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Carna     Dreams and visions. Superstitions have never been far from a sailor's heart or their tall tales. But what Flint has been experiencing lately may feel a bit different than the imaginings of one who may have drank a bit much or heard a few too many ghost stories. It is late, and whether the dreams are on his mind or not, something is seeking him. Something steeped in the essence of the oceans, and fixated upon finding him and giving him an invitation.

    Actually, to say something is seeking him is not quite accurate.

    For he is the target of not one strange entity, but many.
Captain Flint The captain's cabin is relatively quiet--Flint and the skeleton crew are the only ones awake. The only sounds are the occasional creak of the ship, and the slap of the odd, particularly quarrelsome wave. It gives Flint plenty of time for recollection and meditation--with the dreams he's been having lately, he certainly hasn't been getting much sleep.

     The flickering light of the candle on his desk illumninates his furrowed brow as he pores over one of the maps Enark gave him for Christmas. He's trying to find the exact place where this being's messages seem to come from. Every veiled message, every possible metaphor he's seen in his dreams is compared with the maps and run through his seafarer's mind.

     The late hour finds his thoughts drifting to a man who was once his friend--to the last friendly interaction the two of them had. Sitting across from him, the man called Gates had smiled ruefully over his mug of rum, and posed a thought. "There are no legacies in this life, are there? No monuments, no history, just the water. It pays us, and then it claims us, shallows us whole."

     The captain's grip on his compass tightens, the ornate intrument nearly piercing the paper of the map beneath it. FOcus.
Carna     The charts are something else. Every single chart of Earth's oceans stored in the Library of Murdered Knowledge, as far along as the 26th century, some two-hundred years after Enark's own original death. That's around when there stopped being any Living humans left alive to make charts. The less accurate ones have been labeled as such, but were provided for the sake of their artistic or historical value. The ones with the greatest precision were also clearly labeled.

    There were also completely wrong or even fictional maps included, and as Flint looks through the many, many, many maps, he might come across some that refer to ancient, fabled cities, and basically completely imaginary. Atlantis. Cibola. R'lyeh. The estimated positions of many of them vary wildly between map authors, giving many places to look.

    But unless Flint is actively looking for imaginary cities or cross-referencing the lore regarding them, they might not be the immediate first thing he draws a connection with.

    Something thumps against the side of the ship's hull. A bit more solidly than a mere wave, but it could have been anything. Dozens of seconds pass before it repeats, slightly more firmly. Almost... Insistently.
Captain Flint Flint looks up from his work when the first 'thump' is heard. His eyes sweep across the cabin in search of the sound, as if doubting the sound. With nothing there to satisfy his curiosity, the captain returns to his work. The maps with mythological cities on them are regarded with a roll of his eyes, at first.

     With each fanciful map removed from the pool, however, he notices the sheer number of them that claim to know the location of such cities. Flint frowns thoughtfully, only to be interrupted by the second noise. "What the fuck...?" The tone is partially confused, partially annoyed. Pushing off of the desk with more than a little frustration at being interrupted, the pirate makes for the door. His first instinct is to open the door of the cabin and step out onto the quarterdeck.

     The darkness of night greets him, as do the brief motes of light within it--lanterns serving to illuminate portions of the ship for the night crew. Below, on the maindeck, that crew quietly goes about their work. No one is at his door, and as far as the crew is concerned, this is just a routine trip back to Nassau. Nothing unusual, no pranks.

     This discovery is met with a narrowing of the eyes. Reaching for the lantern hung beside the door of his cabin, Flint takes it and strides to the side of the ship the noise seemed to come from, looking overboard. The first time he could've overlooked--but this time, the noise seemed almost... willful.
Carna     There doesn't appear to be anything there. Just the sea, dark in the night. Almost black, like that ocean-beneath-the-ocean from the dream. Unlike that one, these waves are not still as death. They move, they respond to the wind, to the pull of the Moon upon the Earth's gravity. These are waves that belong to the land of the living. Nothing unnatural here. Probably.

    Maybe it's just the lack of sleep getting to him?
Captain Flint For a long, silent minute, Flint stares into the water, watching it gently slap against the Walrus. He leans over the railing, attempting to further scritinize it. A few seconds more, and he turns, determination making a stone mask of his face. When he returns to the cabin, the captain hangs the lantern up, hesitating at the doorway and casting one final glance to the railing.

     After another pensive moment (sure to be the cause of more whispered rumors aboard the ship) Flint returns to his cabin and shuts the door behind him. Once more, he approaches his desk and the pile of maps laid out atop it. This time, though, he's searching through the more fanciful maps. His bookcase, too, is referenced, searching through all the myths and legends he once categorically disregarded, all the stories he once valued only for metaphor.

     Is this figure the Poseidon to his Odysseus? Or something stranger... more alien?
Carna     As Flint gets back to his cabin, it isn't long after he starts researching again that the thump returns. Only this time it is rapid, increasingly forceful, and seems to be coming not from the hull but from inside the room. Or rather from inside the floor. The scrabbling of fingers on wood, like people had been sealed below the decks and have awakened from death to try to tunnel their way out, fills the room. Then the floor and anything on it start peeling away, pulled inwards as though into a whirlpool, and leaving behind a deep, dark hole. Whatever SHOULD be directly below his cabin is not what is in that hole. It is just... An empty space.

