If you’re reading this,

it means you have a skull.

This is why we chose this name: research found that in an increasingly
divided world, SKULLS still bring together a vast majority of people.
You’re also probably interested in the miniature gaming hobby in some
form, or you’re into dark fantasy and science fiction.

Nowadays, these genres are heavily present in the media in the

form of huge, powerful media franchises. With the budget to hire
legions of talented artists, and the lawyers to ruthlessly enforce
intellectual properties, these behemoths dominate the cultural
landscape.

But no matter what they may claim, these giants stand on the
shoulders of many : they emerged from the work of young up-and-
comers, of dreamers, of jaded freelancers, who drew from all the
fiction that came before them. Continuously, millions are inspired
by what they watch and read and play, and something starts bre-
wing deep in their SKULLS. They have an idea, they have a story.

In SKULLS we want to feature these creators, whether they are profes-

sionals or amateurs. It’s not about the money (we don’t have any) or
about the fame (we’ll be bones soon enough), it’s about sharing little
bits of universes with each other, stealing what we like and dropping
what we don’t. It’s about being excited enough by an idea
that you actually go and make it on a corner of your
kitchen table. It’s about creating something,
finding like minded people and shoving it
deep inside their SKULLS.

So yeah, it’s a zine with cool, dark

comics, stories and art, and we hope
you like it. And if you didn’t, we dare
you to make something better.
We’re interested.
 issue one artists:
Cover Artist: Lukasz Kowalczuk
www.lukaszkowalczuk.com
Promising middle age comics creator and illustrator
from Poland. Draws ugly stuff, so AI won‘t duplicate it.

Doctor Geof
www.doctorgeof.co.uk
Doctor Geof draws humorous nonsense for alter-
native subcultures, like fetish, steampunk, goth
and warhammer. No, it doesn’t make any sense
to him either. Minimum bribe level is one tea.

Richard Smith
www.instagram.com/_just__richard
Greetings, the name is Richard, and I usually go by JustRichard everywhere.
I have been in the miniature and storytelling hobby since the mid 90’s with
the classic DnD gateway drug into all things dark and fantastical. A passionate
Tolkien fan, I like to lose myself in worlds created by others or myself.
Fast forward a fair amount of years, and I found writing helped me address
emotions and struggles during lockdown. I discovered a love for writing grim-
punk, bringing that bright neon light to a dark gritty world has been a real joy.
When it comes to painting, I still haven’t left Mordheim or Middle Earth.

Steven Bardon
www.webtoons.com/en/creator/79kux
Steven Bardon is a freelance comic-maker and illustrator who focuses on
macabre and religious subject matters, conveyed through a textural B&W
style reminiscent of woodcut prints. His storylines are set in fantastical,
dystopian worlds. They explore the darker aspects of humanity through a
wide range of strange characters and their struggles, all interwoven into a
greater, supernatural narrative. Amidst the gritty visuals, though, there is
an earnestness for the human spirit.
issue one artists:

Christian Schwager
www.instagram.com/theartofschwager
Christian Schwager is an ageing metalhead and freelance
illustrator, concept artist, and comic artist. Tied to a height-
adjustable desk in his lower-bavarian homeland of Lower Bavaria,
he ekes out a meagre existence from his craft. He spends most of his
time drawing Goblins and other fanciful figures… and may be slowly
turning into one himself. When he’s not drawing or painting, he ram-
bles on about how, back in the day, the future used to be better as well.

Thomas Brown
www.instagram.com/welcome_to_innswich
Thomas Brown is a Doctor of Philosophy from the University of Southampton,
where he studied horror and the sublime as part of his thesis. His short stories
have been published by a dozen independent presses. In 2010, he won the Universi-
ty of Southampton’s Flash Fiction Competition. In 2014, he won the Almond Press
Short Story Competition, ‘Broken Worlds’. In the same year, his first novel LYNN-
WOOD was a finalist for The People’s Book Prize. He writes dark, surreal fiction.

