The Vampire & Her Witch Chapter 1649: Necessary Caution

"Does the Witchwood Fleet still lie dormant within the caverns of Broken Bow Isle? Is it perhaps time for those legendary vessels to embark once more and reclaim what was rightfully ours?"

Baron Stackpole’s query stirred a fresh round of murmurs and hushed conversations, especially resonating with the common folk gathered in the Great Hall.

The Witchwood Fleet was a name shrouded in legend, deliberately erased from common knowledge. Those ships were constructed for a conflict that appeared to be perpetually on the horizon, marking the twilight of an era. None had ever known the fury of battle at sea or the fiery breath of naval cannons. Instead, they awaited their call in the secluded caves of Broken Bow Isle, amidst a graveyard of shipwrecks and the lingering specters of bygone years.

Within Blackwell, tales circulated of this so-called ’Ghost Fleet’ or Phylip’s Lost Fleet. Occasionally, intrepid treasure hunters would venture out to the scattered isles, seeking any trace of this enigmatic armada. In the bustling markets, one could even chance upon individuals hawking maps purported to reveal the secrets to Phylip’s hidden riches and the final resting place of the Black Tide.

Like many grand maritime sagas, a kernel of truth lay at the heart of this enduring mystery, though the reality of these ships was perhaps less appealing to the common ear.

"We are not yet prepared for the Witchwood Fleet," Rhys stated, conveying his reservations to Breton with a shake of his head before adjusting his doublet.

"I received a rather concise tutelage from the Witch of Deep Currents," Rhys elaborated with a lighthearted chuckle, reaching for a pitcher of water on the table. Extending a hand over the vessel, he intoned, "Water, turn and swirl, by the motion of my hand," as his hand began to trace a slow circle in the air.

"This represents the current extent of my abilities after several days of dedicated practice," Rhys declared, raising his hand further. For a fleeting moment, nothing seemed to occur, but then, as his hand ascended a few inches, a spiraling column of water, reminiscent of a miniature dust devil, rose from the pitcher.

Several individuals seated at the lower tables instinctively recoiled before regaining their composure. Others leaned forward, captivated by the display of a power distinctly separate from the Church's hallowed miracles.

A few among the knights' contingent began to envision Lord Rhys's demonstration magnified, contemplating the devastating effect of a whirlpool forming beneath a ship's hull. Even if limited to disabling the smaller longboats used for ship-to-ship assaults, the outcome could mean the demise of an entire cutter’s crew before they could even draw their blades!

"With sufficient time and diligent practice, we can master the forgotten incantations," Rhys said deliberately, his brow etched with concentration. "However, I am not Phylip. He was the Witch of Ebbing Tides, capable of channeling the very might of the waves to empower his vessels. We must restrict our efforts to the strength inherent in our own bodies; to draw too deeply risks our very lives," he cautioned, flicking his wrist and allowing the water spout to fall back into the pitcher with a soft 'plop.'

"Lady Esselk’ti was exceedingly clear regarding the warnings she imparted to me," Rhys remarked, his gaze sweeping over his barons and knights, many of whom were clearly contemplating the potential applications of the power Rhys had just showcased.

Most significantly, though, he directed a long, discerning look towards those who had physically recoiled in apprehension, seeking a familiar apprehension he had often observed in Maela when Blackwell's inherent distrust of the Church clashed with the bedrock of her own faith.

It was difficult to conceive of any fervent zealots among the progeny of the First Crew, yet life possessed a curious way of transforming individuals. Rhys himself had witnessed firsthand the Church's insidious methods of exploiting profound grief—the loss of a loved one or the tragedy of a stillborn child—to tighten its grip upon a person's soul.

He detected none of the tell-tale pallor and clammy sweat that frequently accompanied spiritual turmoil, nor the clenched fists and narrowed eyes betraying a zealot's visceral hatred for all things Eldritch. Nevertheless, a palpable discomfort emanated from many, particularly when the perilous cost of sorcery was mentioned.

"We must hold this ancient power in the same reverence we afford the sea herself," Rhys stated, hoping to foster a sense of familiarity. "Any soul who presumes their vessel impervious to tempests and tides will undoubtedly face a harsh lesson from the world's most impartial mistress; sorcery operates on a similar principle. We are but children in rowboats, navigating immense depths," he concluded, offering a candid assessment of their current standing.

"The Witchwood Fleet shall set sail again in the not-too-distant future," Rhys vowed. "All children eventually mature, and we will command the fleet, either through our mastery of sorcery or with the invaluable aid of my daughter. After all, she is the Mother of Trees," he added, a proud smile gracing his lips. "Her predecessor bestowed upon us the very trees that formed the Witchwood Fleet. If any can help us unlock their immense potential, I am certain it is she."

"Then do we sail upriver?" Baron Domenec inquired. "No vessel in our fleet is capable of navigating the treacherous rapids of the Luath through Otker Canyon. However, we could make for DuCoumont at dawn and..."

"Not yet," Rhys interjected, his voice heavy with regret. "I wish I could, more than you can possibly fathom. But winter in Lothian is unforgiving. Blizzards of snow and hail descend, paralyzing the land until the spring thaw. Even if we were to sail west, the journey across the entirety of Lothian March to reach her in the Vale of Mists would be a protracted and arduous trek."

"More critically, if we launch a direct assault on the Lothians now, we leave ourselves vulnerable. The gate behind us would be open for the Holy Warriors to dispatch reinforcements to the Lothian lords. Therefore, as much as my heart yearns to be by her side, we must first secure our rear by shutting that gate. To achieve this, allies are indispensable."

"The Eldritch?" Baron Mervyn posed the question. "Are there any among them who would stand with us in battle, or perhaps some secluded faction to the south who could be courted as allies?"

"No," Rhys stated with unwavering resolve. "I absolutely refuse to seek aid from the Eldritch until we have demonstrated our own strength by striking the first blow. Any parley with the neighboring Eldritch nations or clans would carry far greater weight following a tangible display of our determination. Without such proof of our capability, any negotiations would likely falter, crippled by their fear and suspicion that we might be luring them into a trap."

"If not the Eldritch to the south, nor the forces Lady Ashlynn has secured, then who shall we approach for aid?" Baron Domenec queried, stroking his white beard in contemplation of potential allies against the Crown and the Church. "Surely, you cannot be considering..."

"I fear my thoughts align with your unspoken apprehension, my old friend," Rhys admitted with a somber expression. "We require time to meticulously prepare. Time sufficient to master sorcery and to rouse the slumbering Witchwood Fleet from its berths. Time to produce immense quantities of Floating Fire, essential for arming our dromons and bolstering our defenses. Time, crucially, to establish contact with Ashlynn and synchronize our strategic efforts with hers."

"However, the Holy Warriors are expected to commence their arrival across the seas within a mere two to three months," Rhys continued. "This is insufficient time to amass our own formidable forces for a multi-front war. Yet, we are not compelled to engage in open warfare just yet. Our immediate priority must be to impede as many of the Church's vessels as possible from successfully crossing the sea."

"Men who never reach our shores pose no threat to Ashlynn as she confronts the Lothians. They cannot infiltrate our cities or infest our isles, becoming a hidden danger within our very midst," Rhys declared. "For such a critical task, can you conceive of more suitable allies than those we might enlist from the disparate pirate fleets?"