    One from which something is coming. The sound of wet slithering grows gradually closer as something writhes up from that pit. A sense of unreality might wash over the captain as a figure in a face-concealing hood and black robes rises up as though levitating, to 'stand' in the cabin wtih Flint.
Captain Flint The captain's attention is immediately drawn away from his work once the thump sounds again, as if trying to 'catch' whatever it is that's making the noise. He rises from his desk and searches the cabin for the source of the noise, only to see for himself just what it is.

     The swirling vortex startles him, as could reasonably be expected of anybone faced with such a sight in a space that's ostensibly theirs. He stumbles backwards, away from it, beginning to make for the door... when a figure begins to emerge. Though he attempts to make an expressionless mask of his face, his eyes give it away: a few flicks up and down the being's form, the spark of insight.

     Flint's posture straightens up, and he steps away from the door, closer to his desk. Taking a seat, he motions to the chair on the other side of the desk with one hand. The other disappears beneath the desk--onstensibly, resting in his lap. In truth, slowly reaching for the pistol concealed by his long coat.

     "Have a seat," he says with manufactured, easygoing hospitality. "I wondered when you'd come." He hadn't.
Carna     The figure is slender, the wetness of her robes making it clear that this is a woman. If not for the utter blackness of the robes, they would leave little to the imagination on that basis. However, that would perhaps not be an appealing thing, given the mass that emerges from the bottom half of her body. As many tentacles writhe up out of the hole, flowing up and into the robes, and presumably connecting to her body, the visitor says in a lilting dialect of ancient Greek, "I appreciate the offer, but it might be difficult for me to make use of such furnishings." She trails water and ink in her wake, and smells strongly, almost overpoweringly, of the sea. To one who hates the sea, it would be nauseating. To one who loves the sea, it is the opposite, an alluring fragrance. For one who simply lives with the sea, neither loving nor hating it, it is a delicate perfume of salty air and nothing more.

    She still manages to attempt to sit down 'side-saddle', resting mostly on her hip upon the chair offered, the rest of her dangling in an enormous mass of octopoid or squid-like limbs. "My apologies for the intrusion. My name is Mnemosyne. It is rude of me to make requests after coming unannounced, but if you were expecting me, then I would like to move on to the purpose of my visit."

    Semi-rubbery sea-green hands, with slim, feminine fingers, intertwine in whatever passes for a 'lap' with that lower body. "Your aid is requested."
Captain Flint Flint's eyes gleam with momentary realization. He nods. "Had you tarried any longer, I would've been forced to chase all manner of whimsical notions." He casts a glance towards the door, momentarily. "To say nothing of the verbal acrobatics required to have the crew's assent. What can I do for you, goddess of memory?" The captain levels an appraising glance towards her.

     "I presume that's who you are--unless the history of my world remembers you poorly." There's a thoughtful pause. "You look different than I expected," he says, but there doesn't seem to be any disdain in his gravelly British baritone. In fact, both of his hands are now resting upon the table, in plain view of Mnemosyne.

     "If you'll begrduge the curiosity... or ignorance, of a man of letters... you seem more like a daughter of Poseidon than of Gaia." Given a few moments to get accustomed to this, Flint's suspicion is gone--replaced almost entirely with interest.
Carna     Mnemosyne shakes her head, the motion barely translated in the draping hood, but still noticeable thanks to the lantern. "I am named after the Titan, and connected after a fashion, but I am not her. My role is similar. There is a crisis unfolding in a world already rife with crises. The world I hail from. You have been there recently, and it is how I became aware of you." She moves her hands to the sides of the chair, trying to lift and adjust her position a bit while she speaks to be less precarious, her tentacles waving idly, or moving about, in a paralell manner to how someone might adjust their legs for comfort.

    "I speak of Lumiere. Recently, a change occurred in the balance of powers. One of the most influential, a primordial force, has received a great boon that has increased its reach. It, and its agents, have awakened from their death-sleep or are on the verge of doing so as a result. One of these agents, and that agent's own servants in turn, lies very close to where I have safe-guarded the pool with the waters of memory in the Caverns of Hades since the Death Of All Light." She focuses more directly on Flint. "If they walk Lumiere again, there will be much suffering, and death and insanity will spread out of Lumiere, to other worlds, like this one. At the same time, a monster now sits in the Palace of the Crimson King, one long-deposed, who is resurrecting the Aspect of Fear after its recent slaying at the hands of those I believe to be your allies."

    She leans forwards intently. "This may be much to absorb, but it is important you know: Both the Dead Seas of the Second Coin, where the Palace of the Crimson King can be found, and the pools of Hades, where drowned R'lyeh sits in an ocean of black, have dire threats awakening in them. While there is still time to stop both before they achieve their full strength, someone must deal with at least one of them, and quickly, if there is to be any hope of defeating the other."
Captain Flint Flint listens to Mnemosyne's request with one hand supporting his chin. His thoughtful frown and furrowed brow slowly deepen as she goes on. When she's finished, he sits in silence, turning the information over in his mind as would a king given troubling news.

