THE SUGARTIDE & THE FIRECRACKER
The remaining crabs scatter like guilty children when Sila’s fire licks the edge of their hidey-holes, skittering with indignant clicks. One attempts a final stand by holding up a spoon like a sword—only to be promptly zapped by Melita’s arrow in a puff of steam and roasted coconut smell.
"Fuckers," Flora mutters, brushing sand from her arms before tossing the final shell into place. With the marauders mostly thwarted, the pair are free to set sail toward the technicolour sprawl of Rainbow Road, where the water shimmers with reflected dyes from the blooms above and the reef below. But instead of the tranquil charm Flora expects, they’re met with a deeply Torchline problem: a turtle migration.
Sure enough, dozens—no, hundreds—of round-shelled turtles are paddling slowly across the passage. Big ones. Little ones. A few riding on others’ backs. They aren’t hatching; they’re migrating, and Rainbow Road seems to be their chosen thoroughfare. A couple have even clambered onto the roots of overhanging mangroves to sun themselves like they own the place. "Errr..y'think we can just...throw the shells over anyway?"
HADAMA
The reef patrol ends without incident, though a pair of particularly bold octopuses do their best to sneak into Hadama’s shell basket before slinking off under his watchful eye.
But as he glides toward Metacarpal Island, the seafloor begins to slope sharply—its coral-strewn base giving way to strange skeletal formations rising like knuckles from the earth. The currents around the island are oddly still, held in a heavy hush. All seems peaceful…until a sudden whumph of silt bursts from below.
From a cave mouth nestled between the reef’s bony ridges, a pale fish slithers forward—long, ribbonlike, with ghostly eyes that blink at different intervals. A ribbon eel, enormous and not-quite-normal, emerges with a movement too slow to be threatening and too curious to be natural.
It coils around a shell Hadama places and then...begins to follow him, mimicking every movement at a distance. Harmless, perhaps. But increasingly invasive.
THE ARK
The shell drop goes smoother than Jack probably expected (or deserves), with only two geyser eruptions forcing the crew to use a bit of air magic to bat flying shells back into place. A hel or two divebombs the mast in protest, but they miss.
The moment they lift away from Apopo, though, a thick fog begins to roll in ahead—unnaturally fast, smothering the horizon like it’s being poured from some invisible teapot. Aumakua, their next stop, is completely hidden from view.
As they enter the mists, navigation becomes tricky. The Ark's compass begins spinning without direction. Through the fog, they begin to see lights—gentle, lantern-like glows bobbing on the waves.
Then a voice drifts across the water. Soft. Distant. Familiar.
It says Jack’s name.
Then Murphy’s.
Then Bassian’s.
The glowing lights pulse in time with the voice. The crew will need to decide whether to follow, flee, or fight through the clear call of the siren ahead—because the shells still need to be dropped, and whatever is calling to them seems to know just who’s aboard.
4/8
The remaining crabs scatter like guilty children when Sila’s fire licks the edge of their hidey-holes, skittering with indignant clicks. One attempts a final stand by holding up a spoon like a sword—only to be promptly zapped by Melita’s arrow in a puff of steam and roasted coconut smell.
"Fuckers," Flora mutters, brushing sand from her arms before tossing the final shell into place. With the marauders mostly thwarted, the pair are free to set sail toward the technicolour sprawl of Rainbow Road, where the water shimmers with reflected dyes from the blooms above and the reef below. But instead of the tranquil charm Flora expects, they’re met with a deeply Torchline problem: a turtle migration.
Sure enough, dozens—no, hundreds—of round-shelled turtles are paddling slowly across the passage. Big ones. Little ones. A few riding on others’ backs. They aren’t hatching; they’re migrating, and Rainbow Road seems to be their chosen thoroughfare. A couple have even clambered onto the roots of overhanging mangroves to sun themselves like they own the place. "Errr..y'think we can just...throw the shells over anyway?"
HADAMA
The reef patrol ends without incident, though a pair of particularly bold octopuses do their best to sneak into Hadama’s shell basket before slinking off under his watchful eye.
But as he glides toward Metacarpal Island, the seafloor begins to slope sharply—its coral-strewn base giving way to strange skeletal formations rising like knuckles from the earth. The currents around the island are oddly still, held in a heavy hush. All seems peaceful…until a sudden whumph of silt bursts from below.
From a cave mouth nestled between the reef’s bony ridges, a pale fish slithers forward—long, ribbonlike, with ghostly eyes that blink at different intervals. A ribbon eel, enormous and not-quite-normal, emerges with a movement too slow to be threatening and too curious to be natural.
It coils around a shell Hadama places and then...begins to follow him, mimicking every movement at a distance. Harmless, perhaps. But increasingly invasive.
THE ARK
The shell drop goes smoother than Jack probably expected (or deserves), with only two geyser eruptions forcing the crew to use a bit of air magic to bat flying shells back into place. A hel or two divebombs the mast in protest, but they miss.
The moment they lift away from Apopo, though, a thick fog begins to roll in ahead—unnaturally fast, smothering the horizon like it’s being poured from some invisible teapot. Aumakua, their next stop, is completely hidden from view.
As they enter the mists, navigation becomes tricky. The Ark's compass begins spinning without direction. Through the fog, they begin to see lights—gentle, lantern-like glows bobbing on the waves.
Then a voice drifts across the water. Soft. Distant. Familiar.
It says Jack’s name.
Then Murphy’s.
Then Bassian’s.
The glowing lights pulse in time with the voice. The crew will need to decide whether to follow, flee, or fight through the clear call of the siren ahead—because the shells still need to be dropped, and whatever is calling to them seems to know just who’s aboard.
4/8
THE
Sugartide
