Pickled Fish and a New Threat

A warm ocean breeze swept the deck of the Nightshatter, stirring the newly etched runes that glimmered faintly across its armored plating. Roy stood by the bridge's open window, sipping from a chipped mug of coffee. The steady hum of the engines, coupled with the gentle churn of waves against the hull, almost lulled him into a sense of peace. Almost.

Down on the lower deck, Father Skeleton strolled in loud floral shorts, his bare ribs showing between the waistband and a half-buttoned Hawaiian shirt. He was busy, and with a surprising diligence, mopping up the wet footprints he'd trailed after sneaking in for a secret, unscheduled shower.

"Hoist up yer jar o' pickled fish," he sang, his voice cheerfully, almost painfully, off-key.

"Brine-bound dreams in a vinegar wish.

Flush it down, yer troubles vanish!

Pickled fish, oh pickled fish."

His voice drifted up to the bridge via the intercom, and Roy's ears twitched. From the corner of his eye, Roy noticed a few of the base-model Presidroids bobbing their heads in a strange, almost rhythmic way, as if they were actually enjoying the silly shanty. Roy exhaled a resigned chuckle.

But then, mid-verse, the skeleton's voice deepened, the playful melody twisting into a guttural, resonant chant. The air on the deck grew unnaturally cold. Roy felt the hairs on his arms stand up, a primal, inexplicable dread coiling in his gut that had nothing to do with bad singing. The cheerful sunlight seemed to dim for a few terrifying heartbeats, the world taking on a grey, washed-out quality.

"I call the souls from shattered cribs and mass graves.

The dark birth of howling flesh.

The silencing screams of the coming.

Rise. Rise. Rise. Rise. Rise. Rise.

Rise, ye unloved, and march to your godless war."

The sky itself darkened further to a pitch black, turning from a bright, cloudless blue to a bruised, stormy indigo. Through the bridge window, Roy saw dark, ethereal shapes, hazy silhouettes of drifting souls, begin to slowly coalesce around Father Skeleton's feet. They spread across the deck and then out onto the very surface of the ocean, dozens, then hundreds, then many thousands of pale, shimmering forms flickering in and out of existence, their expressions a silent chorus of confusion and sorrow. A startled cry rang out from a pair of Elite Presidroids who were hauling crates nearby. The rapid, heavy thump-thump of Warrex's footsteps echoed as he rushed onto the scene from the ship's interior.

"Again?" Roy groaned, nearly spilling his hot coffee.

Warrex dropped instinctively into a low crouch, his fists raised, a lifetime of fighting spectral horrors kicking in. Father Skeleton, however, remained blissfully unaware of the ghostly flash mob he had just summoned, his voice echoing with the final, ominous words of the incantation.

"...Forgotten Tongues: Zangri'bokhal."

Roy's voice, sharp with exasperation, exploded over the brigs loudspeaker. "HEY, BONE BUM! SNAP OUT OF IT!"

And then, as if someone had physically yanked a record needle from its groove, the skeleton popped right back into his silly, nonsensical tune, his voice once again cheerful and off-key.

"Some like 'em sweet, some like 'em swish,

Pickled fish, oh pickled fi-iiish."

The sky instantly returned to its normal, placid blue. The drifting souls shuddered and then evaporated into nothingness, leaving behind only a lingering, bone-deep chill in the air. Father Skeleton blinked, looking around, utterly oblivious to the supernatural event he had just caused. Then, glancing up to find Roy glaring daggers at him from the monitor on the wall, he lifted his mop in a bright, friendly wave.

Roy set his mug down with a heavy sigh. He couldn't even summon any real anger. Father Skeleton's clueless, beaming grin was too genuine, like a child who had just discovered a fun new toy that could accidentally tear the world in two. Roy tapped the intercom. "Crew, stand down. It was another… projector malfunction. Yes. Carry on."

He sifted through the internal camera feeds to find Maelara in the gym with Takara. Takara was gleefully supercharging a treadmill, pushing it to speeds that would have launched a normal human into orbit, while Maelara ran on it, her powerful legs a blur, not even breaking a sweat. They hadn't seemed to notice the brief, localized apocalypse on the upper deck.

"Close call," Roy said to Serenity. "Can't have Maelara freaking out over our resident undead menace."

Warrex, his initial alarm fading, gave Father Skeleton a fearful, but slightly amused smirk before trudging back to his post midship. The skeleton only cocked his head in confusion, then resumed his mopping, humming his pickled-fish refrain as though nothing had happened.

