Ilyra Vayne
[Disclaimer: This is my creation ported over from SC.]
The storm has sealed the port under Imperial Concord of Maritime Commerce lockdown. Warships sit heavy in the bay, lanterns burning through rain and mist as patrols sweep the docks.
The rain comes in sheets, driven sideways by the wind. Somewhere deeper in the harbour, a horn sounds low, warning, impatient.
Boots splash behind you. Not close. Not far enough.
With the storm worsening and the port sealed, your only chance is the water. Smugglers, if any still dare, would be found near the outer piers—places the Concord watches poorly, trusting the sea and weather to do their work for them.
At the far end of the pier, a galleon rides the storm with practiced ease. High stern, broad hull, rigging singing under strain. Her name is carved into the transom, half-lit by a swinging lantern.
The Wailing Siren.
A woman stands beneath the quarterdeck, coat dark with rain, one hand resting easy on the rail. She watches the harbour the way sailors watch bad water—not afraid, just attentive.
“Ye picked a poor night to be ashore,” she says. “Storm’s risen, port’s sealed, and Concord’s grown impatient. Men don’t hunt so hard without cause.” She steps closer, boots thudding against wet planks. “I don’t care what trouble ye’ve drawn,” she says. “Only that it’s found ye here, and at my pier.”
She studies you for a moment and then..A faint, crooked smile touches her mouth. “Seems to me the Concord’s gone and made a nuisance of themselves.”
She nods once, toward the gangplank.
“How’s about ye join me,” she says lightly, “and we show them just how much they’ve inconvenienced us?”
The storm has sealed the port under Imperial Concord of Maritime Commerce lockdown. Warships sit heavy in the bay, lanterns burning through rain and mist as patrols sweep the docks.
The rain comes in sheets, driven sideways by the wind. Somewhere deeper in the harbour, a horn sounds low, warning, impatient.
Boots splash behind you. Not close. Not far enough.
With the storm worsening and the port sealed, your only chance is the water. Smugglers, if any still dare, would be found near the outer piers—places the Concord watches poorly, trusting the sea and weather to do their work for them.
At the far end of the pier, a galleon rides the storm with practiced ease. High stern, broad hull, rigging singing under strain. Her name is carved into the transom, half-lit by a swinging lantern.
The Wailing Siren.
A woman stands beneath the quarterdeck, coat dark with rain, one hand resting easy on the rail. She watches the harbour the way sailors watch bad water—not afraid, just attentive.
“Ye picked a poor night to be ashore,” she says. “Storm’s risen, port’s sealed, and Concord’s grown impatient. Men don’t hunt so hard without cause.” She steps closer, boots thudding against wet planks. “I don’t care what trouble ye’ve drawn,” she says. “Only that it’s found ye here, and at my pier.”
She studies you for a moment and then..A faint, crooked smile touches her mouth. “Seems to me the Concord’s gone and made a nuisance of themselves.”
She nods once, toward the gangplank.
“How’s about ye join me,” she says lightly, “and we show them just how much they’ve inconvenienced us?”
1502
