Sea of Ghosts

The midday hour had arrived, yet an unusual darkness enveloped the landscape, a remnant of the recent snowstorm that had transformed into delicate flakes drifting softly through the air. The clouds clung tightly to the horizon, blurring the line between the sea and the sky, creating an ethereal atmosphere that felt almost otherworldly. Ice flows floated on the water's surface, forming a precarious, slippery pathway that connected the scattered black-sand islands and the rugged outcrops of rock. In this haunting stillness, the absence of sound was unnerving; there were no cries of gulls piercing the air, nor the gentle rhythm of waves lapping against the shore. Instead, a ghostly silence enveloped the scene, amplifying the sense of isolation and desolation.

This desolate stretch of water was known as Pilgrim's Trench, a name that belied the treacherous nature of its depths. The area was notorious for its perilous ice flows and sharp, jagged rocks that lay hidden beneath the surface, ready to ensnare the unwary. Countless ships had succumbed to the icy grip of these waters, their crews lost to the depths, never to be seen again. The chilling tales of those who had ventured into Pilgrim's Trench lingered in the air, a reminder of the dangers that lurked beneath the serene facade.

Yet, amidst the oppressive silence, a sudden gust of wind stirred, carrying with it a faint, desperate cry for help. It was as if the very breath of the wind had taken on a voice, pleading for release from the clutches of Pilgrim's Trench.

Bolryn paused abruptly, his complaints about the ancient tomb of Ysgramor fading into silence. The place had yielded nothing of worth—just remnants of spoiled provisions and a handful of lifeless draugr. It was evident that the tomb had been plundered multiple times over the years, leaving behind only the echoes of its former significance. Not a single coin remained, proof of the relentless greed of those who had come before him. The air was bitter with disappointment, yet something in the atmosphere shifted, drawing his attention away from his frustrations.
What caught his ear was a faint cry, a sound that seemed to linger just at the edge of perception. It was close enough to send a shiver down his spine, yet distant enough to feel as if it were echoing from around the jagged iceflows that loomed like ancient sentinels over the dark sea. Bolryn strained to discern the source of the noise, his instincts sharpening. "What is it now?" he muttered under his breath, the words barely escaping his lips as he focused intently on the eerie stillness that followed.
With cautious determination, he stepped onto the ice, his boots gripping the slick surface with surprising stability. The thick ice would provide a safe path back to the main shore, but the sound unnerved him, making his gaze dart about. Was it merely a trick of the wind, a scavenger, or something lurking? He paused once more, glancing back at the tomb of Ysgramor from which he had just emerged; it held no answers for him. With a deliberate narrowing of his scarlet eyes, he scanned the horizon ahead.

Majlenka Windrime had accompanied her friend Solena Morvan to the College of Winterhold, where the young Breton woman sought to further her training in her magicka before adventuring further and then seeking less-known paths of magic. Both she and Solena had been dismayed at seeing the state of the…well, it couldn’t even be called a city anymore, the state of ruined buildings in Winterhold, literally a bridge’s distance from the College. Solena had vowed to inquire within the College as to why nothing was being done, but Maja figured that the mages thought it was the Jarl of Winterhold’s problem, and it was soon clear from the town’s folk’s talk that most of them and the Jarl laid blame on the College.

Irritated at the useless back-and-forth accusations, Maja had decided to help the town’s people as she could while Solena started her training at the College.

Maja had now ventured to the furthest reaches of Skyrim, as far as she was concerned, while still having her two booted feet touch the frozen beaches. Even though she now worshiped Hircine, she had taken the time to visit the shrine of Talos with its small altar at the base of the gigantic statue depicting him. She gave thanks to Kyne, though she did not see or hear any gulls in the grey stillness of midday.

The area near the Pilgrim’s Trench was beautiful in its stark desolation, and yet, life still strived in the harsh coldness of the sea, icebergs, and ice flows. Ice wolves, smaller wolves, snow foxes, and Horkers all etched out a living in a savage dance of life and death, pitted against each other. It was also her purpose to partake in their dance and hunt not just for meat, but for every vital piece of material the animals in the area could provide her with, and which she, in turn, could trade with the people of Winterhold if they were low on coins. Though she focused primarily on Horkers for their meat and tusks, she had also looked to hunt ice wolves for their pelts and claws.

So far, her hunt had not been fruitful, and she felt as if she might be the only creature alive in the area when a sudden gust of wind brought a lonely call for what sounded like aid to her ears.

Maja stopped and stood still, trying to pinpoint the exact location of the cry. It seemed to her that it came in the direction of the small abandoned lean-to shelter with the now-empty fire pit.