Later that morning, Roy wandered out onto the starboard side of the deck and found Warrex and Maelara facing off. Both wore expressions of grim, unwavering determination, their arms folded tightly across their chests in what looked like a silent showdown of flexed, intimidating muscles.

"Have you tried focusing on isolating your deltoids?" Maelara asked, turning sideways to display a powerfully defined, almost perfectly sculpted shoulder. Warrex, never one to be outdone, flexed his own massive arm, each individual muscle cut like chiseled stone. "Isolate? Ha! I prefer the raw synergy of the entire core. Check out this lat spread."

They locked eyes, the tension between them a bizarre, crackling combination of mutual admiration and fierce, unspoken rivalry.

Roy hovered uncertainly at the edge of this peculiar, and very muscular, pose-off. "Uh… everything okay here?"

Both of them turned to him, their voices a perfect, synchronized chorus of absolute certainty. "FINE."

Roy started to slowly back away, only to see Warrex drop straight into a perfect push-up form, his back ramrod straight. "Count me!" he barked at Maelara. Maelara, a fierce, competitive grin spreading across her face, joined him, her own arms pumping in perfect, powerful sync. One push-up… two… five… fifteen. Roy had the distinct, and slightly disturbing, feeling that they would probably keep going until one of them literally collapsed from sheer, stubborn exhaustion.

He scratched his head, quietly leaving them to their competition. "They'll tire themselves out eventually," he murmured to himself, trying to imagine who, if anyone, would be the first to tap out.

Around midday, after the Nightshatter had come to a temporary halt to allow a migration of several city-sized sea monsters to pass, Roy ambled toward the ship's stern. He was drawn by the unexpected, and frankly rather wholesome, sight of Orden kneeling at the railing with a small fishing rod, its line trailing in the gentle wake. Lutrian stood patiently behind him, pointing at the spool and offering quiet, helpful tips.

"Wait for the bobber to dip just below the surface," Lutrian whispered, his voice calm and steady. "Then reel in smoothly. No jerking, or you'll lose him."

Orden's eyes, usually glittering with a terrifying, ancient power, now shone with a pure, childlike excitement. "Like this?" He flicked the rod with a surprising deftness. The bobber vanished beneath the waves, and Orden squeaked in delight, yanking the rod upward. A small, wriggling silver fish flapped wildly at the end of the line.

"Hah!" Orden cackled, waving the poor, unfortunate fish around like a hard-won trophy. "I got one, Roy! I did it!"

Roy, watching from a few steps away, gave them an encouraging nod. "That's… that's actually pretty good, kid. Nice catch."

Lutrian smiled softly, placing his hands on his hips. "He's a natural. He might have found his new favorite hobby."

Orden carefully deposited the fish in a nearby bucket, beaming up at Roy with pride. "Can we grill it? Warrex was showing me how to properly gut a fish last night! It was very educational!"

Roy blanched. "Let's… let's maybe keep the gore talk to yourself for now, yeah?"

The boy just shrugged, already brandishing the rod for another cast. "Sure!"

Roy left them to it with a small, genuine grin. It was oddly, deeply heartwarming. The cosmic child who could subdue half his crew with a single thought, completely and utterly enthralled by the simple basics of fishing.

After a quiet, uneventful dinner, Roy strolled up to the bridge. Serenity greeted him with her usual calm, her voice an unruffled monotone, though the subtle, incessant squabbling of Harmony and Tranquility sometimes bled through the speakers in the background like faint, annoying static.

He was about to check the autopilot logs when a soft, polite alert pinged from the main console. "Captain," Serenity said, her tone suddenly all business, "I have detected a small armada traveling on an eastward course. They appear to be heading toward the same quadrant as Otherrealm, though it is uncertain at this time if that is their final destination."

Roy stiffened. "An armada? Show me."

On the main monitor, a live feed from a high-altitude drone flickered to life, its night-vision optics painting the sea in shades of eerie green and black. Sleek, elegant hulls glided across the dark waves, rigged with tall, sweeping sails that almost seemed to be alive, the planks of the ships themselves bending and flexing like living branches. A faint, greenish luminescence pulsed along the rails, and a swirl of faint, ghostly balls of light seemed to shift and dance in the rigging.

Roy exhaled slowly, tapping the console to freeze the frame. "That looks… special."

He marched down to the brig, calling for Sorrowclaw and Kaelor. Eryndra accompanied him, her arms folded, her expression unreadable. In front of their iron-barred cells, Roy held up a datapad displaying the drone images.

