The enormous shadow bore down relentlessly upon the White Oak, filling the heart of every sailor aboard with dread. For a breathless moment, their eyes were fixed upon a ship unlike anything they'd ever seen—an ancient, majestic three-masted vessel emerging from the thick fog, wrapped in ghostly green flames that licked hungrily across its dark hull. Its immense sails billowed impossibly, capturing an unseen wind, etched with the ghastly visions of shrieking souls and searing fires.
"It's going to hit us!"
The cry went up from somewhere on the deck, shattering the frozen awe into sheer panic. Men who had faced storms and rogue waves without flinching now fled in every direction. Some frantically sought shelter, some clung to rigging and railings with desperate strength, and still others dropped to their knees amid the chaos, murmuring fervent prayers to Gamona, Goddess of Storms, or Bartok, the Lord of Death.
The power of most deities had long since waned upon the Endless Sea, yet these two names still carried weight, offering faint comfort to desperate souls in their final moments.
Not all aboard had surrendered to panic. First Mate Higgins instinctively turned toward Captain Lawrence Creed, seeking guidance from the one man whose leadership had kept them alive through countless dangers. Creed was a seasoned mariner with more than thirty years at sea, his once-black hair now white, his frame aged but still strong. Higgins hoped desperately that the captain's experience could somehow save them from the nightmare bearing down upon them.
Yet as Higgins looked to his captain, he found only frozen terror etched clearly on the older man's face. Captain Creed gripped the ship's wheel so tightly his knuckles turned bone-white, his gaze locked on the approaching specter with dreadful recognition.
"It's… the Forsaken," Creed whispered, his voice almost lost amid the cacophony.
"Captain?" Higgins gasped, shocked at the name whispered like a curse. Like every sailor, he'd heard the tales—dark legends of a phantom ship that haunted the distant reaches of the Endless Sea, taking entire crews without a trace. "Did you say—"
"The Forsaken!" Creed roared again, seemingly oblivious to his first mate. His voice held anger as much as fear, and as he spat out the name, the ancient ship crashed headlong into the White Oak's prow.
Men screamed as one, bracing themselves for the devastating collision that never came. The expected impact was strangely absent, replaced instead by a surreal wave of ghostly green fire that swept silently across their decks. Sailors froze, wide-eyed in disbelief, as phantom flames engulfed everything yet caused no destruction. Ghostly corridors and cabins appeared briefly around them, filled with emerald fire, blending impossibly with their own ship in a nightmarish overlap of two realities.
Creed watched in horrified awe as Higgins' solid form shimmered before him, dissolving into spectral transparency. He saw the bones within the first mate's chest glowing, burning like kindling beneath an ethereal blaze. Beyond Higgins, their priest fought desperately against the consuming flames, shielded tenuously by lingering divine protection.
Then the flames reached Creed himself. A profound exhaustion and submission seized his heart, but the protective charm he always carried around his neck flared suddenly with painful intensity, jolting him back from surrender. With every ounce of will remaining, Creed forced himself to witness this impossible invasion. He was drawn helplessly into a vision of the ghost ship's interior—shadowy holds stacked high with cargo that belonged at the bottom of the ocean, luxurious cabins filled with eerie antiques, and at last, a lavishly appointed chamber dominated by an ornate wooden goat's head.
The goat's obsidian eyes turned slowly, locking onto Creed's soul with icy detachment.
Finally, with great effort, Creed raised his eyes toward the helm of the Forsaken. There stood a towering figure, draped in a long, black captain's coat that fluttered dramatically around him, his face obscured by shadow yet radiating undeniable authority. This specter controlled all—the spectral flames, the phantom sails, even the turbulent spirit sea itself, which parted obediently at his command.
Creed knew, without doubt, that he now belonged to this ghost ship. He felt it—this terrifying captain desired crew members, sacrifices to fill his eternal loneliness and emptiness. Accepting this bleak truth, Creed closed his eyes, ready to surrender himself to spare his men. But at the last instant, something deep inside forced him to reopen them, summoning the strength and defiance he had never known he possessed.
Creed fixed his gaze upon the shadowy captain and, with every shred of dignity he could muster, spoke clearly and firmly into the impossible void between them.
"You don't need to take everyone. Take me—leave my crew."
The figure turned toward him slightly, showing no emotion beyond mild curiosity. Creed, emboldened by desperation, shouted once more into the spectral flames:
"They have families waiting for them!"
At last, the ghostly captain reacted, lips moving in response, yet his words were drowned utterly by a sudden howl of wind and crashing waves. Creed strained desperately but could not make out a single syllable. Only scattered fragments of meaningless sound reached his ears.
"What?" Creed roared desperately. "I can't hear you—the storm's too loud!"
Suddenly, the phantoms vanished with stunning abruptness. A deafening silence fell, shattered only by familiar cries from the crew outside. Creed gasped, discovering himself whole once more—no flames, no transparency, just solid flesh and blood. Higgins, wide-eyed and trembling, had also returned to normal, and their priest slumped exhausted beside the altar, whispering prayers fervently as pure white smoke drifted gently from the incense burner, replacing the sinister purple-black clouds.
Creed drew deep, ragged breaths, unable to comprehend how the nightmare had ended so abruptly. Higgins's voice finally broke the silence.
"Captain! It's gone—the Forsaken left us!"
Creed stared blankly for a moment, then murmured quietly, more to himself than anyone else, "He spared us…?"
Higgins hesitated. "Sir? What was that?"
"Captain Duncan…" Creed whispered absently, then slapped his own mouth sharply, as though mentioning the name had invited disaster. He snapped back to focus, urgency flooding his voice. "Quickly, muster the crew! Take roll—check for missing men!"
Higgins nodded sharply, turning to run, but Creed called out once more, sharply, urgently.
"Wait! Also check to see if anyone new is aboard."
The first mate hesitated, visibly shaken, the implications clearly terrifying him. He murmured a quick, earnest prayer to Gamona before sprinting outside to carry out the captain's orders.
Within moments, the tolling of the muster bell echoed solemnly across the decks, summoning every surviving crew member of the White Oak to gather. Creed stood rigid, gripping the wheel tightly, his gaze fixed numbly toward the empty sea beyond. The ghostly vessel, the flames, the terrible captain—all gone without trace.
Yet something deep within him knew this was not over. He had glimpsed truths reserved for nightmares and legends, and those truths could never be unseen. The name "Forsaken" echoed ominously in his heart, carrying an irrevocable weight.
A single question lingered, haunting him far more deeply than any phantom vision could:
Why had Captain Duncan spared them?