The Final Log of the Talaria
- Location: The Cargo Deck (A Tomb of Cedar and Salt)
- Status: Engines Silent. Hull... Bleeding.
I’ve always said I’m just the guy who keeps the wine cold and the ship floating. Right now, the wine is spilled, and the ship is the only thing in this gods-forsaken realm that isn't currently on fire.
I don’t know how long I was out. My head feels like an Hephaestian anvil, and the last thing I remember was the smell of ozone so sharp it tasted like copper. I woke up face-down on the cargo deck, right where the portal from Sigil used to hum with that sickeningly sweet violet light.
It’s dark. It’s quiet. And it’s empty.
I’ve checked the berths. I’ve checked the hold. I even checked the galley, hoping some "hero" was just making a final sandwich before the end of the world. Nothing. The crew (the whole chaotic, circus-act lot of them) is gone. No gear left behind, no parting notes, just a cargo deck that feels a lot larger than it did yesterday.
The portal is a dead eye. Whatever tether was holding this ship to the City of Doors has been snapped like a dry twig. I’m not saying they were extracted by some higher power in a hurry, but the air still has that "eviction notice" shimmer to it.
I crawled to the upper deck to look for signs of the crew.
The View from the Rail:
- The Sky: It’s not blue anymore. It’s a bruised, arterial red that makes the "Ionian Coast turned black" look like a sunny day at the beach.
- Mount Olympus: In the distance, the mountain isn't just sitting there. There’s a pillar of volcanic fire punching straight up into the heavens (an eruption of pure, divine spite). It looks like the lock on Tartarus didn't just thin; it shattered.
- The Silence: No birds. No waves. Just the sound of the world holding its breath before the final exhale.
Am I scared? Don't be ridiculous. I'm a professional. It’s just... inconvenient. I asked for heroes, and for a second there, I thought the Fates had actually delivered. Now I'm just a man on a boat with a scorched floorboard and a front-row seat to the apocalypse.
There’s a grim irony in it. They were supposed to reinforce the seal. Instead, the Mythic Verge is taking a dark turn, and I’m the only one left to write the obituary.
I’m going to go find that drink I mentioned. If anyone finds this journal floating in the soot, just know the Talaria didn't go down without a fight. Even if the "fight" was just me refusing to look at the horizon for a few hours.
- Philon