A new group of arrivals to the water world of Ashtoreth stumble out of the Gateway, and, flanked by armed Kampfzengruppe soldiers, make their way down stone stairways through crystal-walled passages.

Most of the arrivals have only some faint acquaintance with each other. They are all soldiers of the Offworld Legion, but the nature of that sort of duty is not one to encourage long-lasting friendships … no more than it encourages long-lasting lives.

Amongst these soldiers, a Jupani is given his first glimpse of another alien world: the third alien world he's visited, incidentally. This one is very wet.

"Ehh, so this is it, is it?" asks Arkold of no one in particular as he views the new world in front of him. A hand moves to adjust the shoulder strap of his bag, and he shakes his head slightly. "Dagh's cup of Mateh, what a flooded world."

A big horse-like Rhian comes up behind Arkold, his own bag hardly a burden for him. "Completely covered by water," he whinnies, "except for a few islands, including this one." It's Hammerhand, an airship crewer who – according to his claim – was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time in a really bad brawl that broke out in Abu Dhabi. Arkold hasn't had much chance to get acquainted with him, but he honestly doesn't seem like the easily riled type.

A dirty little Skreek huffs and puffs, banging his bag as he carries it down the steps. "Heh. Yeah, a bunch of water and moss and mess like that … but it's got mermaids! And I hear they don't wear no clothes!" The white rat-man, Whitehead, has a patch over one eye, and not a shred of decency in his plump little body. Apparently he's from the same ship as Hammerhand.

The Jupani turns to glance at the others behind him out of the corner of his eye. "Completely covered by water. Well, eh, I guess we'll be getting regular baths for once." He reaches over and pats the Rhian heavily on his arm. "Hear that? The little guy says there might be mermaids – undressed to boot! Vhai! That'll be something to see," he says, grinning widely.

The Rhian snorts. "Whole lot of good that'll do you. You don't breathe water, do you?"

Arkold sneers in annoyance. "Yah, well … " He lets his arm fall and turns away from the others. " … I'll see it from a distance," he grumbles.

The rest of the descent is a little less chatty, as the passages lead the new transfers further down the island's side, and at times through the rock. A small city has been built up in this network of tunnels and chambers. Most of those present here are Khattas (of the Emirate), and human Kampfzengruppers. However, Arkold for a moment sees an area that bears banners of the Rephidim Temple, where he can see a few Rath'anis in Technopriest robes – researchers, no doubt.

As the wolf walks along, he takes note of each of the factions gathered here. He is certain to give a prompt sneer at the Temple officials before a glare from theGuards sets him looking straight.

At one point, the conscripts are led into a hall, and a Kampfzengruppe soldier starts going down the line, counting off a few conscripts and sending them off one way, then sending another group off another way. At last, Arkold is counted off into a smaller group … and it's off once more, with a much smaller entourage. For now, he's still stuck with Whitehead and Hammerhand.

Further along and after he has been split off into a small group, Arkold shoves his free hand into a pocket under his trench coat and considers the interesting bits here and there.

The room they're being led into now is dark. There's a rattling noise that is dying down – like a card tied to hit against the spokes of a rich young noble's Chronotopian bicycle, slowing to a stop. There are long benches set out. It's a small slide-projection theater, used for projecting pictures painted on glass onto a wall – except that instead of a ring of slides and a lantern, there's some sort of contraption set up on a table, pointed at the wall.

The dark room especially causes the wolf to become more animated in his inspection. Dark rooms, he has come to know all too well, tend to lead to danger … or pain.

The small group of conscripts are directed to be seated on benches. A plump human who is wearing a uniform (but doesn't have the bearing of a soldier) flips a switch, and light comes from the strange contraption, making a large illuminated square on the wall in front of the conscripts. The light is bright and glaring, and spots jump about on the white square and vertical lines dance about, while odd squiggles appear for a moment, then flicker away again. All the while, the device rattles like a card caught in spokes.

Most of the conscripts stare at the white flickering square of light projected onto the wall, transfixed.

The Kampfzengruppe has shown Arkold a great number of devices he had never imagined possible. Still, being a soldier in the Offworld Legion doesn't exactly allow him more than the occasional glimpse of their technology unless they specifically wish him to see it. This strange noisy machine seems to be one they want him to see. Thus, like the others he stares off at the flickering square, awaiting something to happen.

