Post by Morgana Shipton on Dec 18, 2023 13:40:49 GMT -5
Morgana's bedroom was dimly lit, starlit curtains closed, and several scented candles lit. As a soft breeze rustled the curtains, sunlight streams broke through the heavy fabric to hit her prisms, reflecting rainbows in her tiny attic room. With a determined gaze, she moved the rug from the center of the room, revealing the bare floor beneath. She clutched a piece of chalk in her hands, its white dust ready to create a shield against unseen forces.
Kneeling down, Morgana began to draw a precise circle, its circumference expanding to encompass the entirety of the room. She whispered words of power with each stroke, infusing the chalk lines with elemental energy. To the east, a line of salt formed a protective barrier, grounding the Circle in the essence of the earth. Continuing to the south, incense smoke curled upwards, creating a fragrant veil representing the airy domain. A lit candle marked the western boundary, flickering with the flicker of fire. At the same time, a small silver cup containing water was placed in the north, completing the Circle with the fluidity of water.
Once the elemental Circle was complete, Morgana stood inside its protective embrace. Her eyes glinted with focus and reverence as she left an intentional opening in the northwest corner, a gateway through which she entered the sanctum. Closing the entrance behind her, she felt the energy of the elements converging, forming an ethereal barrier that separated her from the external energies that sought to intrude. In this sacred space, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, Morgana stood prepared and fortified, her protective Circle a testament to her connection with the mystical forces surrounding her.
Morgana's slender fingers traced the delicate lines on her palms, a sharpie in hand drawing the pattern of an all-seeing eye. A subtle energy hummed beneath her skin as the inked symbol took shape. She closed her eyes momentarily, centering herself, before pressing the back of her hand against her face, the drawn eyes on her palms perfectly aligning with hers. The room around her faded into darkness, replaced by the distant shores of Middle Brewster Island.
The scene unfolded before Morgana's mind's eye like a surreal painting. The ominous silhouette of the Black Mariah, the gold lettering flaking as it lay in ruins at the bottom of the ocean. The heavy ocean waves above her whispered secrets of forgotten tales, and she felt her consciousness shift with the ebb and flow of the depths. She willed her spirit to swim deeper into the wreckage itself.
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In the eerie depths of the Black Mariah's sunken wreckage, Morgana's consciousness navigated through the silent corridors of the ghostly vessel. Murky waters cast an ethereal glow upon the ship's remains, where barnacles clung to splintered wood like spectral sentinels. Shafts of muted sunlight filtered through shattered portholes, revealing the haunting beauty of the underwater realm. As Morgana's consciousness swam, the creaking echoes of the ship's timeworn timbers reverberated through the water, creating an otherworldly symphony that underscored the gravity of the maritime tomb.
Guided by a faint intuition, Morgana glided through the remnants of cabins. She flew through collapsed passageways, encountering ethereal glimpses of the past frozen in time. Tattered curtains danced in the water's gentle current, the remnants of what was once a haven for sailors. The sea life had claimed the ship as their own canvas, painting the once vibrant corridors with muted hues of algae and silt. Morgana's ethereal form brushed against the remnants of a forgotten era, her senses attuned to the whispers of long-lost tales embedded in the ship's decaying bones.
Drawing nearer her destination, the captain's quarters beckoned like a siren's call. Through the cracked door, Morgana entered a chamber frozen in perpetual decay. Sunlight filtered through a shattered window, casting fragmented beams upon a long-forgotten desk. Yellowed with age, papers floated in a macabre dance, preserving the ghostly echoes of the captain's final log entries. Black John's quarters, once a sanctuary of command, now stood as a testament to the relentless passage of time and the ship's descent into the depths of maritime lore.
As Morgana sifted through the delicate remnants of Black John's belongings, the underwater currents gently swayed the disintegrating pages, revealing the intricate spider-like penmanship that chronicled the captain's ill-fated journey. The papers held a weight of history, and Morgana's eyes traced each character with a mix of curiosity and reverence. The sprawling script spoke of maritime adventures, mysterious waypoints, and the creation of New Salem—a tapestry woven through ink and time.
