Ever since the first stories were told, there had been tales of ship-eating monstrosities in the Writhesea. The Aldalneld Isles had been left abandoned because no one dared sail there. In the immemorial age before the Thousand-Year War, there had been little contact between the northern sailors of Cradsoun and the southern sailors of Vont, except to look through telescopes at one another’s colors from across the shadowy seas where something waited to drag down any sailors that dared.
Then had come Wellworn Urcant, first Admiral of Gray Watch. By storm and fate, Urcant lost a shipment of shining riches to the Writhsea. The Writhe took this as an offering and, much to the horror of Urcant’s crew, initiated its first constructive contact with the peoples of Sof Sator. As the tendrils of Grim Confidants held Urcant’s ship in place and Writhewives scaled its sides, Urcant ordered his terrified crew to hide belowdecks and confronted the Writhe alone.
He was an old man even then, having lived several years longer than any anthral should ever expect to. In his gray-green uniform, Urcant stood straight-backed for perhaps the first time in years and tensed his muscles against the shivers that often wracked his elderly frame while, around him, the inky shadow of the Aldalneld Writhe rose. The details of their conversation were lost to time.
Months later, when Gray Watch declared its independence and the navy of Revan came with orders to subdue the outpost and execute Wellworn Urcant, the Aldalneld Writhe surfaced in the Siltsilver Bay. The skeletons of Revan’s sunken fleet still rotted in the depths, and Revan has respected Gray Watch’s independence ever since.
The Writhe liked Gray Watch. It took a few centuries for the Writhe to fully understand what Gray Watch was – a people, a place, not a creature itself, and Urcant had just been one man who no longer existed – but now Writhewives walked its streets when it suited them. When it suited it. When it suited the Writhe, a sentient appendage called a Writhewife would emerge from the Roil, garb itself, and walk into the city. They would listen and watch and negotiate, have relationships and make purchases.
They would appear on the beaches to watch and question.
Where the Roil watched the embassy district, where it watched a tunnel carved into the cliffside and a brick façade erected, where it stared at Watch officers standing guard and taking hold of an Admiralty clerk who seemed simply to be lost; here, the Roil could place a Writhewife in simple gray leathers to listen to one guard ask the clerk who she was, and the clerk to demand his name, and the Watch officer to ignore her.
And the Writhe, by now with a thousand years of experience watching these beings talk, negotiate, argue, and quarrel, could fix that man with a glare and ask him, “What is your name, sir?”
This Writhewife was not at all surprised by the discomfort with which she was greeted. The alien confusion of the Writhe notwithstanding, Writhewives had once been anthrals, and contained some memories of their own first encounters with the Writhe, the surprise and discomfort it had struck into them before they’d joined it. In fact, it was a little funny. When one of the Watch officers stammered, “We’re not authorized to speak to the Writhe,” the Writhewife actually laughed at him. The officers flinched like this was an unpleasant sound. The Writhewife wondered if she’d made the wrong noise.
“I’m just a person, sir,” said the Writhewife. “You may ignore me if you like. Now, if you were speaking to the Writhe itself, your authorization wouldn’t matter. You would be compelled to speak.”
The officer glanced at his fellow and hissed, “Go fetch the Captain.”
And his fellow whispered back, “Captain’s not authorized to talk to the Writhe either.”
“Then he’ll fetch someone who is, won’t he?” The man’s hands were practically shaking with tension. “We’ve got to do something!”
The Admiralty clerk yanked her sleeve from the armored hand that held it. “You’re two minutes’ walk away from an office full of ambassadors! I’ll be right back with someone.” She spun to hurry along the beach, and the two Watch officers didn’t try to stop her, their suspicions completely forgotten.
The Writhewife laughed again, or so she thought she did. This drew the gaze of the two Watch officers to her again, so she said to them, “What are your names, sirs? I would like to… What was it that you said? Take it down?”
“You don’t need to do that,” said one forcefully. He tried for a calming gesture with his armored hand, like he was patting the air, but his muscles were so tense that it looked almost violent.
The Writhewife stared at the man’s hand, yellow light flickering in the depths of her pupils. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What?” The man balked, confusion and nervousness giving way to anxiety, the edge of fear. “What? Nothing.”
“I don’t need to do that. I don’t need. Need what? Was I speaking of need?” She watched his hand as he moved it, and he noticed, and tried to put his hand behind his back. So with wide-eyed, rapt attention, the Writhewife stared the man straight in the eyes. “Tell me your name.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” he said, glancing at his companion. “Where did that woman…? Go get the captain! Go get the damned Captain!”
“Fear isn’t that difficult to understand,” said the Writhewife. Behind her, water rose onto the beach, displaced by some large movement beneath. A shadow the size of a ship slid along beneath the surface of the water, gleaming in the sunlight. The Writhwife stepped forward and spread her hands in a broad gesture, but this just drew attention to the thin, inky tendrils that ran from beneath her sleeves to her fingertips, moving with her hands as she moved her fingers. “Fear belongs to people who hide things, but what are you hiding from me? What is your Officer, Office, Captain, Commodore, hiding from me? Do not keep secrets from the Writhe. Do not.”
The Officer backed toward the tunnel. His companion pivoted and ran along the beach, heading for the Embassy office. The man who remained couldn’t find words.
The Writhewife said to him, “Tell me your name. I will know it. I will take it down.”
“Fuck this.” The Watch officer spun and ran into the dark tunnel, spitting profanity as he fled.
The darkness in the water receded. The Writhewife laughed.