Numbers flash on the wall, circumscribed in circles, blinking on and off.There's a "bleep" from the machine, and then the numbers give way to … a picture of the ocean? But it's moving! It's a flat image on the wall, but the waves are rolling, and the point of view seems to bob a lot. Plus, the view is a little blurry, and there are more of those speckles that keep on hopping around the image. Plus, everything is in tones of black, white and gray, devoid ofcolor. Some tinny music plays, coming from the device, dragging in parts, speeding up in others.

In the harsh language of the Kampfzengruppers, a voice from the machine bids the conscripts, "Welcome to Ashtoreth! World of endless water … " The scene changes, diving under the water. "… and fathomless mystery!"

Arkold jerks back for a moment, half expecting the water to suddenly pour from this strange projection. Once he sees that it is no more than a moving picture, he leans forward again. (Fathomless mystery, eh? Fathomless until they send us to figure it out, anyway.)

All sorts of bizarre fish flit by the viewer. One of them looks like it's about to attack, but it abruptly explodes as some sort of dart-like projectile hits it from somewhere behind the viewer.

"You have been selected to be one of the few, the elite … sailors on a great marvel of nature and of science … the urgan!" One of the big shadows in the distance gets closer. At first, it looked like a whale crossed with some sort of squid … but as the view gets closer, it's evident that there are lights on this. It's some sort of underwater vessel! No … no, it is some sort of whale creature! But … it has windows!

"By the tail of Dagh himself … ," whispers Arkold in surprise as he sees the strange creature – or is it a contraption? He tilts his head to the side slightly as if trying to get a better look at it.

Whitehead holds up two fingers against the projection. "Look! A Lapi!"

The shadow against the projection rather ruins Arkold's attempt to get a better look, and he glares back at Whitehead. "Put yer hand down, will yah!"

Whitehead sulks, withdrawing his hand, but not before a few snickers from those nearby.

The view perspective changes again. Now, the inside of this ship-beast? There are people actually walking around in this thing! "For the glory of the Motherland, you will assist the brave men who guide these gentle creatures through the deep, and help fight off the predators that lurk in the shadows… " This sort of line continues for quite some time, with the same herky-jerky rendition of orchestrated music.

The narrative goes through various safety tips. "… do not deface the walls of your quarters. This is a living creature, and should be given proper respect … " "… under no circumstances are you to attempt to make contact with the native life-forms without permission. They may carry alien diseases for which we have no cure … " "… Do not discharge firearms while within the urgan … " "… Do not attempt to exit the urgan while underwater … " Animated segments show cartoony results of such unwise actions.

As the picture and sound continues, the Jupani mentally corrects what is spoken. "Selected few elite." (Unlucky sods.) "Help fight off predators." (Expect to handle it yourself.) "Do not deface the wall." (No pictures, or else.) "Do not attempt to make contact." (Like we want you being our diplomatic envoy, criminals.) No cynical review comes of the comical explanation of what happens when you do what you are told not to, however. They really don't need it.

For some reason, the frame freezes in place … and then, a white spot starts appearing in the center, burning outward. The music stops, and smoke starts coming from the contraption. The human operator bursts into action, waving at the smoke with his cap. "Awwww!" moans Whitehead.

Arkold frowns as the picture seems to explode in front of him. The smoke catches his attention and he whips his head around to watch the machine. "The wonders of technology," he comments quietly to those near him.

The human operator, flustered, barks out, "All right! That's the end of that film! Do not leave yet! There is another, very important!"

Once he is certain the device isn't about to explode, Arkold turns his head back around and settles back into his spot on the bench.

It takes a bit more time, but he loads up the next reel. Next plays an animated film about educating the viewers about proper hygiene, and the dangers of partaking in certain ungentlemanly activities while on shore leave, and what sort of diseases may result from such behavior.Arkold watches this display with a smirk that betrays his amusement.

Whitehead looks utterly terrified by the time the film ends.

Lights slowly return to the chamber. The plump human passes out pamphlets to each of the conscripts. More educational material.

With the lights now on, Arkold sits up, taking a pamphlet passed to him and studying it.

The pamphlet has a few silhouettes of sea life to be found here, and marks indicating "friendly", "enemy", "dangerous", "harmless", and "edible".