Pascal Reber
www.instagram.com/the_bleached_eye
I started drawing again three years ago. Why? I do not know exactly.
Although I draw almost every day exclusively dark, macabre or gloomy
characters, through drawing I have met exactly the opposite: kindness,
support and inspiration from others. So why should I stop now? Maybe
you‘ll just start, too.

Pierre Mortel
www.instagram.com/mortelrealms
More skeleton than most, Pierre draws, writes and makes comics
from an unidentified crypt somewhere in rural France.

Kevin RD
www.forbiddenpsalm.com
Kevin RD is most likely a vampire. Creator of Forbidden Psalm
miniatures game based on the Mork Borg RPG. Often awake,
rarely aware.
issue one artists:

Moritz Krebs
www.moritzkrebsart.com
Moritz Krebs is an illustrator from Germany. Inspired by Renaissance
and Art Nouveau artists, folklore, and fairy tales, his black-ink works
depict the more grotesque and bizarre side of dark fantasy worlds.

Steve Rowlinson
www.instagram.com/steves_paint_brush
Steve lives in Scotland with his wife and two dogs. He spends his
spare time kit-bashing, painting little models and sometimes writing
things. Steve is currently working on a project titled LUNGBEAK; a
28mm scale miniatures skirmish game about strange knights batt-
ling to earn themselves glorious names in a weird fantasy world.

Kees van Hattum

www.instagram.com/keesvanhattumart
In the dreary European city of Amsterdam, at the top of an old warehou-
se, there is a small and cramped room. The roof is slanted, so a grown man
would not be able to stand upright. There, sitting on the floor, is a quiet boy.
He is drawing. If we were to look over the boy’s shoulder we would see images
of floating heads, vicious monsters, warring tribes of ants and grinning skulls.
When, at the impressionable age of 5, he saw Star Wars he decided to become
a filmmaker, to bring his monsters and stories to live. And when he grew up
-or at least grew- he did become a director, and made a number of short films,
including a fan film for the franchise that started it all; Remnants of the Order
- a star wars fan film. Lately the cozy comfort of his drawing table has been a
lot more appealing to Kees than the director’s chair, and with A Ship Of Flesh
and Bone, he makes his debut as a comic artist. Kees is now considering ma-
king his film and tv scripts into comics too, starting with a paranormal detec-
tive set in his hometown.

Didrik Magnus-Andresen
www.instagram.com/hyperionxvii
Illustrator/raider of stirring sticks at local coffee house
by day, stalker of thrash-bins in search of ruins from the
city of the damned by night.
Kevin Rahman-Daultrey

