The Captain, desperate

You all cower below deck. A Mariner cries bitter tears, alone in her cot. Above, leathery tendrils squelch over slimy wood. And the creatures sing.

”I did not know,” says the Captain. ”I was younger then, and blind to the price one pays for mercy. I was stupid.” The two of you have fled to the boiler room, and you have given up on your attempts to block their song by covering your ears. But the sound of burning Tar – of wheels and pistons under steam – does help some.

”I made the sacrifices and I thought it done. Dealt with. But I have felt the stars gaze back at me. Before we even anchored in Corpser’s Point. I tried praying, and I tried darker methods. Methods that once worked. Yet the shadows remain. And they now call for me. They call for my body, and they call for my soul. I shall go, and I shall meet my fate.”

The shadow of a squirming tentacle slithers over the far side wall.

You grab her by the shoulder and shake. There is a mad glint in her eyes, a mirror for her desperate words. Few dare even look at them, and the horrors of their touch are known to all. You offer words of reassurance and of well-worn warning, but the desperate determination in her eyes does not change.

”I thank you,” she says, ”but you have to let me go. Don’t make me give the order; just let me go. There is nothing else left to do.”