Among them, there are profiles of what looks like some sort of mercat creature listed under "friendly". There's another type of mercat profile listed under "enemy", though this latter one has a great deal more fins on it.

The friendly mercat profile is identified as a "Mariner". The "enemy" mercat profile is identified as a "Siren".

Arkold cocks his head to the side again upon viewing the mercats. "Bizarre," he comments, holding the paper out to the person beside him and pointing at the picture. "Looks like our first glimpse at what we'll 'help' defend against, ehh?"

Hammerhead just snorts, his usual response to just about everything, and nods.

"All right, move out!" barks a human soldier, and the group files out…

Much of the rest of the day goes by in periods of sheer boredom punctuated by lots of rushing around. The conscripts are led through several other areas. They are strip-searched, showered with some foul-smelling goo, showered with more agreeable water (but it's cold), dried off, dressed in uniforms, reunited with their gear (and armor and weapons), given shots, given some tasteless rations, allowed to visit the privy, handed some strange new weapons that look like conch shells, and finally shuffled down a long tube that leads to … one of those big urgan things!

"Ho boy!" says Whitehead. "I'm not … I mean … we're not really going aboard one o' them things, are we?"

Hammerhand whinnies, "Guess so." He eyes his conch shell device curiously, careful not to point the "business end" anywhere near his own face.

Outside the tube, small fish flit around, some of them faintly luminescent … or perhaps just reflecting the light coming from within the translucent umbilical boarding tube.

In front of the tw,o the wolf marches along down the tube towards the urgan, taking the lead. "Yeah. Just think of it as an underwater airship," he grins evilly ahead at the sea monster, "and try not to consider how we may be fed to it now, and how that goop they showered us with isn't some kind of sauce."

Whitehead lets out a pained squeak. "You like doing that, dontcha?"

Hammerhand just smirks quietly.

Whitehead points off in one direction. "Oh sweet-mama-of-Dagh! Lookee! I see one of 'em now! Come on baby, swim a little closer now, lemme get a looksie atcha!"

Arkold turns his head around as he walks, grinning at the Skreek now. "Don't tell me I'm making you ner- … eh?" The Jupani twists his head around to peer off in the direction Whitehead is now looking.

Arkold has the advantage of having two eyes to look with, and probably a little keener eyesight than Whitehead. Indeed that looks like one of the mercats – a friendly one, thank goodness – a bluish hue to its slicked fur, with green tiger stripes, and greenish head hair. Its features are most certainly feline. And it's topless, all right, but … those are muscles there. It looks like a gander, not a goose.

As fast as he realizes the creature is probably male, Arkold turns his gaze away reaches out to smack Whitehead upside the head. "I think you've been in the Legion too long, blasted rat! That's a guy," he tells him in a light growl. With a snort, he turns back to watch the ship.

Whitehead oofs, and struggles to readjust his patch to cover his one empty eye socket, as he stumbles along.

At last, the group reaches the creature-ship, and they are shown aboard, and led to the bunk rooms, where they are allowed to stash their gear – every last bit stuck inside lockers. They are strictly warned not to leave anything lying loose. While the urgan is supposed to stay upright, accidents happen.

A propaganda poster hangs on the ivory wall of the chamber, with a silhouette of a toony Khatta imbedded in the wall with a bed crushing his head. "Accidents happen," the caption reads, "wear your restraint belt while you sleep."

"Home sweet home!" chitters Whitehead, as he stows his duffel.

A loud thud can be heard as Arkold slams his shoulder into the locker in order to get it to close properly. Careful not to actually damage the locker as he is, the noise is all bark and no dent. "Ghh. These lockers could be a bit bigger. Dagh take it all!"

Hammerhand snorts, looking at another poster. "Hmm," he says, then reads the caption, "'No narcotic substances permitted. Drug heads get us all dead.' Catchy."

The wolf quite nearly loses the door, and everything behind it, upon hearing that comment. "What?" he asks as he turns around to face the poster, using his back to brace the door. His ear flicks and he slams his elbow into the door to both finally lock it and vent his anger subtly.

Hammerhand shrugs, and crams his own duffel away, securing it. "I'm not worried. I'm clean."

"So'm I!" squeaks Whitehead. "I just showered!"

