[ Compilation of short stories, letters, and prayers for CALLAN ANCAIRE. ]

Affection and warmth was heavy in Callan’s chest as she waved her well-loved companion goodbye, an unusual smile playing upon her lips as his handsome form faded into a mark in the distance. 

She found herself wandering the coastline for quite some time, a comfortable ache continuing to build from exertion. There had not been many an opportunity to wander aimlessly during her time in Marionsport; there was always another task to complete, another match to prepare for.

But here, under the moonlight, with the crashing accompaniment of the waves, she found her thoughts steady, though she had never been this lost in all of her years.

At some point, the bandaged wound upon her calf would flare up, calling for a reprieve. She would then set herself close to the water’s edge, feeling the waves lap against her loosened clothing.

“Alright, I am not one to doubt your wishes, Dear Lady. I am here now, in a land of errant folk, each clamoring for a bounty of their own. Well, my bounty is your blessing - a greedy request, considering all you have bestowed upon me already.” Her finger would trace along the damp sand, swirling. 

“Yet, it has been some time here and it seems all I have done is indulge - in violence, in drink, and in affection. I felled that puppet, that beast, mimicking your herald; and yet the Songstress’s voice has returned in a twisted way. I fight in your name, but only have lessons in humility to offer you.” 

A rugged hand would gently go to touch her neck, a blush spreading across her chest and visage. “And it is difficult, to not be tempted by the… forms of these land-bound folk. To speak out of turn, to press a holy kiss upon one’s handsome brow.”

“Your direction is wild and commanding as the sea you conduct; your hand shapes the voyage of my journey, as it has since I was a young girl. But for fuck’s sake, what would you have me do here?!”

Pinching the bridge of her nose briefly, she would shake her head then, unleashing a yell of frustration. Her voice seemed to pour out of her; damned be the fey that could be listening. She would not conceal her call in fear of their trickery.

Chest heaving, the waves seemed to simply return the gesture in kind, crashing against the sand, rolling in that same erratic predictability.

She’d sit in silence; she and her comforting sea. Resolution seemed to roll over her thoughts, as that dull, predictable pain settled into her bones once more.

“Your response has been what it always has been; steady, strong. I suppose I shall do as I have always done, too; to fish, to fight, to emerge victor in your name. And perhaps then you will bring a ship home for me, and allow me to serve you on your true shores once more.”

She would brush herself off, weakly hobbling to stand. In the distance, the Spire twinkled, a needle piercing the fabric of the sky.

Oh, to be beloved by my lady! Her thoughts sung with joy.

She must've come to her worldly senses a couple hours ago; beneath her beddings, the steady pattering of the bartenders and the scraping of chairs had dulled, signaling the early morning - the quiet lull before the cyclical dance of the Spire would begin. However, her mind was unbounded - free-wheeling, wondering with fascination at the blessing that had cleansed her anew.

⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆

Her heartache had been assuaged by the gentle presence of that Songstress, that Naiad, but those frustrations anchored her in her grief. Her worn hands, drenched in serpent's blood, unable to drag that beast from the depths of her lady's waters. Her practiced hands, wielding wickedness as she struck that kind wanderer down, eyes ferocious, imagining the destruction of that same beast, rather than a calculated, fair-play against a new friend. 

But as Chantie stepped into the water, those same hands began to tremble at the sight of the brewing waves. Schools of effervescent, dazzling fish, resembling the many facets of light through a prism, swimming between them. She could still feel that holy trident slipping through her fingers, blasphemously disrupting their dance under the surface. Yet, her lady was forgiving as ever, those fish continuing to buoy her spear and her hopes.

The liquid that flowed through her veins felt no different from the tears trickling down her face, salty upon her lips; the same substance as flowing through the baptismal font the two devout stood in. Surrounded by the kindhearted servants of the Siren Serene, Callan couldn't hear the words coming out of her lips - whether they were song or spoken supplication - she didn't care; she couldn't scream her gratitude fast enough. 