The Last War

The Last War, fought for pride or in hubris, didn’t end That’s all it took for some of those that had marched
on a set date at a set time. It spluttered out until those with the crew to take their leave, either heading out to
left in the trenches realised no more artillery fire was try and find out if what the Quartermaster said was
coming, no more supplies and no more orders. After true or simply fading away, broken by the situation.
years in the trenches, it took them all some time to At this point only 5 remained.
put their heads above the trench line. Doing so was Red remained in command and Whispers was still the
suicide on a normal day. first to approach each new horror. Barker the group‘s
Silence had descended on the trenchs. A silence that medic had lost his jovial cheer and Professor contes-
usually meant that the enemy had stopped firing the ted that there must have been some explanation for
death from above to make space for another futile what was happening. Jr had seen hell in the war and
push. When the artillery ceased to rain you gripped simply believed that this was some new purgatory
your rifle ready for the enemies to appear on the hori- that they had all found themselves in. The five of them
zon. But the day the Last War ended no one came. The remained together taking each day as it came.
echo of distant fire grew still.
Dwelling on why this had happened was pointless
It was Whispers that looked above the dirt first. while their bellies called out for something to eat.
When they said there was nothing but fog the rest Reluctantly the group agreed to work with the Quar-
of the Unit each took a turn to look, standing on a termaster. Heading back the way they had come to
rotten ladder. The first night nothing came out of that search the trenches for items and gear he could use or
fog. On the second night haunting noises pierced the sell.
stillness. On the fourth night Red, the unit‘s comman-
ding officer, asked all to draw straws. Five were sent That was all three months ago.
out into that swirling mist. The rest stayed awake all
night awaiting their return. The fog seemed to block Since then, the crew had made several expeditions
out a lot of the sun during the day, but as the sky into the trenches to locate what they could to trade
lightened slightly to indicate the coming of dawn, no for food, whisky, and weapons. They had seen the
one returned. With a few more days the units’ num- horrors of the trenches and the new horrors that had
bers dwindled. A lack of orders from command, sight come forth from the Fog.
of the enemy and a sense something was wrong began
to germinate amongst the troops. It had been a normal day of hazy sunlight and damp
drizzle. A normal day in abnormal times. The Quar-
When only a few lingered and Red had neither the termaster had sent them out once more, deeper into
authority nor will to send anyone else out to the fog, the trenches this time. Across the mud they walked.
the remaining souls decided to head out together to- The section they were heading to had been cut off
ward the old HQ. The only thing that met them there from the main line but a particularly violent artillery
was dust and the dead. barrage and so they headed up over no man‘s land for
a section.
A few days later they stumbled across the Quarter-
master. Not someone any of the crew had met before A single crack broke the silence of no man‘s land, fol-
the end. A rather robust man, who seemed almost jo- lowed by the wet thud of Jr hitting the deck. The round
yous about his newfound position in life. He explained had pierced straight through his throat. The rest
to them that the world had indeed come to its end, or stood for a moment until Red screamed at them to
an end at least. As far as anyone had been able to tell, get some cover. Whispers and the Professor dragged
command was gone, the nations that they had fought Barker into a crater. He was certain he could help Jr,
so hard for, ceased to exist in all by memory and now but the rest knew it was futile. Holding the man down,
all that was left was to survive day by day. Red leaned into him. ‘He’s gone Barker, we don’t have
the rounds in our guns to take a fight and trying to
The Last War

help him is suicide.’ They sat in that muddy hole lis- opening and moved deeper in.
tening to Jr gurgle his last. The dugout was one of the larger any of them had
seen. 30 minutes had passed since they entered, and
The sniper was likely one of the Loyal. Those that re- they were still finding rooms to explore. Heading
fused to accept the war was over. They either treated deeper still they pushed open a rotten wooden door.
you as the enemy or deserters from the cause. They Whispers looked into the gloom.
could not accept the war had been for nothing. When ‘The ceiling has caved in here.’ Whispers whispered as
Jr fell silent the crew made a break for it, running they stepped into the room. Water covered the floor
away from the direction of the shot, mud kicked up and to the rear mud blocked the way forward. `We
as bullets rained around them. They made it to the need to pass through here, let‘s get digging.’ Red said
trench they were heading for and dived in. knowing they were all used to handling a shovel after
years of trench warfare. It was hard work, and the
Adrenaline is a hell of a drug, and so each of the crew crew took it in turns digging at the mud. Some time
checked themselves for bullet holes that may have had passed when Barker thrust the entrenching tool
gone unnoticed. The sniper hadn’t been all that good downwards and heard the distinct sound of metal on
of a shot after all. They took a moment to regain metal. Moving mud away from the obstruction he cal-
their stamina. Barker was visibly shaken by what led over, ‘Hey I hit something.’ The Professor who had
had happened. Red past him a flask that contained been next in line for dig duty moved over with the lan-
deep amber liquid. `We need to head inside the dug tern to shine a light on what had been found. ‘What is
out now, not sure how deep this one goes and we will it?’ Barker asked, poking at it with his shovel.
want to be back before dark.’ ‘I don’t think you should d….’ Professor’s warning was
cut short as a roar of an explosion silenced him. Red
The crew were poorly equipped. Between them they turned to watch as Barker and Professor were turned
held a single working rifle, in the hands of Professor into a fine mist, the shock wave sending him back fly-
who had always been the better shot. Red carried his ing into the tunnel.
service revolver, 2 rounds left. Whispers pulled out a
knife as they walked towards the dugout door, Barker Red awoke with no concept of how much time had
took the rear dragging with him a piece of wood with passed. He felt weight on his legs, a sharp ache in his
barbed wire wrapped around it. head and his skin on his face and arms prickled sensi-
tively, raw skin having been exposed.
Whispers pushed against the door; mud build up
meant they had to use some force to get it to move The weight on his legs shifted as he felt someone drag
inwards. A narrow gap allowed access and the crew him from the mud. Coughing up dirt, Red asked, ‘Whe-
moved inside. Red lit up a lantern and the light punc- re’s the others?’. Whispers responded as they dragged
tured the darkness. The first room they entered was Red free ‘Dead.’
like so many other dug outs they had been in over the Without another word spoken Red and Whispers
course of the war. Wood planks lined the walls, floor picked up what they could find in the tunnel, Profes-
and ceiling, a desk sat in one corner and makeshift sor‘s rifle, some sacks of items they had found in the
beds in the other. Across from the entrance sat a tun- tunnels, and Whispers had made a makeshift torch,
nel that led deeper in. and they began to head back the way they had come.
Red was not sure how injured he was, but his body
‘What are we here for Red?’ Professor spoke low, the complained with every step he took. The two entered
dug out seemed abandoned but the last 3 months had a room they had passed through once already. A
taught them that they could take nothing for granted. water clogged room. As they made their way across
‘Deeper in, QM says there is a stockpile of food, wants the room Red spoke for the first time in a few minutes.
us to check it out, let‘s head in.’ Whispers nodded in ‘Hold up, I need a second.’ He drew out his whisky
response to Red and moved first towards the tunnel and took a deep draw from it. He looked to Whispers
The Last War