Despite the faded ink and water-damaged parchment, Morgana recognized the unique script from the meticulous records maintained by the Circle. Black John's journals were an artifact of profound significance, a key to unlocking the secrets hidden within the annals of history. Focused on deciphering the cryptic passage, Morgana's mind grappled with the intricate details. Amidst the labyrinthine prose, one phrase stood out: "At the waypoint between three islands, the flying place. Buried beneath low granite and slate outcroppings, ten paces from the fine gravel beach."
With a surge of realization, Morgana understood the potential gravity of the information. The snippet held clues to a hidden location, marked by latitude and longitude coordinates and nautical charting information. It hinted at a buried treasure or a forgotten artifact lying dormant beneath the embrace of nature. As the words resonated in her mind, Morgana felt the weight of the ocean against her body. The captain's quarters, submerged in aquatic silence, began to fade away out of her mind's eye as she traveled back to her body.
As Morgana's consciousness began to recede from the depths of the captain's quarters, the watery tableau of the Black Mariah dissolved like a dissipating mist. The aquatic silence, once all-encompassing, yielded to the familiar sounds of her bedroom. However, an invisible force resisted her journey back, creating a momentary struggle as if the ethereal realm sought to anchor her in the maritime past. She was expelled from the watery dreamscape and back into her room.
Opening her mismatched eyes—one sea-glass green and the other a deep brown—Morgana discovered the mischievous culprit for disrupting her spiritual sojourn. Mister Kitty, her elderly black cat, reveled in the game he had made of the salt within the protective Circle. A peal of laughter escaped Morgana's lips as she observed the feline antics, his sleek form darting between scattered grains.
With a shake of her head, Morgana rose from her meditative position. She strolled to her closet, retrieving a dustpan to restore order to the room. As the salt was carefully gathered, the protective Circle dissipated, and Morgana pondered the whimsical nature of her magical companion.
Morgana couldn't contain her excitement once the room was tidied and the invisible barriers were lifted. She reached for her phone and dialed her cousin Adam, eager to share the revelations from Black John's journal. The tale of buried secrets, forgotten coordinates, and the enigmatic flying place unfolded over the phone line, weaving a narrative that bridged the realms of history and the supernatural. In the wake of her underwater journey, Morgana embraced the tangible reality of her bedroom, excited to embark on a new adventure that awaited beyond the borders of her sanctuary.
Kneeling down, Morgana began to draw a precise circle, its circumference expanding to encompass the entirety of the room. She whispered words of power with each stroke, infusing the chalk lines with elemental energy. To the east, a line of salt formed a protective barrier, grounding the Circle in the essence of the earth. Continuing to the south, incense smoke curled upwards, creating a fragrant veil representing the airy domain. A lit candle marked the western boundary, flickering with the flicker of fire. At the same time, a small silver cup containing water was placed in the north, completing the Circle with the fluidity of water.
Once the elemental Circle was complete, Morgana stood inside its protective embrace. Her eyes glinted with focus and reverence as she left an intentional opening in the northwest corner, a gateway through which she entered the sanctum. Closing the entrance behind her, she felt the energy of the elements converging, forming an ethereal barrier that separated her from the external energies that sought to intrude. In this sacred space, bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, Morgana stood prepared and fortified, her protective Circle a testament to her connection with the mystical forces surrounding her.
Morgana's slender fingers traced the delicate lines on her palms, a sharpie in hand drawing the pattern of an all-seeing eye. A subtle energy hummed beneath her skin as the inked symbol took shape. She closed her eyes momentarily, centering herself, before pressing the back of her hand against her face, the drawn eyes on her palms perfectly aligning with hers. The room around her faded into darkness, replaced by the distant shores of Middle Brewster Island.
The scene unfolded before Morgana's mind's eye like a surreal painting. The ominous silhouette of the Black Mariah, the gold lettering flaking as it lay in ruins at the bottom of the ocean. The heavy ocean waves above her whispered secrets of forgotten tales, and she felt her consciousness shift with the ebb and flow of the depths. She willed her spirit to swim deeper into the wreckage itself.
