What Lies Beneath

Another morning had dragged with all the excitement of watching barnacles grow. A sailor pushed his mop across already-clean boards for the third time, more interested in the sails than actually working. The gentle roll of waves and the salt-laden breeze seemed determined to lull everyone into a stupor. Below decks, the engine's steady thrum vibrated through the planks, a constant reminder of their progress.

Thristle sat cross-legged on deck, checking her vial seals for what felt like the hundredth time just to have something to do, besides worry about Vesper. Beside her, Seraphina had her rifle in pieces - apparently as desperate for occupation as everyone else. The sharp smell of gun oil cut through the endless salt air.

"At least something's getting a proper bath," Thristle muttered, adjusting a loose stopper. Her hands moved over the vials with practiced care.

Seraphina watched those movements reflected in her rifle's barrel. Too steady for an apprentice. Too sure for someone who just mixed medicines. She'd seen hands move like that before, in places where precise measurements meant more than just failed potions.

"Some things are better clean," she replied carefully. Both pretended not to notice how the other tracked every movement as she efficiently reassembled her weapon.

"Boat off the starboard bow!"

The shout sent the sleepy crew scrambling to life. Through the morning haze, Thristle could make out something small bobbing on the waves - barely bigger than the kind of boat you'd use to catch dinner.

"Help!" A gaunt figure waved frantically from the small craft, his voice carrying that particular edge of desperation that made Thristle's neck prickle.

Hawthorne emerged from his cabin, telescope already raised. "Fishermen," he announced after a glance, with his perfect smile. "Strayed too far from shore, poor soul."

Seraphina snapped her rifle back together while walking toward the rail. That's when she noticed Thristle hadn't moved. The elf stood frozen, white hair whipping in the salt wind, eyes fixed on the survivor below with an unsettling intensity. Seraphina had seen Thristle clumsy, seen her scared, seen her putting on those ridiculous accents when nervous - but this was different. This stillness wasn't natural - like someone had replaced her with a porcelain copy, perfect and lifeless except for those eyes.

"Help! Please help!" The survivor's cries carried across the water as sailors gathered near the Captain rousing the crew into action.

Then suddenly a bolt screamed overhead, trailing wisps of smoke. Time stretched like pulled taffy as Seraphina watched it arc toward the pleading survivor. The explosion turned the world white.

"Thristle!" Her voice cracked with desperation. "What have you done?!"

Through the rain of splinters and spray, the "survivor's" form twisted unnaturally, flesh sloughing away to reveal chitinous plates beneath.

"Mimic!" Thristle's warning came too late. The creature launched a volley of yellow viscous globules toward the ship, each one bursting on impact into rapidly expanding masses of goo. Two sailors went down instantly, trapped in the hardening substance. Another blob caught Thristle's leg, the impact spinning her around. She hit the deck hard, her crossbow skittering away.

Seraphina's rifle cracked in a controlled burst - one, two, three shots. Each round struck precisely where vital organs would be on a natural creature, but the mimic's alien anatomy made such targeting useless. The creature's boat-like shell began to split apart, revealing rows of teeth and writhing tentacles.

"Keep your distance!" Seraphina commanded. "Aim for the joints where the shell segments meet!" Her next shots targeted these weak points, drawing spurts of ichor that sizzled against the deck.

"Rot-eaten toadstool!" Thristle snarled, struggling with the hardened goo around her leg. She reached for a vial at her belt, but another glob whizzed past her head, forcing her to duck awkwardly. "Someone get me my damn crossbow!"

The deck erupted into chaos. Sailors scrambled for weapons as more tendrils lashed the ship's side. One of the trapped men screamed as he was dragged toward the rail, a tentacle pulling him toward the creature's waiting maw.

Hawthorne drew his sword with surprising grace, his perfect smile cracking just enough to reveal real fear beneath. "Keep it off the hull!" he ordered, voice steady despite the white-knuckled grip on his weapon. "Don't let it get a grip!"

Seraphina maintained her position of advantage until she spotted something in the creature's mass - a dark, glassy orb almost hidden beneath the shifting plates. An eye. Her next shot struck it, puncturing it in a spray of luminescent fluid.

The mimic's shriek sent several sailors staggering, clutching their ears. But instead of weakening it, the injury seemed to trigger some horrific transformation. Seven new eyes erupted across its body - one bulging from what had been the false boat's prow, another splitting open along its flank, and two more forming in the mass of writhing tentacles. Others opened across its back and sides, each one a perfect dark sphere that rolled independently, focusing on different targets with predatory intelligence.

