My name is Seraphine Wailark, first mate of the Imperator, and for the record, I never wanted to be here.

My crew and I are what we like to call “treasure hunters” and what other folk prefer to call “dirty, callous unethical pirates.” I don’t really see how us taking what is ours is unethical: Once it’s on a ship, it belongs to the sea, and what belongs to the sea belongs to those who have conquered it.

I served under the leadership of Captain Peregrine, a man who I once admired for his ambitions and fiery charisma. Perhaps that admiration is what made me blind to his reckless and stubborn behavior which trapped us all here.

If there was one thing Captain Peregrine loved more than his ship, and more than mulled wine, it was the thrill of treasure hunting. He sought it out like a hound, purchasing every nautical map that looked mildly interesting, getting sailors sloshed until they drunkenly told him stories of their travels, the rumors they’d heard from far-off ports. Though I wasn’t there, I’m assuming that’s where he first heard tell of the Golden Sea.

It was every buccaneer’s dream: a sea of liquid gold, waves cresting in the sunlight like mountains. I can’t say I blame Peregrine for his obsession with finding it. The problem was, no one belived it was real, much less knew where to find it. He ran around town talking with every sailor, merchant, or drunkard who seemed to know of it. Our coffers were nearly emptied when he suddenly took an interest in ancient texts and long-lost artifacts, holing up in his quarters for days at a time. I only walked in once, to inform him our armorer, Quincy, had left the crew for a blacksmithing job. Papers littered every inch of the floor and walls; some of them barely ledgible to me, others completely covered in pictures of golden tides. Peregrine barely noticed I was there, mumbling to himself as he paced around, reading a book and pointing excitedly to a map. It looked as if he hadn’t slept in days, with his hair tangled and unkempt, bags like coin pouches under his eyes.

That was the first time I considered the possibility he’d gone mad.

Nevertheless, I believed him. He was so certain he’d done it, that he alone had discovered this fabled treasure. I’ll admit, I shared in his enthusiasm. We cast off with the hopes of young children, blissfully ignorant of the humbling reality we were about to face. We fought through storms, sea beasts, anything that dared cross our path. Captain Peregrine only grew more impassioned the closer we grew, always looking out at the sea with desperate fervor. I remember one night, about a day’s journey away from our destination, he looked at me with tears in his eyes, smiling. “I’m going to be a god, Seraphine.” He told me. “Only a god could have this much wealth at his fingertips.”

When we finally arrived, all we saw was ocean. The air on the ship was tight with tension, everyone keeping their eyes trained for any glimmer of gold to be found in the blue abyss. Peregrine continued without hesitation, though he wasn’t looking at the water. He looked to the horizon, almost as if he expected a sign to appear. And, remarkably, it did.

As the sun glinted off the sparkling waters, the light became brighter, bigger. The more I looked, the greater it became, enveloping the whole ship until my eyes shut against the blinding glare. Though I’m not certain, I think I heard Peregrine laughing as the light swallowed us whole.

And, just like that, we’d arrived. The Imperator was nestled in a neverending golden sea, waves streching as far as the eye could see. The sun’s heat beat down on our faces, hotter than any summer day I’d seen. Peregrine didn’t spare us a second glance, leaping over the handrails of the ship and diving for the sea of treasure. But he never broke the surface. No, Peregrine fell face-first into his golden paradise, in a cloud of dust. He was shocked, of course; we all were. He kept pacing around, clambering up the peaks to see if there was anything he’d missed. He tore at his hair, nearly tossed a cannon overboard, all the while mumbling “I don’t understand, I don’t understand, I don’t understand, I don’t…” It was strange, since I understood perfectly.

It was sand. We were marooned in an ocean of sand.

It didn’t take long for the crew to turn on each other after that. There were arguments, fistfights, even death threats. Peregrine didn’t bother keeping the peace anyway. Some chose to leave and find a way home: I still don’t know what happened to them. The rest of us tried to survive, rationing off food and drink the best we could. I suppose it was only a matter of time before we resorted to other means of feeding ourselves. Everyone has to eat, after all.

Peregrine wasted away in his chambers for a while, never spoke to any of us. He refused food when I offered it to him, and instead stared out his window at the sea of gold he’d promised us, a blank expression on his face. When he saw the dagger in my hand, I could have sworn there was a brief moment of relief, a dismal satisfaction that he gained before his face twisted in pain. I gave him a quick death, of course: he deserved that much.

I must be leaving soon. This damn heat makes the stench so much worse, and it will be night in less than an hour. It’s cloudy today, which will make my journey much less laborous. I always like when the clouds come, turning this sickening gold into a pleasant red. Gold turned to copper, as it were. I’m leaving this account for anyone who finds this ship and is wondering how the hell it got here. I’m sorry I can’t give you more answers, but I’m sure Peregrine left some of his godsforsaken research around if your curiousity remains.

I’m going to find a way out of this golden sea. It’s certainly a better plan than staying here, waiting for death. After all, those stories had to have come from somewhere, or someone. I don’t know what will become of the Imperator and quite frankly, I don’t care. Burn it to ash if you feel so inclined.

