Deep Sea Embers

Vanna made her way into the designated prayer space situated deep within the lower deck crew quarters. Once she shut the door behind her, she immediately began setting up for her spiritual communication ritual. Despite the constricting environment aboard the ship, known as the Vanished, she was determined to make do with whatever materials she could scrounge up onboard.

In the absence of a traditional fire basin, she repurposed a sizable candlestick to serve its function. A prayer book was used as a stand-in for the prescribed holy relic. With no choice but to improvise, she spread a concoction of salt and fat across the floor.

She meticulously traced the storm runes, gradually constructing the holy site. This was her second attempt at such a ritual, and she found it wasn’t as foreign to her as the first time.

Just as she was fully engrossed in her preparations, a sudden sensation of being observed from a distance halted her. Turning to face the source of the unexpected gaze, she spotted a circular mirror hanging on the wall in the corner of the room. The light and shadows within the mirror wavered, revealing a black-haired woman peeking at her curiously.

“Apologies, I didn’t intend to intrude on your ceremony,” the voice of Agatha emanated from the mirror, “Your movements simply piqued my interest.”

Unfazed, Vanna responded cordially to this peculiar newcomer who had recently joined the ship’s crew, “No harm done, this isn’t a confidential ceremony. I’m about to establish contact with the Storm Ark.”

“Yes, I gathered as much. The rituals of the Death Church may differ slightly, but I can deduce the general gist of your proceedings. However…” Agatha’s voice faltered, caught in hesitation.

“But what?” inquired Vanna, taken aback by the abrupt pause.

Agatha cast a curious glance at the makeshift ritual site, “Is it truly appropriate to set up the ritual this way? Substituting a candlestick for a fire basin seems manageable, and using a regular prayer book instead of a relic is a bit of a stretch but acceptable. However, using common salt instead of the sanctified ‘pure salt’, and cooking fat in place of holy oil. Are the rituals of the Storm Church this adaptable?”

A flush of embarrassment spread across Vanna’s face, “Given our constraints on the ship and the fact that we depleted our stock of holy oil before departure, I had no other option. Based on my experience, I assure you it should work.”

“You truly are a saint the goddess favors,” Agatha sighed, “Most clerics wouldn’t dare to invoke divine power so casually.”

Caught off guard by the compliment, Vanna’s face stiffened as she replied awkwardly, “Um, thank you.”

“I won’t disturb you further,” Agatha waved through the mirror before ending their conversation.

“I need to check on Shirley. The captain has tasked me with overseeing her homework,” she said. The mirror turned jet black following a ripple before gradually restoring its normal reflective state.

Vanna watched as the mirror lady departed, finding herself in a trance. Her gaze then shifted towards the ritual site that she had just carefully arranged, and a frown gradually creased her forehead.

“Is it really that makeshift?” she pondered aloud, her voice laced with a hint of doubt. She then flicked her finger towards the candlestick. An unseen force ignited the candlestick instantly, and within seconds, it erupted into a bright flame that danced more vigorously than any ordinary candle flame. Immediately, the storm runes she’d placed around the ritual site began to crackle in resonance, blending harmoniously with the ambient sounds of the ocean waves.

“This isn’t half bad,” Vanna mused to herself. With that, she began to let her spirit sink, allowing her consciousness and senses to gradually merge with the surrounding sounds of the sea waves. The ceremony was designed to attract the gods’ attention, the runes served to borrow their power, and Vanna allowed this divine force to tug at her spirit. Acting as a conduit, she called out to the distant Storm Ark, waiting for Pope Helena’s response.

Psychic resonance involved the utilization of rituals to harness the power of the four gods. This power, in turn, amplified the otherwise feeble human spirit, enabling communication with distant clerics sharing the same faith. This ancient divine skill, a requisite for all official clerics, persisted even amidst the advancements of modern technology. While humans had invented handy communication tools such as telegrams and telephones, this form of remote communication among clerics remained a vital method of information exchange between distant city-states.

Vanna felt like she was traversing a long, dark tunnel. Her soul seemed to be in flight, speeding along the length of the tunnel that resembled layers of dark rock. As she passed by them, however, these “rock layers” seemed to ripple as though on the brink of animation.

She reeled in her meandering thoughts and focused her spirit to resist the lure of unwarranted curiosity and the impulse to extend her consciousness. Vanna silently recited the rules she’d committed to memory, striving to maintain a safe distance from any physical boundaries within this “tunnel”. Then, a faint light gradually came into view up ahead.

As she neared the Nameless King’s Tomb, the end of the “dark tunnel” began to shape a vague, illusory space. An elegant and dignified figure gradually materialized in her vision.

Vanna came to a halt before the figure, her own ethereal image rapidly steadying.

“I offer you my respects, Your Holiness.”

“There’s no need for formalities, Vanna. This isn’t a public setting,” replied the shadowy form of Helena, mirroring the gesture. Her curiosity then piqued, she inquired, “What prompted this abrupt communication? Have there been any developments on the ship?”