"Ehh, it's just all these signs. They bother me. Do this, do that. S'bunch of scruddy nonsense," says the Jupani quickly, least someone become suspicious. He pushes himself off the door and walks towards his bed, removing his pistols from their holder as he goes. "You'd think they'd have something better to write about."

Whitehead squeaks, "The pictures are keen, though!"

Another smack to the head is issued to Whitehead upon hearing that comment, since he is now close enough to hit him without effort. "Sha'dap, won't you?" Arkold grumbles faintly and tosses one of the guns on his bed.

Whitehead squeaks, "Owwwww!" and rubs his head, scrambling to get as much distance between himself and Arkold as he can get.

Meanwhile, a tiger-Khatta swaggers into the room. "Hello, mates! Welcome aboard! So, you're the new blood, huh? Well, I've been here a full year. Never been on one of these before, huh?"

Arkold grins faintly as the Skreek flees from his general vicinity. He then moves to toss his other pistol on the bed, but the sound of the newcomer draws his attention. He turns around with the pistol still in his hand and points it at the Khatta, cocking the hammer back. "So who are you, then, expert?"

The tiger-Khatta just makes a feral grin at Arkold. "I'm the person who can make this trip profitable and easy on you … or make it a living nightmare."

"Heyhey," chitters Whitehead, backing off. "Uh … hey now… watch where you point that thing, buddy!"

The feral grin is reflected on Arkold's face and he nods then as the pistol is lowered – lowered, to point at Whitehead. Before the Jupani pulls the trigger, he flashes the Skreek a wide grin.

Click.

The smell of fear fills the room.

Whitehead lets out a stream of curses, and waddles out of the room. "Where's the stinkin' privy?!"

"You sound like a man I would like to listen more to," barks Arkold to the Khatta with smirk that covers the entire left side of his muzzle. The wolf lets the weapon fall to his side and turns to face the feline fully. He extends his empty hand in greeting. "Arkold. You?"

The tiger grins, and grabs the Jupani's hand, almost swallowing it in his own. "Scrimshaw. Not an uncommon sailor name, but if anyone else comes aboard claiming that name … I convince him to change his name. You from Sinai or Abaddon?"

Despite the size of the tiger's hand, the wolf makes certain to give it a firm shake. "Sinai," he answers while gesturing his gun up to the heavens. His smirk fades and is replaced by a grin. "Yeah, I wager you could change a lot of minds, 'sides mine anyway." A bark of laugher follows.

Hammerhand uses his Proper Hygiene pamphlet to try to wave around the smell left behind by Whitehead. "Next time you pull that stunt … kindly don't pull it in the same room we have to sleep in, all right?"

Arkold glances at the Rhian. "Eh! I thought he was a bit stronger than that. Remind me not to overestimate him again."

The Rhian just snorts.

The floor shakes a bit, and a horn blows. "Ah. Shoving off now. Time to get up on the bridge for an inspection. We've got a new captain. Some young pampered kitty from the Himaat." Odd, a tiger-Khatta using the term "kitty", but perhaps the term isn't supposed to apply to tigers. "We'll talk more later." He slips out of the room, and heads down the corridor.

As the Khatta leaves, the Jupani turns and settles down on his bed, folding his hands behind his head so he can rest against the wall. "So, our captain is a spoiled young noble," his teeth grate for a moment before he continues, " … so we can expect he'll be green. Likely prone to sudden flights 'o fancy, such as sending us off to danger so we can fetch his bowl of imported milk."

Hammerhand swats at Arkold's foot. "Hey. Didn't you hear him? Inspection! Time to get up on the deck and stand straight and tall. Not to take a nap! We'll be lucky to just find our way up there in time if we don't go now!"

"Gah," grumbles Arkold as he sits up. "And here I was just getting comfortable." His two guns are gathered and holstered before he pushes himself off the bed and walks off towards the door.

A few wrong turns and scrambling later, and the Rhian and the wolf manage to find their way up to the bridge of the urgan. At the very least, they're not the last ones to scramble up there. That honor goes to the smelly white rat who fortunately is separated from the wolf and horse by several bodies.

A faint smirk plasters one side of the wolf's face – the side that just happens to be nearest the Skreek.

The bridge of the urgan is located on the broad head of the whale-like creature, the floor comprised of bony tiles, and the walls and ceiling comprised of a translucent, fleshy dome supported by ribs of cartilage. Large membranes at the rear right and left of the deck vibrate on occasion, making eerie sounds hard to place as anything but alien.