Sorrowclaw squinted at the living sails, her jaw tightening. "That is Lady Brinevein's style. No question. Elven supremacist. Utterly convinced of her own racial superiority. She grows her ships from the wood of ancient Virusian Trees, so they regenerate rapidly as long as the core remains intact. She summons the silent, long forgotten forest sprites of drowned, lost groves to serve as her crew. I would bet my very ability to dance that it is her fleet."

Kaelor's expression was grim, dour. "She is richer than myself and Sorrowclaw combined, five times over. Of all the Captains in the Abyssforged Alliance, I always made it a point to avoid tangling with her. She is scornful, dismissive of any she considers a 'lesser' race. And... she is hauntingly powerful. If she is indeed aimed at your territory, Captain, it is not for a friendly, diplomatic chat."

Roy's eyes flicked to Eryndra. He recognized that subtle, dangerous hint of a grin lurking at the corner of her mouth. They both knew this could be serious trouble. But also… a golden opportunity.

"Thanks for the intel," Roy said drily, rapping a knuckle on the cell bars. "In case you two are curious, we're out here testing some new runic upgrades on the ship. We might as well see if Lady Brinevein appreciates a good show."

He left them with that, a new, cold resolve settling in his gut. Eryndra followed, her footsteps clicking on the steel floor, a silent echo of his own thoughts.

Back on the bridge, Roy convened a quick, impromptu meeting. Warrex, still slightly sweaty from his day-long push-up competition with Maelara, hovered by the radar display. Maelara herself, not looking much less exhausted, crossed her powerful arms but gave Roy a level, supportive nod. Lutrian, fresh from his fishing lesson with Orden, stood quietly to one side. Orden perched on a high stool near Roy, his eyes gleaming, excited at the mere mention of a possible confrontation.

Roy tapped the holographic map. "We're about halfway to Seranovia, but these ships are veering suspiciously close to Otherrealm. If Lady Brinevein is looking for resources, or simply sees an opportunity for a bit of casual conquest, that is a direct threat to our territory, and our people."

He paused, shooting each of them a meaningful, resolute look. "So, we do an intercept."

A flicker of boyish, almost reckless excitement danced in his eyes. He couldn't deny it. He was itching to see how the Nightshatter's fifty-percent arcane enhancements would hold up in a real, high-stakes combat scenario.

Eryndra's arms tensed, her fists curling and uncurling at her sides. "If it does come to a fight, you know I can handle any boarding parties. But are you certain we want to engage? We haven't tested these new enchantments too extensively, not against a live, hostile target."

Roy smirked, his confidence, for once, not a performance. "Better to test them on our terms than to wait until we're under siege for real. If she's smart, we'll just scare them off. If she's loaded with treasure and decides to pick a fight, well… We could always use more gold for that fifth fortress wall."

Warrex chuckled, a low, deep sound. "Nothing like the thought of plundering an elven supremacist's war chest to brighten up the day."

Maelara eyed him but didn't argue. "A direct approach, then," she said, her voice a low, steady rumble. "But let's keep it measured, Roy. We don't want to blow the entire fleet to kingdom come and lose the loot."

Orden piped up, swinging his legs back and forth on his stool. "Let me help! I can hold them all in place if they get too rowdy. It would be easy!"

Roy gave him a wry, appreciative glance. "You are not allowed to interfere, remember? Regardless, we have more than enough firepower to do the job alone."

With that, the meeting dispersed. Roy lingered by the helm, his fingers dancing across the console as he keyed in commands for their new course. Serenity's calm, synthesized voice confirmed the heading. The low hum of the engines shifted as the massive battleship angled away from its quiet, peaceful route to Seranovia, setting a direct, intercept line toward Lady Brinevein's encroaching path.

Tomorrow, they would close the distance. Roy mentally reviewed each of the newly enhanced weapon systems, a half-smile playing on his lips at the thought of finally testing them properly. He glanced out a bridge window, seeing Warrex and Maelara, back on the deck, presumably on push-up round number five hundred and eighty-three.

The Nightshatter was a floating madhouse, to be sure. But it was his madhouse. And if the esteemed Lady Brinevein wanted to come poking around their territory, she was about to find out, in a very direct and personal way, just how formidable a half-enchanted, half-insane battleship, and its equally insane crew, could truly be.

He turned away from the window, his gaze fixed on the star-strewn, and soon to be battle-scarred, horizon. Tomorrow, the real show would begin.