‘I’m ready.’ He took one more step and the floor burst Whispers stumbled away, ‘First in Last to go out’
upwards. flitted through their mind. Reaching the open door
that led back outside they pushed their way through
The water and mud drove Whispers back, and as it out into the gloom. Night had come. In the darkness
settled back down to the floor Whispers could see a Whispers could hear them, things moving in the fog,
pulsating mass of white flesh. Like a maggot, undu- monsters from myths and nightmares brought to
lating. Eyes dotted along its side blinked in unison. life by the hatred of the Last War. Strange cries and
Grunts of pain came from Red who was half in the sounds littered the air.
foul creature’s mouth. Long spine like teeth punctu-
red his side. Although thrashing from side to side he Whispers pulled from their pocket a match box, light-
had managed to draw his pistol but could not get the ing a match as they examined the revolver, one bullet
angle to fire. remained.

Whispers steadied the rifle and fired at the creature, Caked in mud, at the end of it all, Whisper looked up
several shots finding their mark in quick succession, and saw the glint of something in the dark ahead of
but the creature seemed barely to even notice. Red them. Long fangs glistened in the small amount of
locked eyes with Whispers, the revolver fired once, light given off by the match. ‘One bullet, but who for?’
and the man stopped struggling. The pistol fell to the Whispers spoke loudly to the creature. It drew closer
ground as the maggot thing drew Red‘s body into its as the match burned down. Whispers raised the revol-
maw. ver and pulled the trigger for the last time.

Whisper skirted forward and grabbed the revolver,

discarding the spent rifle, and darted away as quickly
as they could. The creature ignored them as it fed.
Steve Rowlinson

A day on the road

I’m watching a man writhe on the ground. He twitches and arches his back. Fingers
clenched; he claws the air in my general direction. He makes a curious gargle as he
drowns in blood: a consequence of the large wooden splinter protruding from his throat.

The man: a knight, lies on a rough dirt track cutting through a clearing in the forest. I
hear birds chirp, bees hum industriously between blossoms and a cooling spring breeze
ruffles the tree tops. A fine day if you don’t have a broken lance stuck in your windpipe.

“Shep? Are you asleep Shep?!” That voice is Rampton, Sir Rampton. And I would be
Shep. “Chop, chop old boy, finish him off.”