Glowing orbs placed about the deck provide ample illumination … and it's comfortably warm here, although it's supposed to be icy cold just on the other side of that membrane window.

A young Khatta in a perfectly pressed uniform struts in front of his crew, looking up and down and side to side, nodding with the air of someone who knows he's important, but isn't quite certain that everyone else knows that fact quite yet.

(So here I am, soldier to a giant fish and a spoiled noble.) The wolf's ears flick as he stands at attention, eyes watching the captain closely but not too intently.

The young lynxish Khatta says, "I am Prince-Captain Rashad, and I am your commanding officer aboard this … urgan." He gestures vaguely at the deck behind him, then clears his throat and stands up a little more straight and proud. "This is my first time commanding a vessel such as this … but I have considerable experience in other, more conventional sea vessels on Sinai." He pauses for a moment, then says, "I expect nothing less than the best from each of you." He turns away, and starts walking, then turns back to look at the Legionnaires still assembled. "Dismissed," he says, waving his hand.

The urgan swims through a dark sea, moaning in low rumbles that reverberate through the floor of the deck. Occasionally, shadows flit about in the waters beyond, and bits of debris hurtle by, but for the most part, it seems that denizens of the deep keep clear of this really big fish.

The Legionnaires start to file out. As they do so, Whitehead wiggles his way into the front of the departing line, prompting several nose-wrinkles by those unfortunate enough to be behind him (that is to say, everyone else).

"Ehh, whatever, Cap'n Kitten," mumbles Arkold quietly under his breath after he has broken from the line. He shoves his hands in his pants pockets and shakes his head faintly. (The Emir's son. Dagh's own luck!) He walks into the line and does his best to ignore the smell, even though it amuses him to a certain degree.

Just as Arkold is about to get off of the bridge, a Khatta soldier whips out a pole that he puts squarely in Arkold's way. "Hold there, Legionnaire. You … and you and you … are on the bridge for now." He gestures to Arkold and the two soldiers behind him – Hammerhand and a Skeek that Arkold hasn't been introduced to yet.

"Roger that," says the Jupani with a nod, glad he doesn't have to follow Whitehead back to their quarters. He turns from the Khattan soldier and steps forward further into the bridge, sparing a glance at the other two also assigned to the bridge. "So, what'll we be doing?"

The Khatta soldier mrowls, "Stand at the ready. Don't touch anything."

Upon the command, the Jupani ceases wandering farther onto the bridge and shifts to attention. (I won't touch anything. Ugh. Why would anyone want to?) He smirks faintly again.

Hammerhand does his best impersonation of a statue that he can, staring off into the watery expanse.

The Skeek twitches his whiskers as he watches the Khatta. Apart from that and the swiveling of his ears to follow the superior officer, he's otherwise still, at attention as the others.

The Khatta soldier leaves the three Legionnaires for now, and joins the others at the obscure controls to this bizarre craft. Everything looks organic – either fleshy or bone or cartilage. Fortunately, the floor feels pretty solid.

Arkold too remains at stiff-as-a-board attention, and would look somewhat presentable if he wasn't smirking still and wearing that worn old coat of his.

There's a bit of movement out of the corner of Arkold's eye … off to starboard, visible through the membrane-dome. Something is swimming about, and pretty fast, too, alongside the urgan.

As the feline directs his attention away from them, the mouse risks a slight pivot of his head, checking to see if anyone else is watching the newcomers.

Since he's already smirking and he knows it, Arkold doesn't mind turning his gaze slightly to peer at just what might be outside the window. What is a little less professionalism, anyway?

It looks like no one is paying attention to the Legionnaires. Instead, the bridge crew seems to be mostly busy with entertaining their new – and mostly clueless – captain.

The mouse relaxes from the stiff "attention" posture, and studies the bridge crew, eyeing the odd "controls" and apparently attempting to work out what exactly the crew is doing to manipulate the urgan. He seems more interested in this than whatever's outside the vessel.

