Open Chronicles The Sunset's Sorrow

[Nym]

Nym hit the unforgiving sea with a force that knocked the breath from her lungs. The impact sent a shockwave of pain through her back, and she gasped involuntarily, taking in a mouthful of bitter saltwater instead of air. Her world spun as water closed over her head, and she was swallowed by the depths.

Disoriented and struggling, Nym flailed her arms, her hands clawing at the water in a desperate attempt to reach the surface. But the the sea’s relentless pull, dragged her down, away from the light above. She kicked with all the strength she could muster, but her limbs felt heavy and unresponsive, each movement a monumental effort.

The surface, a shimmering, unreachable boundary between life and death, seemed impossibly far. Her lungs burned for air, her chest tightening with each passing second. Panic clawed at the edges of her mind, but Nym fought to stay focused, to push through the mounting terror. She was the Sultana of Salitra; she could not die like this.

But her body betrayed her. The cold seeped into her bones, sapping her strength, and her vision began to darken, the vibrant colors of the sun-dappled waves fading to a dull, oppressive gray. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, a frantic rhythm that echoed the desperate need for air. Each pulse was weaker than the last, her resolve slipping away like the last grains of sand through an hourglass.

Nym’s arms grew heavy, her kicks faltering as her strength ebbed. She could feel herself sinking deeper, the sunlight above reduced to a distant glow. Her thoughts began to scatter, replaced by a numbing coldness, an acceptance that she might not survive this, when she remembered the ring that she wore.

Just as her consciousness began to slip away, her fist clenched, and once again she felt the ring's power surge through her, granting her the unnatural strength she needed to save her own life, and nothing more.

Her head broke the surface with a gasp that tore at her throat, saltwater spewing from her mouth as she sucked in a ragged breath of air. The pain was excruciating, her back aflame and her lungs burning, but she was alive. She blinked against the harsh light, her vision blurry and unfocused, but she could see the sky, the endless expanse of blue that she had fought so hard to reach.

Her limbs trembled with exhaustion, but she forced herself to tread water, to keep her head above the waves. She wasn’t out of danger yet, but she was alive.

 

[Mathalla]

The Devil perched idly upon her seat, clearly pleased as the little rowboat sped along. Their wake faster than any others within the harbor, even those Pirate ships which were now turning to flee.

For a second Mathalla's attention seemed lost to them, watching the sails fill and the men aboard scrambling to retreat from the victorious soldiers. For a moment she mused upon the souls that were lost today, and the shame of the fact that they would go to waste.

"Hm?" She intoned, her attentions returning towards her new guide.

"I have many tricks." The Devil said, lifting her hand. "Though no sleeves."

Most mortal sayings went over her head. "But I doubt a strong looking mortal like you needs one to drag her onto this boat."

As she spoke, Mathalla pointed a finger to the figure treading water within the waves. Keen eyes cutting through even the darkest of depths, spotting Nym thrashing against the tides. Her head sinking up and down as the rowboat approached.

"But here." A snap rang out, and burst of fire erupted between them. From it, fell a length of black rope. Coiling in the bottom of the boat as though it had been there all along. "That should help."

The Devil said, not able to help the toothy grin on her face.

 

[Aiari]

He'd have cast the she-devil a blank stare were he not so focused on their prize. He was familiar enough with magic to know that it was more than a set of parlour tricks that actually needed sleeves, did she think him some drab half-wit?

At least she could see his strength, which as any man would tell you, was a defining attribute in need of constant admiration and praise. And as such, he was pleased enough to forget the aforementioned transgression against his character.

Where was he again?

As luck would have it, just in the nick of time the rider they were searching for emerged from the water with a bit of a flail and a gasp for air, audible even from here.

Oh yes, that.

He turned back to scan the rowboat's contents for anything of use, anything better than this oar. The rope presented itself, and he found it curious he hadn't noticed it before but what the hell. He grabbed it up, and in a somewhat garish display flung the rope with a heightened sense of grandeur.

He was putting it all on of course. Wasn't he?

In any case, the rope would find itself nicely in the scope of Nym's reach, and at present the only solution to her predicament.

---

Nym | Mathalla ​

 

[Nym]

Nym’s body ached with every kick, her limbs heavy as lead, the salt stinging her eyes and throat. The sea had nearly taken her, and her strength was rapidly fading, but her instincts—her will to survive—kept her moving, kept her fighting to stay afloat. Her ears filled with the rush of water and the distant clamour of battle, but something else cut through the fog of exhaustion.

A voice. And then… a rope.

She blinked against the saltwater in her eyes, her vision swimming as she looked toward the rowboat cutting through the waves toward her. Two figures aboard: a man, strong and broad-shouldered, and a woman who… no, not a woman. Something apparently more sinister. Nym’s instincts flared in warning as her gaze fell on the devilish figure, lounging smugly in the boat. The air around her seemed to shimmer with something otherworldly, a presence that Nym couldn’t quite place but immediately distrusted. She distrusted most things.

The rope hung within reach, an obvious lifeline, swaying above the surface of the water like a taunt. She had no illusions about the nature of her rescuers. No one threw a rope without expecting something in return. But as her muscles screamed in protest, and the waves pushed and shoved at her, her options narrowed.

For a moment, Nym hesitated, her pride and paranoia warring against her need to survive. She loathed the idea of owing anything to anyone, let alone a stranger and a devil. But death was not something she would give up to—not yet, not like this.

With a growl of frustration, she reached out, her trembling fingers brushing the rough coils of the rope. She wrapped her hand around it and held on, gripping as tightly as her strength allowed.