A flash of blue overcoming her vision revealed a majestic, incomprehensible sea serpent - A sea serpent! she cried, fearful that this was a merciful gesture before her retribution against the very same kind of beast - fighting alongside its draconic counterpart, swirling through the sea and sky against wooden ships, man's futile attempts of taming her waters.

⋆｡𖦹 ˚ 𓇼 ˚｡⋆

That same flash of blue remained hung around her neck now, somehow twinkling even under the faintest candlelight. She desperately tried to revisit that revelation in her dreams, trying to soak up more details than the last. She would have been convinced she had gone mad with lust, folly, and frustration if it not were the voice of her free-spirited friend, laughing and singing - triumphantly singing! - high praises for the presence of their darling Serene.

Not even inebriation could enhance or take away those memories, so deeply ingrained into the recesses of her mind. 

MOIRA,

I BELIEVE I HAVE DONE WHAT MY UNCLE HAS ASKED OF ME.

I HAVE ENDED PERVERSIONS BY THE FEY. I HAVE HELPED LEAD A QUEST AGAINST A FEROCIOUS AND INSOLENT SEA SERPENT. I HAVE EARNED THE FAVOR OF THE SIREN SERENE HERSELF, BEARING WITNESS TO HER IN HER MULTI-COLORED, MULTI-FACETED FORM. 

I BELIEVE I HAVE EARNED THE RIGHT TO GUIDE THIS COMPANY TO A FORTUITOUS FUTURE.

YOURS,
CALLAN

◃─────────✧✦♆✦✧─────────▹

It is an unfortunate sight for the Songstress, Chantielle, one who often bears witness to great joy, to come across such sadness along their shared shore.

"Ah, Chantie! Chant-ee." The name is spoken a bit carelessly, for someone who usually carried it with such reverence.

"I understand now. I understand you, now, my dear, darling performer." Her words carry no ire towards the subject; rather, it seems she has just been caught in the unfortunate crossfire of the fisherman's gaze. Rather, the frustration they bear seem to be directed towards the fact that they're being shared, at all. "It is easier to put yourself forward to an audience - the world's a giant, broad stage, after all!" Those strong, toned arms would tense as they were raised towards the ocean crashing before them, bathed in deep fog.

"The booes, the hisses, the applause - any personal connotation they hold - they fall out as soon as they reach the stage, reach your ears! They are all in supplication towards you - and you can never be quite hurt by them. Because whether kind or not, you have brought something worthwhile out of them. Because you, my dearest Ssssssongstress. . . are worth the while."

A bottle goes to Callan's lips, and she winces at the strong flavor, the nectar she's chosen as her poison this evening.

"Must I get on a stage, then?" A cruel, harsh laugh, that never escapes the touch of that Mistan lilt, teasing. "So that the audience may take me, my deeds, seriously? So that I will be worth their smiles, their applause, even their rejection? Should I have become a playwright, so that the gods, those who sit behind their cheap, wooden desks, judging my weight in fish and flattery, may finally have a story worth judging? So I may once, and for all,  receive my final sentence to return home?"

"Does it disarm you, that I may appear to you like this? Yearning, wanting, despising what the Siren Serene has placed into my lap?" The sharp shatter of glass would mark her frustration, liquor now snaking through the sand, its inebriating scent a whisper within the watery fog.

"Or shall I hold up a mirror to you, as well? So you may see those pearly eyes in mine, and never be discomforted by any show of my affection? Of my attention? Of  Perhaps you take pleasure in my affliction, so you may have something to sing about. . . go on. Sing. It will actually do me some favor."

She shoved a crumbled sheet of parchment paper into her face, resorting to scowling at the shore in silence.

◃─────────✧✦♆✦✧─────────▹

Dearest Callan,

I am quite impressed by how much you've accomplished in quite some time! However, as stated in _my father's words_, the true heir of the Ancaire Company must be one who needs no self-introduction, a true force of nature, who does not need self-introduction, but whose destruction is heralded by song and whisper for miles beyond its warpath.

An idiosyncratic poem you wrote on the back of a napkin is not a song! A couple fallen faeries and a snake that slipped away are not a story. They are a child's writing assignment.

