The Vampire & Her Witch Chapter 1644: Echoes of the First Crew

Blackwell Manor's Great Hall exuded an aura of venerable history, much like a cherished pair of well-worn boots complemented by new socks.

The hall's construction commenced three centuries prior when Phylip Blackwell established his dominion over what would become Blackwell Bay. Before Phylip's arrival, the ruling Eldritch High Lord attached little significance to the secluded harbor. Many Eldritch possessed robust physiques, enabling them to traverse between islands by swimming, while others, akin to Phylip’s predecessor, wielded wings for flight, provided the winds were favorable.

The Eldritch were not a primitive people. Phylip's own journals indicate they utilized numerous smaller vessels for the land-bound clans among them. However, it was only after Phylip's advent that they recognized the superior capabilities of sailing ships, harnessing the might of scores or even hundreds of oarsmen alongside expansive, billowing sails.

Phylip fundamentally transformed the region, erecting his stronghold upon a prominence overlooking the harbor that provided refuge to the Black Sail fleet against the fury of winter storms and summer tempests. During Phylip's reign, he governed with regal authority and independence, forging a realm for outcasts and scoundrels seeking a sanctuary to call their own.

The core of that ancestral keep endures, and the very stones of the Great Hall bear witness to those bygone days. Now, with Count Rhys Blackwell seated at the vanguard of the High Table within the same hall Phylip erected, he felt the profound legacy and antiquity of those stones settling upon his shoulders, offering a grounding strength akin to a grandfather's steadying hand against the impending turmoil.

Conversations reverberated off the seasoned rafters as individuals, reunited after months or even years apart, re-established their connections. Bursts of laughter punctuated the atmosphere intermittently, with many celebrating the arrival of newborns while others offered solemn condolences for cherished souls claimed by time and the relentless sea.

The hall was originally designed to accommodate five hundred souls—the entire complement of the Black Tide, along with their spouses and families. Presently, it sheltered merely a quarter of that number, a vast majority being direct descendants of Phylip’s original, fabled crew.

Among the four men seated at the High Table alongside Rhys Blackwell were descendants of Phylip’s trusted officers. Baron Mervyn Stormwarden could trace his lineage directly to Mathias Stormtossed, Phylip’s renowned navigator, a master of transforming even the direst misfortune into a fortuitous outcome or, at the very least, an adventure ripe for embellished recounting.

"You are a fortunate man, Amren," Mervyn addressed the baron beside him. "Four sons and not a single daughter to cause heartache," the dark-complexioned baron remarked, clapping the younger man seated next to him heartily on the shoulder. Mervyn had adopted a clean-shaven scalp years prior to mask a receding hairline, and his imposing physique, coupled with his striking features, lent him an intimidating aura even when he was smiling and in good spirits.

"You attempt to manage four boisterous lads and a perpetually cross wife, and then you can tell me again about my supposed luck," Baron Amren Dalais retorted, nearly upsetting his wine as Mervyn's robust hand landed firmly on his back. "I owe Lord Rhys a measure of pipe leaf for granting me a reprieve from home this Midwinter."

Positioned next to Mervyn, Baron Amren Dalais appeared simultaneously diminutive and pale, despite his skin possessing a healthy golden undertone and his lean frame exuding considerable muscle. His forebear, Austor the Slug, had bartered his stake in the Black Tide for an extensive tract of fertile land along the River Senara, electing to provide his descendants a life of comfort and ease, far removed from the harsh maritime elements and capricious fates of the sea. Yet, it seemed no one had informed Amren that his inherited life was purported to be one of effortless enjoyment.

A subtle, good-natured rivalry invariably existed between the island lords and their mainland counterparts. However, Amren navigated these potentially treacherous social currents with practiced skill, consistently offering an abundance of gifts from the bountiful fields and orchards of his barony.

"Once your younglings are old enough to be of assistance, you will recognize it as a blessing," another voice interjected from Rhys's opposite side. "And a few years after they become useful, if fortune favors you, they will present you with their own offspring to dote upon before returning them to their mothers."

Baron Domenec Hender stood as the most senior among Rhys Blackwell’s barons. Both his hair and beard had long since turned white, while his skin bore the leathery texture acquired from decades spent traversing the decks of his vessels, in pursuit of both whales and pirates. For the past ten years, Rhys had inquired annually whether Domenec intended to retire, allowing one of his sons to assume leadership of his island barony. Each year, the response remained unchanged: Domenec would relinquish his position only when the sea claimed him, and not a moment sooner.

Had Dekan The Butcher, Phylip’s loyal physician, witnessed the transformation of his descendant into the man he was today, Rhys found himself questioning if pride for still sailing the seas would outweigh eternal fretting over the old man’s health hazards. The former, Rhys suspected, would have been the outcome, yet records from Phylip’s journals recently perused suggested that none of his crew members were ordinary individuals.

His sole hope resided in the extraordinary potential mirrored in their descendants.

"Oh, cease your prattling, old man," a sharp retort sliced through the air as the whip-thin, dark-haired man seated beside Domenec playfully jabbed the aging baron. "The only topic I wish to discuss less than your grandchildren is one of your ostentatious tales beginning with 'back in my day,'" he quipped, though a smile barely concealed by his oiled mustache diffused any potential harshness in his admonishment.

Baron Cir Ricarde, the youngest among Rhys’s Barons, had ascended to his father's position merely three years prior, inheriting the upriver barony. This domain boasted not only one of Blackwell County’s most significant shipyards but also the mystical gift bestowed by Claire DuGaal upon the individual who mastered her witchcraft.

Cir, though young and untested, hailed from a lineage tracing back to Andreau the Red Blade, one of Phylip’s most formidable swordsmen. The territories entrusted to him and his forebears concealed more enigmas than any, with the sole exception of the still-absent Baron Stackpole, whose custody extended over secluded isles and records deemed too perilous for the Church’s discovery.

"A motley assembly, rife with misfits and instigators of mischief," Rhys mused, his gaze drifting across his vassals, assessing each man with keen scrutiny as he steeled himself to impart news that would irrevocably alter their realities.

Just one more awaited arrival, he mused, his eyes scanning the windows as though capable of piercing the dense darkness to glimpse the docks situated at the hill’s base. A messenger had already conveyed word: Baron Stackpole’s vessel had been sighted nearing the docks. The appointed hour loomed ever closer, and then...

Then, he would ascertain if his current 'crew' could be relied upon with the same steadfastness as Phylip had depended on his own.