They sail out and out, traveling at a brisk pace once they're past the rock formations jetting from the water. There's an inescapable sense of foreboding as they leave the protective ring of post-card scenery - no matter what they are, what they've experienced, and what they've brought in their bags of tricks, it's there, creeping up spines, coiling in the backs of minds.
It takes hours of skimming along the subtly shifting surface to reach the buoys that mark the fog tide; the flatness of the sea makes the distance frustratingly deceptive. The water isn't perfectly still, but no one pattern of movement can ever be defined - not roiling, not rolling, and no waves. It behaves as if it's a large living thing itself, breathing.
They pass the markers. Everyone is alerted - if they aren't all on deck to begin with.
Two hours of that same brisk pace past the markers, and the light begins to fade. It should be different, a colorful blinding gradient out over the horizon - but it's as if their whole world is one great camera lens, and the aperture is being lowered. An unsettling feeling twists through the salted air. A texture. The light is grainy, orange-grey and thick, and if they choose to look behind them, they can see the buoy markers light up with enchanted lanterns in their wake, preparing to hold their positions in even through the darkness.
Just before true night falls, there is a noise. It's dull at first - like a great, distant wet cloth being ripped in two. The water kicks up in a single swell, the first true deviation in the tide pattern they've experienced. It comes from their starboard side, but as nothing follows it, they sail on. Lanterns are lit inside the cabins, peeking out just barely from the intermittent curtains, but nothing on deck. Just in case.
In the inky blackness, an inhuman screaming begins, from somewhere far out there, directionless.
They suffer an hour of it, unseen, before it silences, gurgling into nothingness. But that's when the smell hits them, and great lumps of dismembered, bleeding, grey-fleshed thing begin to bump up against the boat, thudding lifelessly.
Nightfall.
It takes hours of skimming along the subtly shifting surface to reach the buoys that mark the fog tide; the flatness of the sea makes the distance frustratingly deceptive. The water isn't perfectly still, but no one pattern of movement can ever be defined - not roiling, not rolling, and no waves. It behaves as if it's a large living thing itself, breathing.
They pass the markers. Everyone is alerted - if they aren't all on deck to begin with.
Two hours of that same brisk pace past the markers, and the light begins to fade. It should be different, a colorful blinding gradient out over the horizon - but it's as if their whole world is one great camera lens, and the aperture is being lowered. An unsettling feeling twists through the salted air. A texture. The light is grainy, orange-grey and thick, and if they choose to look behind them, they can see the buoy markers light up with enchanted lanterns in their wake, preparing to hold their positions in even through the darkness.
Just before true night falls, there is a noise. It's dull at first - like a great, distant wet cloth being ripped in two. The water kicks up in a single swell, the first true deviation in the tide pattern they've experienced. It comes from their starboard side, but as nothing follows it, they sail on. Lanterns are lit inside the cabins, peeking out just barely from the intermittent curtains, but nothing on deck. Just in case.
In the inky blackness, an inhuman screaming begins, from somewhere far out there, directionless.
They suffer an hour of it, unseen, before it silences, gurgling into nothingness. But that's when the smell hits them, and great lumps of dismembered, bleeding, grey-fleshed thing begin to bump up against the boat, thudding lifelessly.