Just through the window, Arkold can see a sleek outline of something somewhat fishy. It fits the "friendly" silhouette in that identification pamphlet Arkold was issued. The upper torso is that of a Khatta female, while the lower body looks like that of a porpoise or dolphin. The body is a sea foam green, with white rosettes, and white head-hair. She is adorned in several necklaces and wristlets formed of shells and beads. The view isn't entirely clear, given the murkiness of the water, but it seems as if the shells would be brightly colored, given proper lighting. The swimmer is only visible thanks to the glow from the lighting orbs contained in the bridge of the urgan and serving as running lights along its length.

"A Mariner," whispers Hammerhand, still facing forward, but still able to gaze to starboard thanks to his equine head and offset eyes.

Since no one seems to be paying attention to him anyway, Arkold turns his head a little more to observe the creature outside. (Jewelry, and lots of it. Perhaps she's of some importance.) He peers a bit closer, leaning that way.

Whiskers twitch again at the Rhian's words, and the mouse devotes some of his attention towards the window out of reflex, although he still seems more concerned with the people inside than those without.

Emerald eyes meet Arkold's own. She's looking right at him! A bemused smile forms on her face, though she doesn't show any teeth. She holds up one hand in a curious gesture, webbed fingers together, save for the index finger and thumb, splayed to one side.

The Jupani's eyes widen noticeably as he sees the creature looking right back at him. Quickly, he glances around to see if anyone else notices this before turning his gaze back to the Mariner. His smirk has since faded due to the surprise, but not it is replaced with a smile of his own. He is unable to do more than stare dumbly at her now, having no idea what she is signing or what he should do.

A curious frown wrinkles the Skeek's forehead, and he takes a second to glance between Arkold and the mercat

The Mariner holds her hand like so for a moment more … then, with a swish of her tail, she shoots away from the urgan … disappearing into the murky depths.

The prince-captain stretches, yawning, and says loudly, "I shall retire to my quarters. Call me if anything happens. At ease!" He then strolls off of the deck.

With a mental shrug, the Skeek faces squarely forward again, resuming his study of the bridge crew.

"Heh, crazy," whispers the wolf to himself as the Mariner shoots off into the dark. He stares off after her for a moment longer before whipping back into perfect attention when the captain seems ready to depart. May as well look presentable.

Once the captain is gone, the Khatta soldier from earlier comes by to inspect the threesome. "Very good. Well, you heard the captain. At ease. Just don't get too comfortable. No idea when his lordship will come back on deck. And don't make too much noise."

Nodding to the Khatta, the Skeek risks a slight smile as he relaxes.

The Khatta doesn't smile back, but he makes his way back to the front, where the bridge crew is congregated around their organic "terminals".

The Rhian looks sideways at the Skeek. He whinny-whispers, "Hammerhand. Formerly of the Merryweather. You?"

"Kris," the mouse squeaks softly in reply.

Arkold bobs his head that he understands. "Yeah, I figured." Another glance is cast around the room before he looks to the nearest soldier. "And, pardon my most profound and utter ignorance, but what are we here for?" asks the Jupani in a slightly sarcastic tone.

A Khatta guard, leaning against the wall, casts a glance back at Arkold. "Extra hands in case we get attacked by pirates or monsters," the cat mrawls. "Not all the natives are friendly."

The Skeek flinches at Arkold's question, and shifts slightly away from the Jupani, then looks relieved when a guard answers without rancor.

"Monsters and pirates, eh? Yeah, we can handle those. No problem," says the wolf with another nod. He strides from where he had been standing and walks towards the window he had been looking out only moments ago. Upon reaching it, he folds his arms and resumes staring off into the darkness.

The guard doesn't volunteer any further chatter, and the time drags on uneventfully, aside from the occasional sighting of a strange fish (or a particularly large one), or else some strange noises from the membranes. During some muttering from the guard, it manages to get across that the membranes serve to convey sounds to the crew from the deep – "translated" the way the urgan itself hears these sounds. Apparently, the crew can somehow coax the urgan to make noises that can be heard by other urgans, serving for "ship-to-ship" communication. Since there are no other urgans to be seen or heard at present, though, that doesn't present any really interesting possibilities.

The bridge has plenty of space, far more than is really needed for the amount of seats available for crew stations. It also has a number of seats at the edges that have controls for what look like harpoon guns of some sort. Fortunately, despite the organic setup, they look at least remotely similar to mechanical vehicle-mounted guns that Arkold has operated in the past on Arcadia or Abaddon.