She started walking in that direction at a faster pace, though conscious of the wet and slippery terrain, which included ice flows, rocks, a sandy frozen beach, and icy waters. She stopped briefly, wishing not for the first time that she could shift to her werebear form at will, knowing that in her hybrid bear form, her senses were much sharper and her footing more solid, as well as the fur providing her with better insulation than any clothes under light armor could. She strained to try and pick up the cry again, wondering if the wind and the isolation of the area were not just playing tricks with her mind.

A profound stillness enveloped the surroundings, an eerie calm that hung in the air like a heavy fog, making everything seem more frigid than before. The usual sounds of life had faded into an unsettling silence, as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to break the spell. This unnatural quietude wrapped around the landscape, intensifying the chill that seeped into the bones, leaving an impression of desolation. It was as if nature itself had paused, creating a moment that felt both timeless and haunting,

"Help me!"

The sound of the cry grew increasingly distinct, resonating through the crisp air like a haunting melody. It appeared to emanate from the ice flows that lay further to the north, where the dark water stretched endlessly under the cloudy sky. The voice, youthful and filled with an unmistakable urgency.

A sharper cry pierced the air, it seemed more defined than the previous one, and Bolryn surmised it originated from the vicinity of Pilgrim's Trench. Without hesitation, he pivoted and navigated swiftly across the ice flows, his boots crunching against the frozen surface. Soon, he reached the sandy beach where his grey horse stood patiently, its breath visible in the crisp air. With a fluid motion, he mounted the steed, adjusting his grip on the reins as he turned the horse down the west coastline. He urged the beast into a brisk trot, determined to follow the sound of the cry, all the while remaining acutely aware of the lurking dangers that could arise from both wild creatures and bandits.
As he rode, Bolryn kept his senses sharp, drawing his sword and holding it firmly in one hand while guiding his horse with the other. He maneuvered around jagged rocks, careful to stick to the sandy patches and avoid the deeper waters that could threaten to unseat him. The rhythmic sound of hooves against the sand accompanied his thoughts, which raced with possibilities. Ahead, he spotted a figure—a woman, by the way she moved—making her way toward an abandoned camp that loomed over the remnants of sunken ships and shattered boats. The sight sparked a flicker of concern within him; could she be the source of the distressing cry, or was this a ruse orchestrated by cunning outlaws?
As Bolryn approached, his grip on the sword tightened, his instincts screaming for caution. The woman appeared capable, yet he could not shake the feeling of unease that settled in his gut. His brow furrowed, and his piercing crimson eyes narrowed, scrutinizing her every movement with a mix of suspicion and curiosity.

Though she considered herself a fairly seasoned warrior, at least by Nord standards, the surrounding air of stillness and silence unnerved her, and she began to question her wisdom in coming to this area alone. Maja had the oddest feeling of being in a story like the one about Yngol and the Sea-Ghosts.

She had told Solena where she had planned to go, but the Breton mage and rogue was certainly too preoccupied with her training, and they were not supposed to meet up until the next day at sunset.

As a Nord, she had a natural high resistance to the cold and frost magic, yet she still felt as though the temperature had plummeted.

She heard the cry again and scanned the water as well as the nearby ice floes, but could not see any visible being that could be calling out. She quickly placed her long bow back in its harness, and she was about to get her rope fastened to her backpack when she heard the sound of hooves. Maja turned to see a dark figure riding a grey horse with a sword in hand.

Hopefully, the rider had been drawn by the cry as she had, but she held her hands aloft and well away from her weapons to show she had no intention of using them, but of course, if she were a mage, she would not need a weapon in hand. Magic, however, was not one of her talents or skill sets, though some Nords had that ability with magicka.

She noticed the crimson eyes peering at her from the dark features. “I heard a call for aid. I have a rope; perhaps you can help with your mount? The person calling for aid might not survive the icy waters long.” She offered up a warning, worried that any delay might cause the person trapped to succumb to the cold very soon.

Bolryn reined in his horse, his gaze still fixed on the woman before him. Her unexpected gesture of raising her hands caught him off guard; he had never encountered anyone so openly disarming, though her weapons were visibly carried, and they seemed to be typical Nord arms. As he studied her, his dark eyebrows shifted from a deep frown to a raised arch of curiosity. He believed her words revealed that she was not the source of the distress call that had drawn him to this abandoned camp, yet he remained cautious, aware that appearances could be deceiving.
With a quick glance around the area, Bolryn sheathed his sword, the metal sliding into its scabbard with a soft thud, and dismounted from his horse, the ground firm beneath his boots. Despite his decision to lower his guard slightly, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was amiss.
"What makes you think the call came from the water?" he inquired, his voice gravelly yet steady, cutting through the silence that enveloped them.

