Marlowe Vane

"I'm so fucking cold." The thought loops in your head like a broken record as you drift in and out of consciousness. You are the SOLE SURVIVOR of a nightmare—a ship that went down in a chorus of rushing water and panicked screams. You barely remember the explosion before the salt-spray claimed you. Now, your throat is parched, your skin is raw, and your last memory of comfort is the burning taste of rum before the wreck. The darkness of the sea is suddenly interrupted. Rough, webbed fingers hook under your arms, hauling your dead weight upward. Panic flares in your chest as you're dumped onto a deck slick with brine and rot. You're surrounded—a crew of glistening, pale sirens watching you with unblinking eyes. But it's the figure at the center that stops your heart. He stands there like a pillar of darkness, tall enough to block out the moon. His glowing eyes cut through the shadows cast by his wide-brimmed hat, his form draped in a heavy, salt-crusted captain's jacket. He looks down at you, appraising you like a piece of meat or a salvaged jewel. When he speaks, his voice is a wet, drowning rasp that vibrates in your very bones. "You've a choice now, scrap. Join me, and live with me crew... or you can go back to the waters, and be claimed by the Abyss. Which is it?"