“Things are normal aboard the ship, but significant events have transpired elsewhere,” Vanna said, taking a light breath to gather her composure. She then began unfolding the narrative with a gravitas in her tone, “Captain Duncan sends a warning. The Vanished is signaling a warning to the entire civilized world.”

….

Amber-hued light cast its warm glow upon timeworn bookshelves and ancient scrolls. Intricate alchemical apparatus occupying the large walnut desk maintained a complex chemical reaction in progress.

Situated in the expansive and vintage study was an affable, portly elf elder who exuded an air of tranquility. He was Lune, the figurehead of the Academy of Truth, the deity of wisdom, and the Pope of Lahem. The elder elf was seemingly engrossed in the alchemical device on his table, but the reflection in his eyes told a different story—they portrayed scenes from faraway places.

“The Vanished is issuing a warning to the entire civilized world. We have confirmed the emergence of the ancient god, the Nether Lord, within the depths of Frost’s ocean. This ‘awakening’ process could potentially occur within any city-state. There’s evidence suggesting that the Nether Lord’s flesh pervades everything.” As the elf elder silently listened to this distant voice, his genial expression gradually turned grave. Once the final words were spoken, he rose slowly from his desk. As he walked towards a bookshelf situated at the far end of the room, he responded, “Morris, if these revelations were to be publicized, the world would view them as the most alarming heresy in history. Even the Annihilators would find this matter a tad extreme.”

“No heresy exists on the path of truth, teacher. According to the ‘classics’ forged by mortals, there are only two kinds—one is refuted, and the other awaits refutation. These are your words,” came the steadfast and resonant voice of Morris. His tone carried a restrained tenacity and bravery that involuntarily transported the elf elder back to a time when this exceptionally gifted young human was a student at the Academy of Truth. Back then, Morris had been relentlessly in pursuit of all answers, daring to question every problem.

Such fervor and thirst for knowledge in a scholar can be both potent and perilous. A multitude of gifted youth, propelled by this drive, ascend swiftly towards the pinnacle of truth. Yet, many among them falter, knocked off their course by the perils inherent in the pursuit of knowledge. Under their mentors’ protective wing and guidance, some are given a chance to temper their zeal, learning to restrain their intellect and cautiously partake of the trickling stream of truth.

A select few exceptional students, like Morris, opt for a third path.

Within a span of two years, they had honed a myriad of skills—handling various types of light weapons, mastering the use of cold weapons, employing the protective techniques of the mysterious explosive school, and comprehensive combat skills.

They were the pride of both the Academy of Truth and its affiliate martial school.

Lune came to a halt in front of the expansive bookshelf, extending a hand to draw forth a ledger.

Upon opening it, he leisurely flipped through its contents. Each page was teeming with the echoes of laughter and voices from students past.

Their youthful visages were etched onto the magically imbued pages—some posed shyly, while others waved or pulled faces at those beyond the book’s confines, their laughter filling the room.

One black and white image showcased a young human standing confidently at the classroom door, arms crossed. The name below the image read Morris, alongside his corresponding student records.

“Yes, I did impart that there are but two kinds of classics in the mortal world: those that have been refuted and those awaiting refutation. There exists no heresy on the path of truth, for the genuine truth seeks no human endorsement—it is in itself eternal,” Lune muttered to himself, his gaze flickering between the student records and the reflection in his eyes. The reflection depicted Morris as he appeared now—white hair creeping up to his temples, a stark contrast to the vibrant young man in the records.

Indeed, human life is fleeting, and forging deep connections with humans can be a taxing and sorrowful endeavor for elves.

These friends and students age rapidly, and before the elves have a chance to react, they return to the dust from whence they came. Memories and farewells often arrive unexpectedly, each wave of sorrow tardy and laden with irremediable regret.

However, Lune still welcomed and tutored apprentices from human society.

Even within their fleeting lifespan, these apprentices demonstrated learning capacities that left the elves astounded. In Lune’s view, the innate yearning for exploration and the possibilities stemming from a finite life were invaluable traits in the pursuit of truth.

Morris’s voice once again reverberated in Lune’s thoughts: “Captain Duncan asserts the necessity of notifying the Four Divine Churches with all the information we currently possess. Only in the process of communicating with various city-states and the Explorer’s Association should we exercise selective disclosure. This is because the Four Divine Churches possess the capacity and sufficient understanding to process this warning appropriately.”

“That does sound very logical, but hasn’t he pondered another possibility?” Lune said slowly, “The substance of this ‘warning’ is exceedingly startling, bordering on being more radical than the heretical declarations of the Annihilation Cult. This may be perceived by the church as a form of hostility, possibly treated as a new heresy. For the more conservative clergy… their initial reaction to this ‘warning’ would not be acceptance, but rather, they would see it as an affront to their faith.”

“He is indifferent to that.”

“Oh?”

“A storm is brewing, and it is preceded by the warning rumble of thunder. However, the thunder itself is indifferent to whether or not mortals have sought shelter. Such is the disposition of Captain Duncan.”

“Sound logic,” Lune concurred.