"Oak's rot," Thristle groaned, still fighting with the hardened goo around her leg. She finally managed to grab a vial from her box and hurled it at the resin trapping her leg, grimacing at the sharp chemical smell as it dissolved. "Someone get me my bloody crossbow before this thing sprouts any more body parts!"

"The hull!" a warning cry went up. The mimic had latched onto the ship's side, wood groaning as its massive bulk began to pull itself up. Its true form emerged—a nightmare of adapted flesh and predatory purpose. The "survivor" was merely one of many lures, writhing appendages that mimicked human forms with disturbing accuracy.

Seraphina reached Thristle's crossbow first, sliding it across the deck. "Whatever you're planning, do it fast!" The creature heaved itself further onto the deck, its weight making the ship list dangerously. Hawthorne barked orders as sailors rushed to maintain balance, cutting at tentacles that seemed to multiply with each stroke.

Thristle caught the weapon, already loading a different bolt - this one trailing thin wisps of purple smoke. "Everyone back!" She took aim, but a tentacle caught her shoulder, spinning her around. The bolt went wide, exploding harmlessly against the waves striking the waves with a thunderous crack. The explosion sent a geyser of superheated steam and churning water high into the air, the acrid chemical stench making sailors gag even at this distance.

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Seraphina's knife flashed, severing the appendage, and sending ichor spraying across the deck. The liquid began to sizzle where it landed. "Do it! Now!"

Thristle finally loaded another bolt. She took careful aim despite the chaos, despite the tentacles still trying to pull the ship off balance. "Oi! Ugly!" The maw turned toward her voice, its false face splitting into that too-wide grin. "Smile for me!"

The bolt flew straight into the creature's maw. For a moment, nothing happened. "Get down fools!" Thristle tackled Seraphina as the creature exploded, showering the deck with burning chunks of flesh and splinters of its false shell. The blast wave washed over them, hot and thick with the stench of ozone and burning meat. When the smoke cleared, pieces of the mimic bobbed in the blood-stained water.

"By the gods!" one of the sailors whispered, breaking the stunned silence. "What was in that bolt?"

"Just a little something I made," Thristle grinned. She caught Seraphina's look and cleared her throat. "Well, let's just say it works pretty well."

"Remarkable," Hawthorne's voice carried across the deck, his perfect smile back in place though his hands still trembled slightly. "I've heard they typically nest in deep waters. Two or three to a colony, usually?" He watched Thristle carefully, the question hanging in the air.

Something flickered across Thristle's face - too quick to catch, but enough to make Seraphina's hand tighten on her rifle. "Wouldn't know about that," Thristle replied carefully, her accent sliding back toward something more cultured. "Just... got lucky with the shot."

"Naturly" Hawthorne's smile widened a fraction. "Though that particular mixture in your bolt... reminds me of the compounds some northern traders use. For hunting, of course." The pause was perfectly calculated. "I believe they extract it from the creature's venom sacs?"

Thristle's hands moved restlessly over her case's latches. "Basic alchemical components," she muttered. "Nothing special. Though I'd be interested in hearing more about these... northern traders?" The invitation was obvious - a careful probe of her own.

"Oh, one hears things, in my profession." Hawthorne adjusted his perfectly pressed cuffs, hands steady now. "Though I'm more curious about how our scholarly friend recognized the threat so... quickly."

"It... um, acted strange," Thristle managed, accent slipping further toward refinement. "Saw a few specimens in... academic settings."

"How fascinating." Hawthorne's smile never wavered. "I'd love to hear more about these academic studies. Over dinner, perhaps? I have so many questions about their hibernation patterns in particular."

The ship shuddered again, wood groaning in protest. Several sailors stumbled, grabbing for support as the deck pitched beneath them. The sound that followed wasn't quite a roar - more like the angry gurgle of a blocked drain. If that drain was the size of a house and deeply offended by its containment.

"Ah," Thristle muttered, already moving toward the hatch. "That would be Vesper expressing an opinion."

Seraphina caught her arm. "Wait." Her voice stayed low and professional. "You're a bit wobbly and I won't have you tumbling down those stairs."

"I'm fine, just inhaled-" Thristle started, then stopped as another tremor nearly sent her sprawling. Only Seraphina's grip kept her upright. "Right. Maybe not completely fine."

"The beast seems rather agitated," Hawthorne called from the helm, smiling perfectly despite the chaos. "Perhaps we should-"

The rest of his suggestion was lost as something massive slammed against the hull. The impact knocked several crewmen off their feet. Through the deck planks, Thristle could feel Vesper's movements - not the usual playful ripples, but something darker.