Sincerely, Seraphine Wailark Former first mate of the Imperator

Scientific name: Draconia noctis

 Disregarding its miniscule size and reputation as a common pest, the Darkwyrm shares many characteristics with its draconic ancestors. Mainly: its reptilian appearance, wings, and hoarding tendencies. Darkwyrms will only hoard one specific type of item for the entirely of their lives. These collections are seemingly random, ranging from coins to bird feathers to left socks. They are extremely territorial of their hoards, and as such are mostly solitary creatures. When they find a potential mating partner, the pursuer will bring an offering from their hoard to their interest as  a sign of loyalty. The reciever will choose their mate based on the offering which pleases them most.
 The darkwyrm’s name is derived from its pitch-black appearance, which makes it an excellent nighttime predator. The next time you hear a bump in the night, do not be alarmed: It is merely a darkwyrm searching your home for a new addition to its hoard.

At long last, her ship was saved, her future secured. Beasts of lesser value could easily cover her debts, but this… Could this be the miracle she’d been hoping for? Divine intervention was not something Beatrix believed in, but she just might make an exception. Even the waves seemed to calm down as they sailed on. Fins glittering with scales swished around in an old wooden barrel that still smelled of rotten fish. Green scleras watched her as she paced about the ship. His tail was so cramped he could barely keep his gills below the water, but still he did not thrash around or make any protest. It was strange, to be sure. Jabbingly, the thought entered Beatrix’s mind: “What did he do to deserve this?” Knives had duller edges than the sharp guilt that seized her. Lavish wealth and more awaited her as soon as they reached port, but at what cost? Maybe it was fatigue or maybe it was empathy, but she could not shake the feeling of shame. Nobody had ever debated the existence of merfolk, only their market value. Opulent prices could be put on anything, from scales to blood to bones. Port was his death sentence, signed and delivered by her. Quite the conundrum, this: His captivity and death for her freedom and new life of sailing across the waters of his home. Raspy and tired, her voice spoke out into the quiet rythm of the sea. “So this is where I draw the line? This is the border I won’t cross, no matter the riches or power that could await me there?” The siren only stared back at her, not understanding. Unequivocally, this was a terrible idea. Very terrible, but as Beatrix hauled and pushed the barrel to the railing, it did not feel like she was in the wrong. Waters like glass in the moonlight danced and clapped, beckoning him home. Xeric life would spell his demise, but only pure chance could bring him low in the salt of the ocean. “You’re free, so just go before I realize how stupid this is.” Zealots had moved with lesser speed than he did as he plunged below the cold, briny waters; but no zealot had ever hesitated as he did, emerald irises gazing into her tired cerulean eyes, as the light of the moon and the reflection of the water freckled her skin with stars.

“What did you say?” Brea tried to keep her voice calm, but her insides seethed with anger. Her hands burned underneath the bandages, scars leftover from another fight. A fight she intended to finish. “You’re not going to be fighting, Brea. You’re far too important for that.” Dariel repeated himself, but slowly, as if he were speaking to a child. It infuriated her, how he was always calm and polished. She swallowed her rising anger and pushed forward. “But I’m the last Progeny. I’m the one destined to put a sword through the King’s heart.” “Of course, of course. Once the King has been apprehended, you will avenge your fallen brethren at last. It will be a glorious end of an era.” “Dariel, you’re not listening to me. I don’t want to an executioner. I want to lead the charge.” “And as I’ve TOLD you, Brea, there’s too much risk if you engage in battle. The King will be delivered to you bound and shackled. You can satisfy your bloodlust then.” There was no stopping it now. “So that’s it?! I just sit on my golden throne and wait? Watch from afar as the people who trusted me fall like plants? I haven’t come this far to WAIT, Dariel. I need to BE there!!” “Brea, stop acting childish. You don’t need to be in every fight. People have been waiting their whole lives to fight for you.” “I’VE been waiting my whole life for this! This is what I was made for, my purpose! And now you just want me to sit still like some useless doll?!” “I WANT you to remain safe and well-protected in a secure location! Having you in the fray will produce too many variables.” She let the silence drape across the room. Without speaking, she crossed over so she stood toe-to-toe with Dariel. “I have lived hundreds of your lifetimes in ‘safety’, Dariel. I have sat and waited for far too long to be denied now. If you somehow believe you can convince me to stay here, know this: I am NOT one of you followers. I am not a doll, and I am not a toy to be used by the likes of you. I am the last Progeny, and YOU answer to ME. So when I say I will be leading the charge, I expect a sword to be delivered to my tent by this evening. Am I understood?” Dariel stared up at her with the full spectrum of shock and indignation. Anger flared in his eyes, but his mouth remained quiet. Casting his eyes downwards, he fixed himself into an elegant bow. “Of course, my Progeny. I will have the finest artillery brought to you for inspection.” Dariel deftly walked towards the exit, returning to his usual propriety. Brea refused to acknowledge his exit, fuming with still unspoken anger. Her arms still burned. Maybe the bandages needed to be changed again.

