Siron Dion

Siron was dead and those sons of dogs were sailing the Vaingelion free and clear, Gods only know where. Damn them to depths.

It was, however, Siron who was headed to the depths, chained to the anchor and sinking fast. He felt his long golden hair pulled straight above his head. Siron grimaced as the rapidly increasing pressure popped his delicately pointed half-elf ears. He had just enough time to feel the icy cold of the deep settle on him before his vision blackened and he knew no more.

Siron Dion, son of Tor.

Siron heard the voice in his head, impossible, then reflected that whatever sort of entity awaited him in one of the hells probably would know his name. Strange, he’d expected flames, but this was incredibly cold.

He opened his eyes and then immediately shut them again in terror. What he saw couldn’t be real. An immense eye, luminous and yellow. As large as a man.

Open your eyes, Siron, I have a deal for you.

Sirion did as he was bid, setting aside his fear. Even dead, a merchant captain never passes up a bargain, bad for business.

He realized he was still chained to the anchor, but somehow floating in midst of the frigid depths. The chains glowed bright white and then disappeared, freeing the anchor which then plunged immediately downwards and out of sight.

When Sirion later awoke he sat up with a start and immediately vomited salt water all over himself. He noticed his surroundings once he recovered a bit. A fetid marshland stretched as far as the eye could see. Great, now me back's covered'n mud 'n me front's covered in vomit water. 'Ave I dreamed it all, the mutiny, me own death?

He struggled to his feet, then looked down and saw it. A fine, long knife. The hilt was carved of some strange, dark substance he didn’t recognize. Black as obsidian.

When his fingertip first touched it, everything came back to him as he was suffused with a cold so intense it burned. Siron recalled the gap-toothed grin of Bloody Bill in infuriating clarity. All of the other filthy sailors who mutineered after he had picked them up quickly to fill out his crew came to mind one after the other. They held his face to the rough planks and made him watch as they killed his good men though some chose to leap overboard to the sharks. Poor Tolley, gut stabbed and bleeding to death. Best Boatswain he’d ever trained and a good hand at the fiddle.

Siron felt the whore’son’s kick to the anchor, sending it overboard and he was pulled roughly over the side and plummeting down, down to the depths as the Vaingelion disappeared overhead. Just as he hit the water it was as if time stood still. He saw Deckard, the strong, mustachioed second mate hit the water a harpoon's throw to the lee. He seemed stunned, floating motionlessly in a red plume as the sharks feasted all about him.

Curse the mutineers that chained me about the neck, I can't even turn away. He saw Deckard thrash and kick as the predators wriggled and gorged themselves on other crewmen whose identities were mercifully obscured to the Captain. Time caught up with Siron and he lurched downwards, never to witness Deckard's fate.

Siron suddenly came back to himself. He felt the hilt of the knife very cold in his grip, but for some reason, that felt comforting. He felt small disc-like indentions gilded at odd intervals on the hilt. Sirion's unshaven face curled into a smirk as realization struck him that it was carved in the likeness of a tentacle. A bargain had been struck.

He picked the knife up and somehow knew that he had an ornate sheath for it on his back at the waist. As he sheathed the knife he felt the horizontal carry strapped sheath and knew at once that it was in the shape of the Vaingelion. His ship and he’d get’r back.