I sigh, and slightly cringe, as I place my boot atop the end of the shard of lance and give
it a soft press. The pierced knight groans loudly and his spasms intensify. Gouts of fresh
blood splatter up my leg, warm and viscous. Shit; that’s going to stain. I press harder
with my foot, he struggles more; he bleeds more. The resistance gives and the splinter
sinks sudden and deep, through into the dirt below. The knight falls still and silent.

“It’s bad form to play with a vanquished foe Shep.” Rampton intones with pomp and
feigned gravitas. “A good squire must know these things.”

“I’m a book-binder.” I mutter whilst I turn to look at him. Or at least, I was an appren-
tice book-binder; before the madness of the Divine Stepladder; the end of the Sorcerer
Lords and the Shimmer Wall. My apprenticeship died with Master Talim, so now I squi-
re for this buffoon.

Rampton sits atop his mule-rat thirty paces away, squeezed into a suit of clay and pot-
rag armour. He has a ridiculous red feather fluttering from the top of his copper kettle
helm and a yet more ridiculous frown upon his face.

“Show some respect for our enemy; he died with honour. You don’t see him complaining
do you? Oh and take his beetle hauberk, it’s quite dashing.” Rampton was already turn-
ing his mount and finished his sentence over his shoulder while the bulbous pale mule-
rat swayed its way onwards.

Certain the dead knight would have much to complain about if only he could voice it; I
inspect his armour. The long hauberk is constructed of fused Ironback beetles, hundreds
of glittering green-black and golden carapaces. Quite dashing indeed. I start pulling at
the imbedded lance; it does not wish to move. This is going to be a long day.

***

Its late afternoon now and we continue down the dirt road, Rampton and I. He: swaying
in the saddle of his mule-rat and I walking beside him. We had already fallen into one of
our usual patterns of argument.

“Of course things changed for us all since The Disappointment. Look at me;” Rampton
gestures grandly; “I never imagined I would be an anointed knight of Lungbeak: hunting
monsters and tilting at rival knights. You need to accept how things are Shep.” I try to
stifle a smirk, clearly doing a poor job. “Damn it old boy; what’s so funny about all this?”
A day on the road

“Forgive me sir, but everyone knows it as The Disappointment… such a weak euphe-
mism. The Disaster would be much more fitting”

“You’re so negative Shep. The Sorcerer Lords tried to do great thing for us all with the
Divine Stepladder!”

“They all died sir.”

“Well, we don’t know that for sure, and it would have been truly wonderful if they could
have brought one of the gods down to see us.”

“I’m not convinced of that sir: only Lord Kelen’s head returned down the ladder.”

“Well, yes but that could just have been an unfortunate accident.”

“His severed head screamed: We were wrong; we were so terribly wrong! For a whole
minute before he died sir.”

“You focus on such morbid little details old boy.” Rampton chastises; infuriatingly up-
beat.

“But that was when magic ended Sir; the cog machines froze; the Shimmer Wall vanis-
hed. Lungbeak has been plagued by monsters from beyond the wall’s limit ever since. It’s
the whole reason why Sir Shiverey created the knights.”

“Humph.” Rampton was spurring his mount to a canter, putting distance between us. It
was how our conversations usually ended.

***

Evening approaches. I still stand on the same dirt track as this morning. Rampton is up
ahead, facing the stranger coming the opposite way. This new knight is something to
behold: sat atop a sleek grey bog-trotter eel, his armour seems to be fisherman’s netting
strung with large oyster and clam shells. Mother of pearl burns orange in the day’s dy-
ing light. A sensation I really don’t enjoy coils within my stomach like an angry serpent.

“Sir Rampton, it grows late. Perhaps we parley rather than tilt at this hour?” He never
listens; why would he now? But I feel obliged to say it anyway.

Sir Rampton replies with a singular “Humph” and raises his lance. The stranger raises
his own in acknowledgement. The matter is settled.

I notice the hairs standing on my arms and neck; it’s cooler than before. Few birds chirp
and no bees hum in the meadow grass.

“Sir Rampton!” Rampton bellows across space between the two knights. His call drifts
across the air then dies off into stagnant silence.