May the Siren pay you kindness once more,
Moira Ancaire, The Guiding Hand of the Ancaire Company

Moira considered her evening routine quite a privilege.

As ships would lull back into the Marionsport bay for the night, she would sit with her stewards on the steps leading down to the docks, listening closely to their reports; yes, the typical inventory over what fish were in season, and what seemed to be bereft from this season last year, but also which fishermen were balking under the pressure of the quotas. Whose wife was in labor, and who was courting and needed a few extra coin to buy fool's trinkets from the Reach.

After the first ship would dock successfully, they'd quickly retreat off at the sound of the bells at the nearby temple, calling for prayers of gratitude upon the safe return of the ships. Though she would often lead such devouts in song, it was the third Monday of the month - when she would be sure to lavish the coffers of the temple master to ensure that the Ancaire's ships would return slow and steady, laden with fish.

After posturing with the grannies, grimacing through their endless platitudes about the weather and the Siren's favor, she would find herself back at the manor by sundown, paying silence to Tomas's shut office. She would motion to her attendant to send him his meal once it had cooled, hoping he would pick up the shared sentiment.

As the plate of mackerel was set down before, she would give an empty smile to the chef before clearing the baked fish of its bones, wincing as she would pluck it out and set it aside. Her knife would make a slight screech against the plate, ringing out through the rest of the empty dining hall.

(In another life, she would be chided for such a noise, her father seated where she was now, glowering at her before turning to her uncle and his daughter, offering them another helping of stew with the grin that never seemed to reach her.)

The mackerel was a bit more savory after that, the wine tart and refreshing with each sip.

The final ring of the wine bottle against her glass was her maids' signal to draw the bath. They knew she liked it a bit lukewarm, not quite rough against her skin, so they made sure that it would cool as she took her time with her final drink of the night.

Moira had a dreamy, content smile as she ascended the steps,  taking in the sight of lightning striking over the seas, now churning beneath the cliffs of the manor. By the time the liquor had settled into her bones, and her body was scrubbed clean, all she would need to do was to succumb to that undulating, pattering rhythm of the rain against the window panes.

They knew that this was her ritual of the night, setting the bells and whistles that she bore as the captain of the Company aside; every new attendant was specifically instructed that once she withdrew to her quarters for the night, that they were not to disturb her unless they heard that crystalline bell, clattering with the request of sweets or updated reports. So why, she wondered, were there shadows flickering in the bath chamber?

Her lips would purse into a dismayed impression, crafted meticulously in the mirror, imagining what words would carve the poor judgment right out of whatever maid happened to answer the door first. She would give a slight knock, as if to signal them that hell had arrived - but none answered.

Giving a slight huff, unable to keep the mask on much longer, she would swing the door open, expecting a pair of frightened eyes. Instead, she came face to face with a siren, sat on her windowsill, keeping one hand within her bathwater, which bubbled and boiled like a brewing elixir.

"Kept your space warm for you - had to return the favor." The voice was low.

Moira's eyes widened, and she would quickly run to the vanity, quickly searching for that little bell that stood proudly among the potions and perfumes that she adorned herself with.

(I saw it at the market, and I thought of it for you. Princesses deserve to be waited on hand and foot, Callan had mumbled, a bit shy. Of course she expected grander gifts from everyone, considering who she was, but Moira had made an exception, for her down-on-her-luck cousin.)

"I'm surprised you kept this, really." Callan would be dangling the little bell from between her index finger and thumb, before glancing at it with those same, ferocious eyes. "I did not know you didn't mind a little cheap porcelain."

"By being here you forfeit -"
"-The terms of that little agreement, yes, I know. I intend to continue following them down to the last letter, written meticulously, with all those bells and flourishes. To earn my place, above your ridiculous standards."

That mask became a second skin for her as she drew back, a scowl settling onto her face. Callan would step further into the candlelight, and Moira could not help but let out a gasp at the sight of her. Those golden scales - those little coins along the sand, she had once called them - now creeped up against her jaw, her forehead. Those white teeth were now sharpened, reminiscent of the foul mouthed fish her uncle used to scare them with. Webbed fins in the place of cartilage for the ears, lining her shoulders. 