"I really must insist you calm your... friend." Hawthorne's voice carried that edge of command now. "Before it compromises my ship"

Thristle bolted for the hatch, moving with that peculiar grace that only seemed to manifest when she was about to do something spectacularly reckless. Her white hair flashed in the sunlight as she dove below deck, ignoring Seraphina's sharp intake of breath.

"Thristle!" Seraphina's voice cracked with exasperation, but the elf was already gone. A thunderous crash from below cut off further commentary, followed by the distinct sound of something large and gelatinous expressing its opinion about containment. Very enthusiastically.

"If you'll excuse me, Captain," Seraphina said with deadly politeness, already moving toward the hatch. "I believe my charge requires... supervision."

Thristle hit the hold's floor running, then froze. The sight that greeted her made her throat go dry. Vesper's mass filled nearly all the space of the corridor, its surface churning with deep purples and angry reds she hadn't seen since she tried to run away. The obsidian walls were cracked and broken, lines spreading like dark spiderwebs across their surface.

"H-hey now," she managed, hating how her voice shook. "It's fine, it's dead, you can calm down?"

Vesper's surface moved - that particular pattern that usually meant it was thoroughly done with being told what to do. A pseudopod stretched toward her, and Thristle had to fight every instinct screaming at her to run. Even after all this time, after all they'd been through, that primal fear still lived in her bones.

"I know, I know," she tried to soothe but her accent slipped badly. "The walls are horrible. But ye can't just-"

The slime surged forward, and Thristle's carefully maintained brave front crumbled. She stumbled backward, old terror rising like bile in her throat. But instead of dissolving her, Vesper flowed around her, its cool gelatinous mass enveloping her shoulders and arms in what had become - despite everything - a familiarly comforting pressure.

"Oh," she squeaked, heart hammering as the familiar cool sensation enveloped her. "Right. Yes. It's fine. We're... fine. You ok? Ugh."

The slime's surface colors shifted, angry reds mellowing to more playful purples. It was still agitated, but now it seemed more interested in making her uncomfortable than destroying the ship. A small tendril poked her cheek.

"Very funny," Thristle muttered, trying to maintain some dignity while essentially being cuddled by a giant blob. "Enjoying yourself, are you?"

Vesper's response was to ripple in what she recognized as its laughing pattern, small waves of iridescent blue chasing across its surface. The bear's skull rotated slowly, examining her for injuries with unsettling thoroughness.

"You absolute menace," she said, but couldn't quite keep the fondness from her voice. Even through her lingering fear, she had to admit - the slime had a gift for breaking tension in its own unique way.

Seraphina's boots appeared on the ladder above. "Thristle? Are you-" She paused, taking in the scene. "Ah. I see Vesper is feeling... affectionate."

"He's being a pain in the-" Thristle's words cut off as Vesper gave her another squeeze. "Right, right, sorry. Though you could have waited until I got down here before redecorating the hold."

The slime's surface patterns suggested it found this suggestion highly unreasonable. After all, how else was it supposed to properly express its opinion about being locked away while its companions were in danger?

"I don't suppose you'd consider repairing the walls?" Thristle asked hopefully, still trapped in Vesper's embrace. The slime's response was a ripple that clearly conveyed its opinion on that suggestion.

Seraphina made her way carefully down the ladder, eyeing the cracked obsidian. "I suppose we should inform the captain that his special containment measures have proven... inadequate."

"Oh, he'll love that," Thristle muttered. "Though technically vesper's still contained. It's just... more generally contained. In the whole ship rather than just the hold."

As if to demonstrate this point, Vesper extended a tendril up through the hatch, presumably to investigate the commotion above. A sailor's startled yelp suggested he'd found something interesting.

"Speaking of the captain..." Seraphina's voice took on that careful neutrality that usually meant trouble. "His knowledge of mimics seemed rather... theoretical."

"Noticed that, did you?" Thristle tried for casual, but Vesper's surface rippled with interest at her sudden tension. "The bit about hibernation was particularly creative."

"Though I'm more interested in his supposed northern traders. Especially since most northern ports have been closed since the trade disputes started."

"Ah." Thristle squirmed slightly in Vesper's grip. "You caught that too?"

"I catch most things." Seraphina's eyes met hers steadily. "Including how someone who claims to be a simple alchemist handled that fight."

Before Thristle could respond, footsteps echoed above—the precise, measured steps that could only be Hawthorne's. Vesper's surface darkened slightly but didn't release its hold on Thristle.

"Ladies?" Hawthorne's voice drifted down, still perfectly modulated despite everything. "I trust everything is... under control?"

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