     Mnemosyne might be a little worried, then, at his first choice of words. "I'm not unsympathetic to your plight," says the captain. And, here it comes: "But my men expect something in return for a hunt. Unlike you, or I, they can see no further than the next handful of money." This is revealed with no small amount of bitterness. Flint rises from his seat, and begins to clean up his desk. Maps from Enark are put away, as are most of the books he's pulled out. His bookshelf has become more full since his travels led him into the Multiverse, and as he's putting the books away, he pauses.

     One book gets special treatment, evidently a work by a 'Lovecraft.' This one is left on the desk, but it's only alone for a few moments. In a silent offer, a bottle of rum and two pewter mugs are set on the desk, and the captain motions to it invitingly before sitting back down.

     "If you want my help, you'll have it," says the captain with certainty that doesn't leave much room for doubt. "However... I'm rather more effective with my ship. It doesn't have to be money--but my crew is quite hesitant to act without the promise of reward."
Carna     Mnemosyne listens patiently, not objecting to the conditions or showing signs of dismay. She knows she is asking much of people from another world. She also is familiar with how humans work. Even when their entire planet is in danger, some people won't lift a finger without compensation. This is not a surprise. It is also something she can readily address. "The former residents of Inquanok, a mighty city that lies on the only land near the sunken city of R'lyeh, no longer exist as people. Neither living, nor dead, they can not be considered thinking, reasoning humans of any kind. There have no use for the riches of their once-metropolis. If, in the process of turning it into a place of use to you and your crew, you should take some for yourself, only ghosts will begrudge you it. It may not be comforting to hear, but there are worse than vengeful ghosts to face in the Caverns of Hades."

    The octopus woman accepts the invitation and pours herself a drink, very carefully, aware of the slipperiness of her own skin. As she holds her mug afterwards, drawing back her hood just enough to reveal the color of her face matches that of her hands, she sips briefly at it. How long must it have been since she has sampled anything that was not stale with the ages of decay in Lumiere? She samples it slowly, savoring the taste. Then she says, "Likewise, to stop the thing that now sits the throne in the Crimson Palace, there will be a requirement to find allies and tools among the many lands of the Dead Seas, that can be used to put it finally to rest and release its grip over Fear. The civilizations that once dwelled in those lands, and even lands that no one has ever been to, may hold the riches of tales spoken of by sailors, resurrected in deathly form when the stories themselves faded from collective memory."

    She looks up, narrow, alongated eyes, with cyan pupils glowing in the darkness. "If your crew is willing to brave the terrors of the seas, and the fiends that roam it, they may find much that they desire."
Captain Flint Flint offers the woman a small smile, pouring himself a cup. He lifts it towards her in a way that's totally at odds with his earlier, more wary demeanor. Taking a sip, he nods, and if the persistance of that smile is any indication, he likes what he hears. "Good," he says plainly. "As long as there's something for them to piss away, I see no problems securing their aid in this endeavor."

     There's another furrow of his brow--this man does that a lot. Stricken by some sudden inspiration, he opens the drawer of his desk and fingers through the maps he'd carefully put away. After a brief search, he appears to have come up empty-handed, and returns his attention to the hooded woman. "I have neither knowledge nor resources to draw upon with regards to the Dead Seas. But..." He taps the book on his desk briefly. "I have a passing familiarity with the legend of R'lyeh." The book is a collection of the works of Lovecraft--apparently Flint lacks either the money or the interest to pursue the original prints.

     "Enough to know that my crew and I are... ill-equipped to deal with hazards of the mind. We're currently en route to Nassau, a port town and something of a Multiversal trade hub of late." He gives Mnemosyne a thoughtful look, eyes slightly narrowed in scrutiny, one hand resting upon his chin. Whatever's on his mind is dismissed with a quick glance towards his cup, from which he takes another sip.

     "We'll make port there, resupply, and depart for the Dead Seas handsomely. If there's any information you have which might aid our endeavor, I'd welcome it gladly." His polite, pleased demeanor falters slightly giving way to a sort of resignation. "And, if you plan on future visits, you'd do well to avoid the crew, as you did this time. They're fractious and superstitious enough already."
Carna     Mnemosyne finishes as much of her drink as she can before setting the mug back down. Then she slithers off the chair. "I see. Do what you must. You may have difficulty sailing to Lumiere however. Its waters are disconnected from these ones. There is a set of red gates at Lumiere's entrance. If you know where you are going to, you can connect them to the gates used..." She looks around the cabin. "...'Out here', and propel your vessel in the same way a sling can launch a stone. Just sail through one of those portals, with your destination in mind. The Bleak Bone Gate will convey you to the right place. The next time we meet will likely be when you arrive."

    She pauses at the edge of the hole in the floor, and looks back over her shoulder. She bows her head. "I thank you for both your future aid, and the drink. Good voyage to you." Then she plunges into the pit headfirst, tentacles trailing after all. When the pit swirls closed again, pinching shut, the only trace that she was ever here is the smell of the sea, and the slightly inky water puddled on the floor and furniture.

    Thankfully, it does not stain.