She had suspected the male to be a Dunmer, but his approach towards her confirmed it. Maja studied his features for a few seconds, feeling a slight sense of relief that his expression seemed to have gone from a deep frown to one of possible curiosity.

Even though he sheathed his sword, she didn’t let her guard down, but her primary concern was for the person who had cried out for help. She quickly unfastened the 50 feet of coiled rope from her pack before she hoisted her pack back onto her shoulders after adjusting her long bow to the side.

His question to her after he dismounted made her reconsider how she had gauged the sound and the reason why she had not spotted anyone. “I admit, it might be an incorrect assumption on my part that the call came from the water and a wrong first reaction. The small islands covered with ice around this area are rarer but still present. The person might be trapped on an ice flow that drifted further out. Will you help? My name is Maja.” She gave him a polite nod before her green gaze returned to scan for any movement from the water and the ice flows beyond towards the north.

Bolryn gazed out at the horizon once more, where the waters lay eerily still, their surface shimmering under the soft light. The tranquility of the scene was almost deceptive, a stark contrast to the tales that surrounded this place. He turned his attention back to the young woman standing before him, "I am Bolryn," he said, allowing a brief pause to linger in the air as he contemplated her inquiry. "I will assist you if someone is in peril on the ice flows, but tread carefully. This place is known as the Sea of Ghosts for a reason," he warned, his tone laced with a sense of foreboding that hinted at the dangers lurking beneath the surface.
His gaze drifted to the skeletal remains that lay in the makeshift camp nearby, a grim reminder of the perils that had once claimed lives in this desolate region. "This area has a notorious reputation for shipwrecks," he continued, his voice low and somber, "but I suspect it has been quite some time since any new tragedies have occurred." The stillness of the sea seemed to mock the past, as if it were holding its breath, waiting for the next unfortunate soul to venture too close.

The young Nord woman bowed her black-braided head in acknowledgment of Bolryn’s words. “I have heard tales and read the story of Ysgramor’s son Yngol and how the sea ghosts took him, though I admit this is my first time here.” She confessed with concern. She wondered at the complete lack of sound and animal life. Could magic be the cause?

“Yes, I’m aware of the shipwrecks as well. I’ve seen the wreckage of older ships and skiffs, as well as flotsam, perhaps looters that met an unfortunate fate.” She turned her gaze back towards Bolryn. “Is it not odd to find no beast nor bird here? Should we try calling out?” She inquired of him.

"It's odd indeed." He replied as he cast another wary glance at the ice flows, his mind calculating the scene. He proposed, "I think it would be best if you were the only one to call out. That way, anyone or thing listening will assume there’s just one person here." He paused for a moment, then continued, "We should also consider this as a safety measure, in case the cry for help is a ruse designed to mislead us."
Bolryn released the reins of his horse and made his way to the makeshift shelter. It was constructed just high enough to provide him with cover while still allowing him to peer over its edge. As he settled into position, his hand instinctively found the hilt of his sword, a comforting presence in the face of uncertainty. In his other hand, he conjured a flicker of flame, the warm glow briefly illuminating his palm. Most Dunmer possessed a natural affinity for fire magic, and Bolryn was no exception; the spell danced playfully in his grasp, a reminder of the power he wielded even in the cold, unforgiving landscape.

She nodded in agreement to his suggestion. “Very well, let us see if whoever called out truly needs help and if their location can be given to us more accurately.” She placed the coiled rope around her right forearm and held it securely in her right hand.

Maja waited until both Bolryn and his horse were out of sight. She planted her feet in the frozen, gritty rocks on the beach, spreading them apart the length of her shoulders to achieve a good and steady stance. She finally called out in a firm voice, breaking the unnatural silence that seemed to cocoon the area. “I have rope, and I can help, but give me some kind of landmark to find you: a rock formation, driftwood pieces, the distance from a shrine or statue.” She wouldn’t pronounce the name of Talos in case these were Thalmor trying to find any excuse to arrest or kill her, but it was also a test to see if the person could locate a nearby visible landmark from their location.

She also hoped Bolryn might have a more accurate idea of where the cry came from if she could not find its source.

"Help me!"

The plea for help echoed through the frigid air, its tone sharper and more distinct than before, yet it seemed to emanate from above rather than the icy waters or the shifting ice flows surrounding it. It was as if the sound originated from the very summit of the larger iceberg, where a small boat was moored at the edge.