It was clear that Callan had taken it upon herself to not only earn a legend, but to shape herself into harrowing one.

"But be warned - you are a placeholder; a pause on a sentence that I intend to carry out. I have heard whispers, from the traders that come and grace my newfound shores, of attendants, tallying up their catches and insisting that their work is in deficit compared to what is expected of them by the Company."

Callan would reach over her shoulder, and for a moment, Moira had expected her to withdraw that fabled trident, the one she insisted take the long way to the Reach from Caz-on-Bord before moving inland with an import caravan. But instead, she would stumble back at the sight of a tusk, no doubt belonging to a fearsome beast of the sea.

"Everything loss of life from the sea must be returned in kind. We are all only borrowing what is hers-" She would slam a fist against the window, and it would crack slightly. 

Moira would clear her throat, gaze flickering up and down Callan's form.

"It seems to me you like playing hero. You forget that you're on borrowed time, too, Cousin. Can't earn your little feats forever, and come back with nothing but a bone to pick and some new, shiny teeth. But don't worry - I wouldn't mind keeping your quarters cozy until you're ready to assume your responsibility."

It was easy to goad her cousin this way - to convince the captain of a steady ship that it was steering itself in the wrong direction. She would brace herself, waiting for that inevitable meltdown, where that captain would lose sight of its stars.

But instead, Callan leaned her head back and cackled, standing from her seat.

She'd stop beside her, and Moira felt her heart begin to race, despite her desperate attempts to still her breathing, to maintain focus on that glare.

"What a kind favor. I'll be sure to pay you back soon enough." 

CRR-ACK! That porcelain bell would shatter against the mirror of her vanity, shards of glass crashing down against the table.

"Not the first illusion I've shattered. I'm can tell you that those 'little fairies' were not pleased." The beast hummed, leaning in close.  "As always, Cousin - Enjoy your bath." She chuckled, before wandering back out the window, to be welcomed back into her domain.

Moira, trembling, would grasp the edge of the copper tub, allowing the water to lap against her fingers. Fresh water, steadily nearing lukewarm, cooling from the boil.

⊱✿⊰

And there I was, tangled up in marigold.

Honey brown hair tickles her scales, and Callan barely struggles to stifle the smile upon her lips as she feigns sleep. Gentle fingers, much smoother than her own, prod at her cheeks, pushing the inner flesh of her mouth close to her teeth.

Two strong, stony hands go to grab the offender, lifting her easily into the air. Laughter fills the small room, and Callan opens her eyes, meeting the gaze of two emerald gems. Those smaller palms go to bat her eyes shut, the small girl laughing as she protests to be put down.

. . .

The chill of the room is daunting; the crash of the waves, just a ways away from her shack, is sobering.
Her eyes are weak, as if someone's been poking at them.

An iron chest. Strength surges within her, to drag that cursed treasure ashore.

Callan turns onto her side, going to grab the chalk from the sill, marking another tally against the wall, before falling back asleep.

She dreams of shipwrecks. She dreams of sirens. She dreams of home.

 𓇼 ༄.°

Wait for me, I’m coming.

Her body screams as she’s turned around from Chantie, still statuesque in the presence of those crossbows. They usher her out the door gently; she realizes too late that these are the type of pirates that really do keep their promises.

Wait for me, I’m coming with you.

The lass from earlier offers a hand and a stoic glance as they assist her into the dinghy. Chantie may be their prisoner, but Callan feels that they’re leading her to her death.

Wherever she is, is where I’ll go.

She should have left with Chantie when the walls said that she was leaving for that needle in the sky.  She remembered when the news had reached her tavern table, surrounded by fair weather friends. She could still feel their eyes on her as one of them leaned across the table, curious.
“Your muse is leaving for a bigger crowd. What are you going to do about it?”
A pause.
“Wait until she gets back.”

Just how far would you go for her?