“Sir Gunder!” The opposing knight returns in acceptance of the challenge. Shit I’ve he-
ard of him. I start to splutter, to try and form an intelligent sound; but Rampton takes
off into a gallop. I stare after him as he charges toward the Angler Knight. Sir Gunder:
Keeper of the bucket, Marker of tides, Eater of squid, Counter of pearls, Seal-puncher,
A day on the road

Shark-biter. Just the names I can remember; he won so many titles. The bog-trotter
starts forward and the two knights hurtle towards each other. The serpent churning in
my guts convulses wildy.

An eternity of seconds later and the knights collide; clay flakes and shellac fragments fill
the air. Neither lance breaks; neither rider falls. Mounts snap and squeal at each other
and suddenly they are past, trotting away to turn and charge anew.

Beyond the figures of the tilting knights I spot another fellow stood by the trail. He is
dressed in a yellow smock with a fish head motif. Gunder’s squire. Quite unsure what
to do I give him a smile and a cheery wave. He looks away into the distance studiously.
I think he’s pretending not to see me. It’s hard to know what the etiquette is for squires
whilst their knights tilt. It’s easy for knights; they follow the Code of Shiverey, lofty
ideals set out by the First Knight of Lungbeak: Sir Tolom Shiverey. The rest of us just
muddle through.

I realise my mind has wandered; it often does in moments of stress and anxiety. I look
back to our battling knights: Rampton speeding towards Gunder; Gunder returning the
favour. Their lances lower, they close, they meet. I can see Rampton’s lance falling to
the ground, this concerns me greatly. Yet more concerning I see Rampton’s kettle helm
pierced and carried off into the air on the tip of Gunder‘s lance. That stupid red feather
twirls like a squirrel’s tail. Well fuck me.

The bulk of Rampton’s body slips from his steed and thuds onto the ground. The silence
around me starts to close in oppressively; I’m probably not breathing enough. I gulp
in more air and then worry about breathing too much and taking a dizzy turn. I can’t
help but choke on a laugh. Gunder’s squire is looking at me now, he doesn’t look much
impressed. I wouldn’t be either, to be fair.

Gunder gracefully dismounts and moves over to Rampton’s body, stooping to kneel
and removing his conical shell helm. The entire clearing is silent, as if anticipating the
knight’s words.

“Well fought Sir Rampton,” He begins, “I will see that your family knows you died with
valoaARRRGH!” Rampton’s mule-rat had wandered over and decided to casually chew
on Sir Gunder’s head. Gunder flails, he screams; it does no good. He stops screaming, he
stops flailing. The mule-rat strolls away, taking Gunder’s head with him.

Rampton sits bolt upright. Fucking hell he’s alive! He splutters and coughs and glances
around bewildered. I see the mother of all black eyes forming across the left half of his
face. I’m also sure he started the day with many more teeth.

“Victory, old boy!” He slurs after a long moment, pumping a fist in the air, teeth spilling
out of his mouth. “What a day Shep! What a story to tell at the Long Table!” He slowly
climbs to his feet, retrieving his cracked kettle helm and dusting himself down “I’ll earn
a name for this for sure; Sir Rampton: Rat-friend! Ha-ha, what a day!”

Gunder’s squire catches my eye, he looks broken; horrified. I give him an apologetic
shrug. What a fucking day.
by Pascal Reber
Richard Smith