In the eerie depths of the Black Mariah's sunken wreckage, Morgana's consciousness navigated through the silent corridors of the ghostly vessel. Murky waters cast an ethereal glow upon the ship's remains, where barnacles clung to splintered wood like spectral sentinels. Shafts of muted sunlight filtered through shattered portholes, revealing the haunting beauty of the underwater realm. As Morgana's consciousness swam, the creaking echoes of the ship's timeworn timbers reverberated through the water, creating an otherworldly symphony that underscored the gravity of the maritime tomb.
Guided by a faint intuition, Morgana glided through the remnants of cabins. She flew through collapsed passageways, encountering ethereal glimpses of the past frozen in time. Tattered curtains danced in the water's gentle current, the remnants of what was once a haven for sailors. The sea life had claimed the ship as their own canvas, painting the once vibrant corridors with muted hues of algae and silt. Morgana's ethereal form brushed against the remnants of a forgotten era, her senses attuned to the whispers of long-lost tales embedded in the ship's decaying bones.
Drawing nearer her destination, the captain's quarters beckoned like a siren's call. Through the cracked door, Morgana entered a chamber frozen in perpetual decay. Sunlight filtered through a shattered window, casting fragmented beams upon a long-forgotten desk. Yellowed with age, papers floated in a macabre dance, preserving the ghostly echoes of the captain's final log entries. Black John's quarters, once a sanctuary of command, now stood as a testament to the relentless passage of time and the ship's descent into the depths of maritime lore.
As Morgana sifted through the delicate remnants of Black John's belongings, the underwater currents gently swayed the disintegrating pages, revealing the intricate spider-like penmanship that chronicled the captain's ill-fated journey. The papers held a weight of history, and Morgana's eyes traced each character with a mix of curiosity and reverence. The sprawling script spoke of maritime adventures, mysterious waypoints, and the creation of New Salem—a tapestry woven through ink and time.
Despite the faded ink and water-damaged parchment, Morgana recognized the unique script from the meticulous records maintained by the Circle. Black John's journals were an artifact of profound significance, a key to unlocking the secrets hidden within the annals of history. Focused on deciphering the cryptic passage, Morgana's mind grappled with the intricate details. Amidst the labyrinthine prose, one phrase stood out: "At the waypoint between three islands, the flying place. Buried beneath low granite and slate outcroppings, ten paces from the fine gravel beach."
With a surge of realization, Morgana understood the potential gravity of the information. The snippet held clues to a hidden location, marked by latitude and longitude coordinates and nautical charting information. It hinted at a buried treasure or a forgotten artifact lying dormant beneath the embrace of nature. As the words resonated in her mind, Morgana felt the weight of the ocean against her body. The captain's quarters, submerged in aquatic silence, began to fade away out of her mind's eye as she traveled back to her body.
As Morgana's consciousness began to recede from the depths of the captain's quarters, the watery tableau of the Black Mariah dissolved like a dissipating mist. The aquatic silence, once all-encompassing, yielded to the familiar sounds of her bedroom. However, an invisible force resisted her journey back, creating a momentary struggle as if the ethereal realm sought to anchor her in the maritime past. She was expelled from the watery dreamscape and back into her room.
Opening her mismatched eyes—one sea-glass green and the other a deep brown—Morgana discovered the mischievous culprit for disrupting her spiritual sojourn. Mister Kitty, her elderly black cat, reveled in the game he had made of the salt within the protective Circle. A peal of laughter escaped Morgana's lips as she observed the feline antics, his sleek form darting between scattered grains.
With a shake of her head, Morgana rose from her meditative position. She strolled to her closet, retrieving a dustpan to restore order to the room. As the salt was carefully gathered, the protective Circle dissipated, and Morgana pondered the whimsical nature of her magical companion.
Morgana couldn't contain her excitement once the room was tidied and the invisible barriers were lifted. She reached for her phone and dialed her cousin Adam, eager to share the revelations from Black John's journal. The tale of buried secrets, forgotten coordinates, and the enigmatic flying place unfolded over the phone line, weaving a narrative that bridged the realms of history and the supernatural. In the wake of her underwater journey, Morgana embraced the tangible reality of her bedroom, excited to embark on a new adventure that awaited beyond the borders of her sanctuary.