The jostling of the tiny boat does little to calm her aching heart, her nerves. She sees twinkling within the depths - those rainbow fish, surely their mother to come scold them for losing her favored daughter. She kicks her trident away - a useless bauble, a child’s tool for playing pretend.

To the end of time, to the end of the earth.

She screams Hamish’s name as soon as she comes to; she’s unsure how she’s landed within the sand, covered in tears and seawater. She hears the chirp of a dunkbear nearby, swirling around in the tidal pool. It’s almost as if he’s urging to go, go tell them what you lost today.

Don’t look no one in the eye, this town will try to suck you dry.

That walk into town is a walk of shame - she feels as if she is being called to trial, and due to hang the way they look at her, how they lost their friend. Their accusing faces, their disinterest - Callan feels a twisted joy, knowing that her ruse to save them - her petty attempt of being like them - fell flat on her face. Let the Pirates come, she bitterly thinks.

Wait for me, I’m coming too - wait!

The testimony, the meaningless platitudes, the endless bickering - it only buoys her mind closer to the ship where her songbird now stayed.

Three letters are neatly placed besides a statuette of the Siren Serene within a cupboard.
Underneath them are various posters, reports and drafts of those very same letters, scraps of paper saved as markers of a life lived.

HAMISH,

I was never a good writer. I believe I stopped attending lessons right when I was about to become one. So now all I can do is speak fancy sayings, as I can never put them down to paper. This will either be very short, or very long.

I don't know if I'll ever be able to thank you for rushing towards your demise once more. I suppose I won't be able to, since upon your sacrifice, I would not remember. I would hate to think you were enjoying this chapter of existence, and your hand was forced to author its ending so soon.

I am a romantic. I am not naive, as much as I wish I could blame my actions on such. I would rather pray for your safety, than pray for something that turns out to be something only I want. But I do wish that that small world we spoke of was something you've dreamt of as well. It would have been nice, to see something fair weather become set in stone.

I wish I was brave enough to ask you to come back every time. I hope you'll consider stealing a glimpse of our girl. 

Yours,
CALLAN

CHANTIE,

I remember when you sang for Uncle's birthday and the Company's anniversary. Those pearls you weaved into your hair seemed to shine extra bright. It may have been the liquor coloring my vision, but somehow, you were coated in candlelight, basking in your song.

When I close my eyes to rest, I see you there, under the captain's candlelight instead, those flames flickering for my command. Instead of eager eyes pointed to your performance, instead bolts are there, ready for your exit from this worldly stage.  

I dedicated every ring fight to you, raised my glass at your every performance. But when you needed me most, I could not sing a Siren's song to save your life. I am ashamed to call myself Blessed by our beloved.

Do you think about our last day together before curtains were drawn on us, tracing our names alongside each other's in the sand? Callan Haddock would've been a very happy woman by now. 

It was a shame the waves washed her away. She would've known what to do when you were in danger.

Adoringly,
CALLAN

MELE,

By the time you can read this letter, I'm sure you're already familiar with my way with words. I hope you will be better at them than I ever was. 

I hope that, whenever you look out at the ocean, you will see and remember how deeply I love you. 

I have seen many sunrises over the waters in my life, but they will not compare to the very first one that I get to see with you. I'm sure of it. 

Yours,
Mama

An extra copy of a report is folded neatly, yet stuffed haphazardly into the envelope. Callan has underlined her own name as well as the Bosun's, and has angrily crossed out most mentions of the chest.

"You said. . . YOU SAID YOU HAD A PLAN!"
Wailing, screaming, can be heard from the wreckage of the beach festivities.

"PATIENCE. . . PATIENCE IS INACTION, DRESSED IN FLIMSY, NOBLE ROBES."
Hands flit to her torn coat, to the sands, to the air - fingers gently tracing a face that was not there. That would likely, never be there. Not with that bargaining chip.

"Let them have their feast. Let them have their fun, dining and whining with the enemy."
She hisses, slashing the rippled reflection in the waters.

"I will see these waters quieted one way or another."