By the flickering of a blood red candle, three children approached the altar. Their traditional cloaks fluttered by an unnatural breeze as they focused upon the bowed brow of a woman. She was shadowed by not only the creaking eaves of the crumbling ceiling but a hood of darkest night pulled to the middle of her forehead.
"Come in," a voice cawed from below the cloak, and a hand gnarled like a bone chewed apart by wild dogs extended towards them. "Step closer, step closer," it continued, waving them onward.
Now these children were not afraid. No, they came prepared, their fingers holding tight to the bulging bags shared between the three. As one they stepped forward to the haggard witch. "What are your names?" she asked, the voice cracking like a hanging tree split by the Maker's lightning.
"Snips," the first said, wearing a mask of ocean blue that cut off to reveal his lips.
"Snails," the second answered, donning a mask the color of dried blood that shielded his nose, and circled the eyes and chin.
The hooded woman turned a moment to the last, her voice rising with a laugh, "Does that make you puppy dog tails?"
"No," the last stuck out her chin. "I'm Lyrium!" she crowed, her head tossed back to reveal her purple mask, that covered her entire face save the eyes, glittered like stars.
"That's a new one," the woman chuckled to herself.
"And who are you?" Snips asked.
"Me?" she jabbed a thumb back into the cloak that seemed to ring a bit as if it struck something metal. "I'm the witch." Suddenly, she coughed and lifted her voice back up to the cackling range, "I mean, I'm the witch of the woods, dearie. I assume you've come to try your luck?"
All three children nodded hard, their masks twisting upon the cheap twine their parents knotted on.
"Then..." the witch extended her hand over the table before her, "pay the tribute."
Reaching into their hard won stash, Snips, Snails, and Lyrium each laid a piece of candy before their spot. A grin white as a sliver of moon rose below the cowl. Twisting her gnarled fingers around, three gold Sovereigns appeared out of thin air wedged upon her knuckles. The kids gasped in surprise; normally best they could hope for was a copper. But a whole sovereign each?
The witch laid them down before herself, each candy piece waiting to be exchanged should the bargain be met. "I assume this is an acceptable payment," the witch crowed before waving her fingers back and forth over the glint of gold a few more times for emphasis.
Nodding madly, the children all threw their shoulders back and stood tall. They were prepared to stand firm against anything this witch of the woods could throw at them.
Drumming her nails on the table, the woman mused, "Let's see. Where shall we begin? Ah, I know," her grin lit up stronger than Lyrium's namesake as she honed in on the children. "It was a dark and stormy night..."
Though, it didn't begin that way. Young master Bran, a man who likes to berate people because he thinks he's better than everyone, got it in his head to take his sweetheart out for a little boat ride on the Waking Sea. Few things more romantic than a gentle crest of the oars while beside the one you fancy with the shore full of people miles away. Or so Bran planned.
"I don't like the look of those clouds."
"Come come, Serendipity," Bran patted the wooden seat beside him, "there's nothing to fear. I'm here."
Serendipity raised an eyebrow at the young man's assurances, but gave into his pull. After all, he was paying for...er, he was wealthy. Sure, let's go with that. Wealthy. For a time the pair were too enthralled together, paying no heed to the rising rock of the waves, or the encroaching darkness of the skyline.
Why? They were playing a game of...Wicked Grace. Very cut throat too. Bran lost his shirt and Serendipity had him deep in the hole. Why am I laughing? Stupid joke for old people. Anyway...
By the time they both looked upward, the entire sky was blotted out. It seemed as if the shadows of death itself wrapped around them, the once soothing waves increasing to a thrashing rate. When the rains opened up to drench the pair, Serendipity cried that they needed to get back to shore. Bran, certain he knew what he was doing - because he always thinks he knows what he's doing - snatched up the oar and tried to paddle.
But this was a storm of cataclysmic destruction. The waves crested higher and higher, the caps white as an old dwarf's beard, rising to such a point the ocean itself could slap against the moon. Each pounding of the vengeful water sent the little boat skittering further and further into the endless void of the sea. Poor Serendipity was crying for them to come up with a plan, but Bran, he clung to that oar. He was certain it would get him back home.
Digging the scrap of wood through the water, he turned the boat around to face where Kirkwall should be. Only shadows and mists floated on their edges, leaving the poor souls unmoored from their surroundings. Serendipity wondered if they were even going the right direction, but Bran couldn't be stopped. He paddled with all the muscle in his body, which isn't much let me tell you.
Anyway.