The day (?) continues on this way for … hours? … and then the urgan lets out a curious noise, and the whale-ship slows.

At the slowing of the ship, the Skeek shakes off his glassy-eyed languor and stands from the chair he'd sunk into, resuming a more formal pose.

Not long thereafter, the prince-captain strides back up onto the deck. "What is it? Why are we slowing?"

Up ahead, there's a point of light in the murk, drawing closer. Not, not a point of light, but many lights clustered together, pulsating.

The Skeek faces forward and twitches his whiskers at the points of light, then glances around at his fellows, hoping for more information.

From that same spot he moved to stand at hours ago, Arkold snaps from gazing thoughtfully into the void and tilts his head. His ears perk to listen to the crew behind him.

The membranes begin to vibrate … and music fills the bridge. It sounds like a woman's voice … but with an alien quality to it. Were there tales of some Exile in Rephidim who had a voice like this? The voice has a strange quality to it, like stringed instruments and bells were accompanying the wordless singer.

"What in the name of … ," begins Arkold, but he pauses once he realizes the captain is now on the deck. Intentionally, he turns around slowly and assumes a loose at attention posture facing the captain.

As the urgan approaches the pulsating lights, their form becomes more evident. It's another mercat … but this one is most definitely different. The lines are more sleek, the body a myriad of cool blues to warm magentas. Rippling around the form of the mercat are translucent folds of membranes that sway about, looking for all the world like the folds of an elegant ballroom gown that the mercat wears instead of such crude things as shells or beads. Points of light trace through the flitting membranes, and run along lines on the mercat's slim body, causing the murky waters around her to glow with a faint halo.

The Skeek's ears flatten against his head at the sound of the singing, and he doesn't look reassured at seeing the mercat materialize. If anything, he looks more nervous than before at this apparition.

The lights that trace the mercat's body give an illusion of movement that makes it hard to guess at her actual speed in relation to that of the urgan. She seems quite solid – not some sort of ghost – even though there is still that unearthly quality about her. Her mouth moves, and it's clear that she must be the source of this ethereal music.

Arkold cannot help but turn his head to stare off at this strange glowing mercat. He shakes his head faintly as if to clear it, blinks, and realizes she is in fact still there. "Vhai!" he exclaims before he catches himself. He cough loudly and smirks. "Ahem."

Captain Rashad stares agape at the mercat. It takes a moment for him to even acknowledge the grizzled old sailor cat who approaches him. "Sir? Sir, it's a Siren."

Hammerhand whispers, "Those are the enemy?"

"Sirens, bad," the mouse mutters to the Jupani and Rhian near him. "Kinda wish they'd told you why now, eh?"

Upon hearing the creature ahead identified Arkold's smirk fades into a somber frown. "Yeah, the enemy," he repeats, his voice unfocused as if he were not paying much attention.

"It's a Siren," the first mate says – a graying old Khatta who surely has enough scars visible through his fur to have one each for every year of his considerable life. "And we do not pick names from myth for mere amusement. She is a scout for her kind. She will dance for us out there, watching us, then she will dart away, calling for her kin. And then they will attack, and some of us will die. You have to give the order to harpoon her."

Even as the first mate speaks, the Siren glides one way, then the other, keeping ahead of the slowly moving urgan. The urgan lets out more low rumbles that sound weary and tired, as if it might be drifting off to sleep at the Siren's lullaby.

"You can't possibly mean… ," the captain stammers.

"By the Star!" Kris squeaks. "Is she doing that to us?" His whiskers vibrate fearfully.

The Jupani blinks a few times more and then just lifts his hands to cover his ears for a moment. He begins walking forward towards one of the gunnery chairs, dropping his hands from his ears as he breaks into a fast walk. "I'll do it," he tells the crew as he moves. "Just give the order, and she's fish food."

The old first mate looks at the captain with pained eyes. "Beauty is not to be equated with virtue! There is no way we can outrun her or her kind! For four years, I have lived to see the same story unfold. The Siren comes. A young captain is transfixed by her beauty, and wants to investigate, maybe even to try to establish contact, or offer gifts … or he tries to pull us away to avoid a confrontation, so that we do not trespass on their territory… "

The captain shakes his head. He raises his hand like he's about to give an order … but it's as if he hasn't the strength to make any command, still transfixed by the beauty of the alien creature.

