiding Patriarch was praying for them from his quarters and this satisfied them for a while. However, strange occurrences began all over the craft and reports of apparitions and spectres became common place. Accounts often involved the appearance of missing crewmen who would speak to them in strange and threatening tongues. By the fourth day of absence, the crew were restless and spooked. The Deliverance had begun to experience periods of turbulence. Nothing greater than those experienced early in the voyage and nothing that would usually concern an experienced seaman… but the crew were used to the near frictionless movement of the ship and without the presence of the Patriarch the stress began to mount, a number of Uruk ratings were punished by mutilation for speaking out of turn to the Officers and by the fifth day the officers themselves began to appear fearful, no longer displaying their usual coolness and calm demeanour, as the turbulence increased and the ship began to creak and groan. Pressure behind the eyes, headaches and nosebleed became commonplace amongst the crew and fights broke out amongst the officers as their tempers became increasingly volatile. During one scuffle, a midshipman pushed an arm through a porthole on the lower decks and when it was returned, accompanied with unmanly screams of agony, much of the flesh had been stripped from the hand and wrist. What tissue and muscle remained fell from the arm like slow cooked fowl. He died within the hour.
By the evening of the sixth day the crew were once again close to mutiny, rumours spread of a conspiracy amongst the Nix officers to harm the Patriarch, perhaps encouraged by the crews earlier zealous exaltation of him as the son of Analor. Fortunately, the captain was a shrewd and intelligent man and succeeded in heading off any form of confrontation or openly rebellious protestations by promising the crew that the Patriarch would visit them the following morning and that they should spend the evening, cleansing their minds and bodies in preparation for benediction.
The entire crew were woken from their beds that night by a sudden explosive crack, followed by an unrelenting roar. The sound was deafening, a constant barrage of deep whistling which made communication impossible and caused the ears of many to begin bleeding. Almost the entire crew were incapacitated all at once, save for the few already hard of hearing and myself the chief signalman, as I had lost all auditory functions during the last war with Naralis. If it wasn’t for my friends and I, all might have been lost. Our group of veteran Uruk sailors pushed our way through the barque, climbing over the writhing bodies of ratings and officers throughout the vessel, to break down the door to the Presiding Patriarch’s quarters, where we found the boyish nix kneeling on the ground in his spartan but palatial room, looking much older and far more worn than he had been six days prior. His luxurious golden hair was thinning and had turned white and grey, his high cheekbones were now jutting through his gaunt cheeks and his hands and face were covered in creases and sagging skin. The Nix’s eyes were completely white, with barely an outline of his striking blue irises visible and his face was showing great effort. We did not know what to do and began signing amongst ourselves feverishly, desperately deliberating whether or not we should approach our spiritual leader or if we should try to rouse him from his trance. After a few moments of hectic disagreement, one of the others made the decision to move toward the kneeling man, gently shaking his shoulders. As the Patriarch was released from his dwam, the colour returned to his eyes, and he sharply grabbed the Uruks thick hand on his shoulder and his expression steeled. In front of all of us, who watched on in shock and surprise, our comrade’s form suddenly crumbled, transforming into a heap of ash beside the Patriarch. Paralyzed with confusion and horror, we just gawked as our anointed, scooped up the ashen remains in both hands, stood, paced over to the nearest wall and smeared our friend’s residue against the bulkhead, tracing symbols delicately with his palms and fingers. It took us a few seconds to register what the symbols were, but we all recognised it in the end. It was Elvish, the Nix language. It simply said ‘oblation’. The Patriarch had already started to look a little healthier and by the time he had finished writing, the roaring sound which had debilitated the crew and which could be felt in our chests and heads, had abated. Once the chaos had subsided and order was restored to the ship, crew were invited one by one into the Patriarch’s chambers. Of course, as instructed, we attested that the Patriarch was alive and that he wanted to give the gift of oblation to any who would receive it. One by one crew were invited to the Patriarch’s chambers to join with LORD Analor the Protector, giving their strength to him and helping him to guide our passage safely to the North Hub shores. As I understand it, I am the only living Uruk to witness the oblation ritual. The others were the first to volunteer, but I am a traditional old salt. It would have been a gift to be sent to the Loyal Bounty by the Presiding Patriarch himself, but I do not feel I am worthy. Not until I am of age… or at least have completed this mission first. We have already unloaded the powder weapons and the majority of the marines to the citadel…their castle has it’s own dock! The citadel is a little small by the standards of Amal, but the dock is a great idea. The Deliverance is far too big to get anywhere near it of course, but their sloops turned to unload the cargo once we hoisted the Holy flag of Analor and now we wait… off-shore. I can’t wait to share this story with Master Galanodel and the family upon my return.
[Marked for destruction]