Through the sheets of rain drenching Bran's clothing to his body, he spotted something on the horizon. A bolt of lightning zipped through the air, parting the shadows to reveal a glance of black sails fluttering like storm clouds upon a sequoia-like mast. But when he shook his head, the vision was gone. Only the endless sea circled them, certainly no pirate ship caught in the same storm.
With a laugh, Bran continued to steer the tiny boat towards Kirkwall. Wiping the downpour out of his eyes, he spotted a single lantern whipping back and forth in the winds. "There!" he shouted, struggling to rise his voice over the winds, "Land!" They were almost home.
A great crack thundered apart the very air, the taste of metal splintering Bran's world as the boat below him exploded. Screaming in his brain as his tongue fell slack, his eyes burned from the flash of white that swiped right before him. Pain overwhelmed his tender body and the lightning strike flung him up through the air. With a great splash to rattle his bones, Bran struck the vengeful seas and began to sink into the briny depths. Pain sundered his limbs from him, unreachable to his brain as he drifted ever further from life-giving air. The man's sight faded to darkness as he watched the shrapnel of his boat bob on the surface above.
When Bran awoke, he gasped in a great breath as if his lungs had been deprived of air for hours. Whipping his soggy head around, he found no more storm, not even a sign that one had been in the area. The sky was cloudless, all of the Maker's stars shining down on the man lost at sea. Clinging in his hand was the oar, which must have been what pulled his lifeless body up to the surface.
Where was his boat? There wasn't even a single plank left floating on the waves, only his weary soul. How far did the waves pull him? Twisting through the eternal chill of the sea's waters, Bran tried to get his bearings. All that surrounded him was the eternal, ever looming threat of death. Blackness to the left, the right, below, and above. If he guessed wrong, any attempt, any choice to move this way or that could end in his death.
He was truly damned to the sea.
Shadows shifted deep within the indigo horizon, a great grey mass cresting through the waves. Bran squinted, trying to get whatever it was into focus, when the mass turned and began to bear down upon him. "Oh Maker," Bran cursed, his arms struggling to paddle out of the way, but he couldn't compete with a massive ship coming to destroy him.
It moved unlike any other ship he'd seen, almost as if it floated above the waves and required no wind to fill its always bursting sails. He had no prayer to escape its wake, which was certain to drown him and batter his broken body upon the passing hull. Terrified of the future before him, Bran froze in place - his entire body falling limp while the only thing keeping him afloat was his trusty oar.
Cresting closer, the great ship filled all of Bran's vision. His entire world was nothing but black planks of the hull beating apart salt water on its mission to rip and drown him. Gritting his teeth, he bared down for the inevitable.
Suddenly, the ship's ice-white, almost glowing against the backdrop sails shifted direction. Turning as if it followed no rules of nature, the great galleon twisted to the side, pulling up right next to Bran. "Hello there," a woman's voice called out from the darkness. "Looks like you need a hand."
"Yes!" Bran shouted, already swimming his way towards the bobbing ship. Hooking a hand onto the ladder, he scurried his way higher. Step by step, he felt the pull of the sea dripping off him. You failed in dragging another man to your depths, sea serpents, he laughed to himself while stepping onto the deck of his saviors.
A dozen men glared at the bedraggled man plucked from the ocean's heart and deposited at their feet. They snarled from jagged teeth, beady eyes glaring out beside pitch black patches, tattoos of every unseemly image that burned the soul were embedded deep into their flesh. Bran gulped deep as he stared at the assembled crew of brigands, his finger worrying the oar clutched in his hands.
"Welcome to my ship," a woman's voice reverberated from the perch beside the wheel. With a great smile, she eased her way down the stairs towards Bran. "I am Captain Isabela," she winked while doffing her mighty captain hat and taking a bow.
"Caw!" a bird called from high above their heads. Feathers flitted from the top mast onto the deck as the bird circled down to land upon the woman's shoulder. "All Souls Belong To The Deep."
She smiled at the bird with plumage as black as midnight, "This is Polly. He's a bit of a chatterbox. And look at you," she turned to Bran, "soaked to the bone and parts beyond, I imagine. Here, we should get you a change of clothes. Maybe something of the tattered knee and sleeve variety." Her ravenous eyes hunted over Bran's body while he kept glancing around the mysterious ship. None of the captain's crew were speaking, each eye shifting from her back to him. The night was silent save the creak of wood propelling itself above water.
"Madam..." Bran began, which she chuckled at.
"My friends call my Isabela," her eyes sparkled like gimlets and she seemed to smile as deep as a skull, "and my crew...well, you'll learn all about them soon enough."
"I, please, I need to return to Kirkwall."
The woman whistled to her men and shouted boaty talk to get them to haul anchor and do things to the sail. When she glanced back at Bran, Isabela chuckled, "Why would you want to head to Kirkwall?"
