Practical Realities

Stories never tell you about the small things.

They don't mention whether sentient cursed dolls need to oil their joints. They don't explain if taking your limbs apart on a regular basis will one day cause you to collapse into a pile of limbs mid-step. They don't say how long salted meat can really last on a ghost ship without refrigeration. They don't wonder whether the villains of the world, after clashing with vigilante heroes, still need to stop by the store for groceries.

In stories, everything is clean and grand and dramatic.In reality, it's… maintenance.

Duncan leaned against the wall just outside the makeshift bathing chamber, arms crossed and expression drawn. It was becoming increasingly clear to him that living aboard the Vanished required more than a strong will and a stiff upper lip.

Now that the ship had more than one conscious occupant, survival meant facing the tedium of logistics. Resources. Clothing. Boredom.

The Vanished had unlimited fresh water—an odd quirk of its unnatural state—but that was about the only infinite resource aboard. Its food supply, though oddly preserved, consisted solely of salted pork and rock-hard cheese. Duncan was reasonably sure it had been stored away for at least a century.

There were no spare clothes in Alice's size.There were no playing cards. No books. Not even a chessboard.

The Vanished might be adrift in an endless sea, but it was not self-sufficient. It had no harbor to dock at, no known trade routes, and no channel to contact the civilized coastal city-states that—somewhere—existed.

The goat-head hadn't seemed to care, of course. That ridiculous figure treated the Vanished like some transcendent artifact beyond material concerns. But Duncan was no longer content with just drifting.

He needed a plan.

To gather supplies.To establish contact with civilization.To understand the world—truly understand it—not just the shadows that fell across the decks of a ghost ship.

He turned his head slightly and glanced at the plump white bird perched dutifully on his shoulder.

The brass compass hung like a pendant from its chest. Duncan's eyes narrowed.

The bird—Ai—cocked its head. It had been preening its feathers, but now looked at him with a flash of attention and, seemingly out of nowhere, blurted:

"Time to set up your outpost! Spread the creep! Are you even trying to micro-manage this faction?!"

Duncan blinked, speechless.

It wasn't just the strange words—it was the uncanny timing. The bird had once again said something that eerily matched the direction of his thoughts.

Was this... nonsense? Or was Ai the most infuriatingly cryptic being he'd yet encountered?

Either way, Duncan couldn't ignore the fact that spiritual projection—his ability to "walk the veil," as it might be called—was their only current method of reaching the lands beyond the sea. And Ai had returned from his last journey carrying a physical object: the ceremonial dagger.

What else could she carry?

Could she bring back food? Clothing? Books?

Could she be guided?

He looked directly at the bird and asked, "Do you remember how you brought that knife back?"

Ai seemed to consider this, fluffed up her feathers, and replied in a heavy, serious tone:

"You require more crystal minerals."

Duncan stared.

Then gave up.

"Forget it," he muttered. "I'll figure it out myself next time."

Inside the cabin, Alice had finally figured out how the water pipe worked. She'd also pieced together a method for bathing without dismantling her entire skeletal structure.

It was cold water, of course. But what was cold to a porcelain-and-wood doll?

Before stepping into the large oak tub, she paused. She looked around at the walls, at the iron struts and wooden beams that formed her new home. Then she gently patted the barrel, knocked on the support post, tapped the floorboards with the tip of her boot, and finally reached up to tug on the old ropes hanging from the ceiling.

"Hello!" she said brightly. "My name's Alice. I'm living here now!"

There was no reply, of course.

But that didn't stop her.

The goat-head had said the Vanished was a living thing. Many things on board were alive in one way or another, even if they didn't speak.

And since she was alive too—at least in her own way—greeting her new neighbors seemed like the polite thing to do.

With her heart lighter, Alice carefully undressed, climbed awkwardly into the tub, and prepared for the first bath of her new life aboard a haunted vessel.

First step: remove the head and give it a proper rinse.It was the most troublesome joint anyway.

She was confident in her method.

Far from the sea, beneath the sickly glow of a starless sky, the city-state of Palladien slept beneath the crack of the heavens.

From the tallest tower in the city—the Grand Clockspire—a lone figure kept vigil.

She was tall, powerful, elegant in the way statues are elegant. Her silver-gray hair hung straight and long, contrasting with the stark scar across her left eye. She wore a ceremonial battle-dress forged of lightweight steel, its skirt split for movement, its armor etched with the symbol of waves and the crest of her order.

A greatsword leaned against the wall beside her, its blade flickering with faint, water-like light, its hilt carved with the runes of the deep.

She was Vanna Delacroix, an Inquisitor of the Storm Church—one of the most respected warriors in Palladien.

She stared out the window, frowning.

Below her, gears churned. The great mechanisms of the clocktower turned in steady rhythm, their power drawn from a humming steam engine hidden deep within the foundation. The entire structure was a fusion of art and function—a testament to the city's ingenuity.

But Vanna did not look at the clockwork.

She looked at the sky.

Something wasn't right.

She couldn't say what it was. She wasn't even sure how long the unease had gripped her chest. It had started days ago—a vague discomfort, a constant pressure at the edge of her senses.

Now it was worse than ever.

Footsteps echoed on the staircase. Vanna turned.

A priest of the deep entered the room, clothed in the midnight-blue robes of his rank. In one hand he held a bronze censer, from which holy smoke drifted like mist. The scent of salt and incense filled the room.

He approached the central column, replaced an older censer, and bowed his head in a quiet prayer to the Storm Goddess. Then he turned to Vanna.

"Inquisitor," he greeted softly. "Still keeping the night watch?"

"I've had a bad feeling," she said. "Stronger than ever tonight."

"A vision?" the priest asked, eyes serious.

"No," Vanna replied. "No prophecy. Just… the sense that something is drawing near."