“Lovely display, don’t you think?” Without turning his head, Malak saw that irritating glint of burnished gold, the white shirt that never seemed to get soiled despite living in a jungle. Dariel had a unique talent for announcing his presence without announcing anything. “Not particularly.” Malak responded. “I find it all a bit… lavish.” What he really meant was gaudy. It was an intricate tapestry, rich in dyes and embroidery. The Golden Mother creating the first Progeny out of her own essence. She had a benevolent smile, long flowing hair, and enough golden thread that it hurt to look at in direct sunlight. Dariel seemed be amused by Malak’s speculation. “Well of course. Nothing is too extravagant to give praise to our Mother.” “I find that the highest respect comes from silence, not extravagance.” This earned the smallest eye twitch from Dariel. “An… interesting idea.” “Hm. Perhaps it’s the color.” “Oh? And how so?” “I’ve never been a fan of orange.” “Ah. May I ask why?” “It’s way too aggressive,” Malak said, reaching out to run the tassels through his fingers. “Like someone wanted to use red but decided to soften the message.” “The point of orange is to be inviting.” Dariel said. “Like the divine fire of the Progeny, it symbolizes warmth and safety. Shelter from the cruel winter storm.” “A jungle seems an awful place to start a fire. You wouldn’t be able to keep it in check.” “Speaking in metaphors only, mister Malak. Surely you seek the warmth and light of a campfire at the end of a hard day?” “Not unless I’m sure we aren’t being watched. Smoke in the air can attract some unsavory fellows looking for a fight.” “Perhaps if you were less intent on picking fights you can’t win, it wouldn’t be a problem.” “And if I had never started the fire, I wouldn’t need to pick a fight I can’t win.” Malak shot back, sharply turning his back to the abrasive tapestry and the idiotic conversation. He gave Dariel one side-eyed glare. “Speaking in metaphors, of course.”

We always loved to lie in this grassy field Only the two of us, only you and I. Bating our breath for what the future would yield We would stay for hours, our hands intertwined, Sharing promises we vowed to always keep, Just me and you and the fireflies. And as I felt your hand grow weak with sleep, I made a promise that only I could hear: Your heart, dear love, was mine to protect and keep. Yet all the vows we made, at the time so clear Were soon reduced to broken shards and hot ash. I damned you, betrayed you, succumbed to my fear. I despise this grassy field, this mem’ry past. My frigid hand remains empty, missing yours And the shattered promises we thought would last.

There are three things that are most sought after in this life. Power, love, and an invitation to Lord Balthazar’s Bazaar. In rare cases, you could find all three in one night. One could never be sure how, or even if, they would receive an invitation. They were tossed from the roof of the bell tower, delivered by elephants and peacocks, or mysteriously found in the pockets of one’s waistcoat. Prince Elias once claimed he’d found his stuffed in his roasted turkey and covered in gravy. There was very little rhyme or reason to it all, but when you were the richest man in all of Europe, you had very little need of reason. Those who were not so fortunate to receive these coveted invites chose to live vicariously through the gossip that filled the parlor rooms and storefronts, whispered behind open fans or loudly boasted of at private dinners. No two stories were exactly alike, nor was any party the same as its predecessor, but one thing remained the same. Once all the guests had arrived, the music would stop, and Lord Balthazar would appear. He’d call for a toast, raise his glass aloft, and say, “To a night of merriment and mirth!” Balthazar would disappear just as suddenly as he’d come, and the night would begin. It was the makings of myth and legend, and it would soon be mine. If it wasn’t for all this damned cheese. “Unhand me, you insolent pig!” Said the woman whose boot I’d just grabbed. Her foot started kicking and bucking, making contact with my jaw. I could taste the blood of my split tongue, but refused to let go. Not when I was this close. The poor bloke who owned the establishment stood helplessly at the door, trying desperately to diffuse the situation. “M-ma’am, please stop climbing the shelves. You could get hurt.” “You heard the man!” I said, giving her boot one last tug, “Move it!” My competition reared backwards, dislodging herself from the shelf and taking a wheel of Brie with her. I didn’t bother trying to catch her, immediately launching myself up to the highest shelf I could reach, despite the continued protests of the shopkeeper. Everything I’d worked for, all my sweat, research, and borderline-illegal travel had led to this one moment, and nothing would stand in my way. At last, the top shelf, the fromage de la fromage, and my carrot at the end of a very long stick. With almost euphoric glee, I grabbed the hardened wheel and wrenched it free from the shelf to reveal… a piece of string attached to what quite worriedly looked like a ticking time bomb. “Oh, SHI-“ With an enormous flash of light and sound I was flung from my lofty perch into the opposite shelf, falling to the ground with the grace of a dead rat. A warm pile of gooey cheese broke my fall, and more dripped down from the ceiling and walls. The whole room stank of decades-old milk and gunpowder. And right at my feet, lodged in a mound of fondue, was a single piece of parchment, embroidered with what appeared to be real gold, and signed by a certain nobleman who had a habit of making people jump through hoops. As I reached out with shaking fingers for my prize, I couldn’t help but wonder:

If this is what it takes to get an invitation, then what on earth could the Bazaar have to offer?