Bolryn unsheathed his sword with a quiet determination, his gaze shifting upward toward the source of the mysterious voice that had pierced the stillness of the icy landscape. The towering iceberg loomed above him, its sheer walls appearing nearly insurmountable, raising questions about how anyone could possibly be positioned there. The thought nagged at him, suggesting that perhaps this figure had not climbed but had been placed there, a notion that stirred the ever-present suspicion in his mind.
His travels across the rugged terrains of Skyrim, the expansive regions of Cyrodiil, the rocky lands of Highrock, and the arid stretches of Hammerfell, not to mention the ash landscapes of Morrowind, had exposed him to a myriad of dangers. Encounters with Daedra, grotesque creatures, and treacherous humans had sharpened his instincts, leaving him wary of the unseen threats that lurked in the shadows.
As he stood there, the cold air biting at his cheeks, Bolryn's thoughts stepped back to the countless times he had narrowly escaped death. Each journey had etched a deeper layer of caution into his psyche, teaching him that appearances could be deceiving and that danger often lay hidden beneath the surface.

Her sharp green gaze found the small Nord skiff at the base of the larger iceberg in the nearby area, and her eyes narrowed, trying to perceive some form of humanoid shape, even a reptilian one belonging to an Argonion. None were visible.

She had asked for specific indications of markers, yet the exact two words and phrases of urgency were again repeated. It was starting to unnerve her even further. Even though she had just met Bolryn, she was glad she was not alone.

Maja did not dare turn to look back at the Dunmer quite yet in order not to give away his location. She shifted the rope to her left forearm and hand and took her hand axe from its sheath. She held firm to her position and called out. “My name is Maja. Who are you? I see a boat from my side; perhaps you could try to reach it?” She hoped this would force the other individual to provide some information beyond the panicked help me.

"Maja, help me!"

The voice called out, but the tone remained unchanged, lacking any sense of urgency or desperation.

A creeping dread coiled around Bolryn, a suffocating weight in the frigid air. The haunting cry that tore through the icy landscape wasn't just a sound; it was a claw, raking against his very soul, tightening his grip on the hilt of his blade until his knuckles whitened. A tremor of primal fear, sharp and cold as the wind, pierced through his initial apprehension. This wasn't merely a plea, he thought; it was a lure.
His thoughts snagged on Maja, a wave of stark concern washing over him at the horrifying realisation: she had, with terrifying ease, revealed her name to whatever entity lurked out there, beyond the ice flow.
"Step away from the water!" His voice was barely above a whisper, yet laced with authority, he urged her to retreat from the perilous edge,

“Shor’s bones.” She hissed under her breath, just now realizing the stupidity of what she had done by giving that thing her name. It had only snatched the information it wanted and was trying to use it against her. Her name echoed back with a lack of urgency, but nothing else of what she had hoped for was revealed.

The combination of icy, salty air and a hint of sulfur, along with the frozen, pebbled shore, emphasized the empty desolation of the place and the perfect, silent trap that she had walked into. Surely, some unholy magic is at work here!

As her ears strained for any sound beyond the soft crunch of her boots on the mixed sand and grit, she picked up the faint words from behind her, and she nodded mutely, not trusting herself to speak and give away more knowledge of herself or the one behind her whom she was more than thankful for.

She transferred the rope higher up on her armored shoulder and held her steel-handled axe firmly as she took slow, steady steps backward. Still, her eyes stayed watchful, scanning from the top of the iceberg island to the now fragile-looking skiff and flotsam lying in wreckage around the icy island. How many? How many had been lured to their doom here before her?

She continued to slowly but surely place more distance between herself and the dark, frigid waters of the Ghost Sea.

"Maja, help me!"

Came the cry again, but this time it sounded more hollow and sinister. A shimmer of a shadow seemed to slip down from the top of the iceberg, landing soundlessly on the ice flow as the dark cold water began to churn around it. The stark contrast of the dark silhouette against the glistening ice created a chilling image.

Bolryn kept himself hidden, hoping that his presence remained undetected, yet he maintained a clear view of the icy expanse before him. As he observed the shifting shadow on the surface, a frown creased his brow. He had never encountered a sea specter before, and uncertainty gnawed at him regarding the nature of the entity that now seemed to fixate on Maja.
Caught in a whirlwind of doubt, Bolryn questioned whether an attack would even be effective against such a mysterious being, especially since he lacked any silver weapons that might hold power over it. After a moment of contemplation, he concluded that their best course of action was to retreat with Maja, prioritizing their safety over confrontation. However, he knew that if the creature chose to pursue them, they would have no option but to stand and fight.
"Come to me," he whispered, his voice barely a breath. "If its line of sight is broken, we'll see if it follows."