The first mate pleads with the captain, "It turns out the same way. Yes, she is beautiful. Maybe we have wronged her people in some way. But they seek to kill us. By doing nothing, we bare our throats to the fangs of her people."

"Impossible… ," murmurs the captain, shaking his head. Meanwhile, the Siren just dances before the ship, beautiful and serene, singing her song.

"Dagh's name," the mouse hisses. His eyes bore at the back of the captain's head, as if trying to will the young feline into giving the order.

Meanwhile, the Jupani arrives at the chair and drops himself into it. He reaches to crack his knuckles, the sound of which reverberates through the bridge, before firmly placing his hands upon the aiming controls. Very faintly, he sighs. "On your orders captain."

"Turn… ," chokes the captain, waving his hand, "turn us around."

The first mate's shoulders slump … but he repeats the order. "Turn us around! Now!"

Hammerhand looks at Arkold, his face stricken … and he rushes to another gunnery station. "This is going to get ugly, I just know it… "

The urgan starts to slowly turn … and for a moment, the Siren drifts to starboard … but she swims along, easily keeping pace and ahead of the urgan.

Looking frantic, the mouse blinks, and then takes several quick paces to Arkold's side. "You heard the captain!" he urges, "Turn it on!" He shoots a pleading look at Arkold, silently urging him to fire the harpoon.

Even as the captain gives the orders to turn around Arkold begins the process of aiming the ship's gun at the sea creature. After a moment he smirks slightly, the creature now aimed at. "Target acquired, weapon ready," he barks out almost mechanically. Years of putting life in front of his weapons has made the process disturbingly common for him, and it reflects in his voice.

The feline turns to look over her shoulder. Is it too much to believe? Is she looking directly at Arkold with those ice blue eyes of hers? Is she faintly smiling? Or is it just imagination or a trick of the waters?

The wolf scowls back at the creature before him, locking his eyes with hers. (What a waste.) The mouse might catch his hand trembling for but a second, before he squeezes the trigger.

The shell-like gun convulses … and a spray of bubbles obscures the view out of the window, as the harpoon launches, even as the captain yells, "NOOOOO!" But the harpoon is away, even as the Siren opens her mouth as if to scream…

The charge on the harpoon detonates … and close to the ship. The urgan wails in agony as the whole ship rocks, and the view outside is obscured as several of the phosphorescent bulbs wink out.

Eyes closing for a moment when he sees the trigger squeezed, Kris exhales, praying that the Jupani's aim is true, oblivious in that instant to the Prince-Captain's protest.

The urgan rocks a little more and groans in agony … but it's still alive … and some of the phosphorescent bulbs wink back into existence, if not all of them. There is no sign of the Siren. All is silent on the deck for several long seconds.

Even though the shot has been fired, Arkold's hands still squeeze the aiming handles. His expression melts into one of … regret? Yes, he genuinely frowns and his ears go back for a moment before he resumes that somber look he had before he fired.

The captain looks off of the deck, gazing into the waters, as if willing reality to change by his royal will … but it does not. He at last stammers, "Turn us about … back to Gateway Island… We must … report … a … " He swallows hard. "… Siren activity in the area." And then he turns on his heel and marches off the deck, not meeting the gaze of anyone.

The Skeek who relayed the captain's "order" has reopened his eyes, but his whiskers still vibrate. He moves with fitful twitches, uncertain what's transpired. "Is she dead?" he whispers, almost inaudibly, to Arkold.

The urgan stops complaining, letting out a low rumble as the steersman somehow conveys new commands by tapping what sounds like a less violent form of Hammersong on a pearl-like device.

Hammerhand quietly whinnies, "You saved our tails, Arkold. We're all going to end up in the brig for sure … but better that than being fish-food."

"Unable to locate target. Target presumed destroyed," replies Arkold in voice devoid of any emotion. His hand finally releases the aiming mechanism, and then he stands from the chair and moves to attention facing the old Khatta.

The first mate turns to look at Arkold. He quietly tosses off a salute to the Jupani … then returns to his station. "Bring us up to surface. We'll send out a rowboat and divers to see if the urgan is wounded… "

Arkold notes the old man's salute with a nod before he turns to face the others. "The responsibility is mine. I will take the blame," he tells them quietly, still emotionless.