The Barterman
Artur woke with a cold sweat, swinging himself off Again, his mind slipped back to that night, the satis-
the bed. The incident was six months ago but it had faction of drawing the information out, digit by bloo-
been the same thing every night for all six of those dy digit. He never knew he had it in himself to do such
months. A different hab, a different day, but the same a thing, but the thought of these arseholes abducting
shit, in the same shit hole district. Today was diffe- his wife, purely because her organs matched a custo-
rent though, he had a lead, six months of chasing, mer that wanted to prolong their life.
finally he had discovered a trafficking gang in New
After certain disgraced surgeons discovered that you
Neo-Tokyo. With this new revelation he will be one
could prolong the life of a person by almost 5 times
step closer to finding out what happened to his wife.
with the correct replacement of organs and a precise
A name, well an alias, is all he had. It was his ticket supply of rejuvenant drugs. There was now a very
into the criminal world that thrives in the darkest cor- prolific and high earning market for organs. It was all
ners of New Neo-Tokyo. He sipped the tumbler that he highly illegal, but a blind eye could be turned for the
always kept by his bedside, a mix of whisky and cheap right price. Between the screams of the thug, he disco-
meds from a hive-surgeon. He didn’t know what they vered that this is where his wife came in. For the thug
were, nor did he care, all he knew was they helped though, that is where his use expired, too low down
him sleep, and made the dreams milder. Looking on the ladder to give him the name of a client, all he
through the shaded windows of the hab, the neon sign could provide was the name of someone who had that
could be faintly seen beyond, a bedsit next to a whore kind of information.
house, it made him laugh how cliché it seemed and yet
A new night cycle brought the city to life. All the ver-
here he was.
min had come out to play, trade, or sell themselves to
Thinking of the flesh on sale only next door brought those desperate for company through the next cycle.
him back to two nights before when he managed to Stepping out of the squalid hab he didn’t know what
acquire the name and how to find him. Gathering this smelled worse the streets or the living blocks. The
information had been messy and the informant had signs flashing another missing person, it was daily
been particularly resistant to simple threats. in these overcrowded cities, but now he wondered,
who’s child, partner, or parent was missing this time.
The screams in his mind still made him heave. He had
Shaking the thought out of his head, he needed to
left him strapped to the gurney, positive by now that
focus on the present, being one step closer to closure,
the carrion below will have harvested what they could
and revenge.
from the body. Organs for the customers, and the rest
will go to the processing plants, ready to be formed Pushing through the street he made his way to the
into protein bars for the lower masses to consume. bathhouse, where he would finally have his discussion
Everyone knew it was people, but almost nobody ca- with the middleman of the transactions of flesh, drugs
red. It was that or starvation for the common person. or anything else you wanted to find in the city of ex-
Now and then, someone would speak up, they would cess, The Barterman.
quickly disappear and anyone with any sense of self
preservation would move on and not question the
disappearance.
Thomas Brown