"It's...it's my home," Bran struggled to explain, when he felt every man lean closer. Their eyes never shifted off of him even as they pulled up ropes, and tugged on lines.
Polly broke into flight, black feathers tumbling from the sky as the bird flitted up to its perch. While trailing the vision, Brand spotted the flag wafting in the breeze. Dark as a heartless ribcage, the black sign of allegiance to no man, no shore whipped against the night air.
Pirates! He was rescued by the dreaded pirates who stalked the seas.
But Bran wasn't stupid. No, not our old Bran. He wasn't about to be keelhauled into some pirate gang, because he had connections, you see. "I am grateful for your assistance," he began, trying to not shuffle out of the Captain's unblinking view. Showing weakness was just as likely to get him killed. There was only one thing these pirates answered to, and that was gold.
"And, the Viscount is liable to be grateful as well. In fact, if you return me post haste I dare say he will reward you immensely."
He expected the Captain's eyes to gleam with avarice, but she cackled instead. With her head thrown so far back it was a wonder her hat stayed on, she laughed towards the night sky. "Gold? What do we need with gold, boys?" she shouted to her crew who all began to laugh as well.
Pirates who cared nothing for gold? What madness is this?
"Don't you worry your pretty little head there, sweet thing," Isabela purred at him. "We get you into a proper outfit, strap a dagger to your thigh, and you'll settle right in."
"You are not listening to me," Bran thundered, "I am under secretary to the Viscount! He requires me at all times." The Captain twisted her head at that, her arms crossing against her heaving bosom. Stomping his foot in annoyance, Bran shouted, "I am very important!"
"All Souls Belong To The Deep. Caw."
The Captain tipped her head down, only the rim of her hat visible as she whispered, "Where do you think you are, sweetie?"
Bran stumbled backwards, his eyes darting around the deck, "A ship..." The eyes were staring, eyes of butchers and murderers, eyes that glinted like the coins on a dead man's lids, eyes that never moved, that never blinked. Maker's breath, why weren't they blinking?
A breath hitched in his throat, causing Bran to whip his head around anew. None of the snarling crew's chests were rising, none took in a breath. Almost as if- As if they were all...
"A ship," Isabela smirked, her grin growing more toothy with each word, "of the dead." As she lifted her head the skin and muscle dripped off in oily rivulets revealing a smiling skull below. Black hair clung to nothing but a bleached skeleton, the clothes - tattered to rags - dangling off cracked bones.
"Andraste's Blood!" Bran shrieked, his feet scattering him further and further away from the monstrosity. His eyes whipped around to watch as all the other pirates shed their flesh to become a crew of skeletons, bones clacking through the air while they hefted the mainsail and raised anchor. A caw drew his eyes skyward and a skeleton without feathers tumbled out of the night's air to perch upon the clavicle of the Captain. She roughed a bony finger over the bird's beak and laughed, turning Bran's blood ice cold.
"This is a-a cursed ship," he cried, his eyes turning towards the sea waters below. He had to leap off, to risk the freezing cold and drowning, or else... "I will not die here!" he shouted, his hands digging into the sides of the ship. The oar that saved his life clattered to the hull while Bran tried to prepare himself.
He expected the cutthroat crew to rush towards him, for bony hands to lash onto his flesh ready to devour it, but no one moved. All of the eyeless sockets twisted towards the captain, who took one rattle step forward. "Sweet thing," she purred, the macabre smile never leaving, "you're a bit late on that."
"What?" Bran cried in confusion. They were going to kill him, slice out his organs, use his skin to make a sail! He had to defend himself. Fumbling down, Bran hefted up the oar he abandoned, when his eyes finally registered the shattered ends.
Lightning struck the paddle, ripped through not only his boat, but his body. The pain was immeasurable, like his veins filled with acid, his muscles were each diced into pieces inside his body, before he plunged deep, deep into the sea. And that's where he hung, his corpse bloating with salt water until the ship appeared and raised him out of the unforgiving depths.
Water erupted out of the Bran's mouth, a continual spray drenching the deck as he tumbled to his knees. His lungs, frozen inside his dead chest, forced out the last of the sea it tried to steal away. Watching in horror, Bran stared at his bloated fingers, grey as the grave. He tried to listen for a heartbeat, to feel a warm breath grace his lips, but none would come. None would ever come again.
"You're one of ours now," the Captain crowed, her hand once against coated in flesh landing upon his back. "And ours never ever leave because..."
The twisted bird, a raven of death itself, cracked open its beak, "All Souls Belong To The Deep."