Welcome to Innswich
They come from the sea. Over the kiss of the surf on through which we wander, at once awake and asleep!
the rocks and the shrieking ulgulls, roused from their I cannot. Too long have we counted the beats of each
nests, the crack of wind-slapped sails fills my ears. shift by the snatch of the waves against the old sea
Even at this distance, I can imagine the grunts of the walls and the stretch of the flats at low tide.
men in the rigging, and perhaps it is more than mere
I am not alone. Overhead, several silhouettes emerge
fancy. Ever has sound carried strangely across the
from the houses and alleyways nearest to the docks,
waters, echoes with minds of their own. They whisper
a few amongst the townsfolk come to join me in
to me every day.
welcoming the crews home or perhaps to get a head
Brine crawls from the waves and up my nose. The start on their own chores. I spot Ludwig and Slop,
docks reek of it. Not just the sea, but of ancient salt on their knees with the kelp and the scuttle-crabs.
and cockles, over-ripe. Most of the time, I barely smell The simple brown robes of the cult fill with a sudden
it anymore, but it is always strongest at the start of a breeze, their sleeves and the hem of their vestments
new shift. The still air promises a long one for those billowing around them while they make their suppli-
working the catch, while this lot turn in to sleep off cations. Over by the wharf, two members of the watch
their stint on the boats; a well-earned rest, all things linger like ghosts in the gloom, ready to receive the
considered. Every foray from the harbour is a roll of fishing vessels — once they have finished the game
the dice. Even the oldest hands cannot say for sure of knucklebones playing out in one of their caps.
when the wayward prow of another vessel might Though candlelight flickers in his first-floor window,
knife them in the side or the mists themselves descend there is no sign yet of Hans. Not far away, three of
above deck. Almost helplessly, my gaze slides to two his fishermen have already set upon a tangle of nets.
pearls embedded into one of the posts. Someone has I smile at the simple synchronicity of it all. One need
nailed a stretch of skin there and recently, judging only look along the coastline to Bucht and Salzpick
from the way its scales still glisten. Fronds of algae to see how we might fare without it. Drop anchor at
fall across it like a veil, but it is just possible to make either port and be subjected to rituals of an altogether
out a smile, carved against the grain. The waterfront more sombre kind; even the larger boats to set out
will be heavy with gurgled hymns before the bell for for familiar waters don’t always return. Sometimes,
shift change rings. it is worse when a boat does come back. Strip a sailor
of sleep and habit and see how quickly they crumble.
Sidestepping a sliver of stab-coral, protruding inno-
Here, secrets have teeth, and it’s not just the snapper-
cuously from a tide pool, I watch while the boats slide
fins that bite. My fist tightens around the statuette in
closer. Their eagerness to dock threatens to nudge
my pocket, fingers tracing its whale-bone lips and the
them off course, but I too would be eager to moor
smooth hollows where its eyes should be. Beneath my
after several hours on the water. Rubbing some of the
touch, it sings —
sleep from my eyes, I adjust my footing. How many
times have I stood here on this exact spot between Another gust envelops me, rank and salty. Foam flecks
the legs of the pier and held this watch? I would have my face, and my silhouette shivers. The priests con-
to consult the records, no small feat in itself. The tinue their ministries. One of the watchmen cries out
annals beneath my office stretch two floors deep. My — a win or a loss, I cannot tell — and despite myself, I
grip strays to the ledger chained at my waist. This slip. The rocks rise up around me. My world spins and
volume and every other penned by my hand are a for a moment all I know is the wetness of my robes,
testament to the order I have tried to maintain here, the crunch of shingle and the wide, duplicitous sea.
a town governed by devout diligence, quiet rituals
“She gives and She takes away.”
and familiar routines. To a man, woman and child, we
have welcomed that order and the security it offers. I had not heard Hans approach but he stands over me
The oldest tomes tell tales of day and night, a celestial now, gloved hand proffered, staring down from behind
clock around which the world once turned. Imagine, his mask. Its eight, delicately wrought arms flash in
Innswich anything other than this slate-grey dream the half-light.
Welcome to Innswich

“I am sorry that you had to see that.” I see him tap both forefingers to either side of his neck
and know whom it is he invokes in these final seconds.
“I am not.”
Even an imagined light in the darkness can bring com-
He helps me to my feet, and together we climb the fort when all other lights have gone out. It would be
narrow steps back up to the wharf. Around us, the hard for any one of us to refute that.
waterfront squirms with movement. Ludwig and Slop
Seconds away from the boat slamming the jetty, Hans
have vanished, most likely to rouse more of their
and I hit the boards. My chest hammers, the musty
brothers. The Innsmen on the pier make a charade
breath of old, wet wood flooding my nose. Mildew
of cranking and inspecting their crossbows. Not far
smears one side of my face and somewhere nearby a
away, the fishermen have set upon a second tangle of
baby begins crying; an echo trailing into silence.
nets. One of them stares at me as we limp past, his
watery eyes boring into mine, head panning with in- The explosion of planks and water never comes.
cremental slowness as he tracks our path. I turn back
Glancing up, I watch as the boat continues to sail
to the approaching boats. Most are still too far away
through the docks. This close, I can see the hull start
for me to properly see them but I can just make out
to come apart at the sides, colour peeling from it like
the first, sliding like a dream from out of the mist, and
old paint, wreaths of mist trailing behind it as it soars
as distinct. I peer closer.
first through the piers, then the shipyard. Second by
“Your eyes are better than mine.” second, the prow slips away, then the rigging, the
galley vanishing before the deck, until at last the mast
“Once, perhaps.”
meets with a squabble of ulgulls and melts before
“Tell me, does something in her approach look off their frantic wings.
to you?”
Quiet extends across the seafront, broken only by the
Hans leans into the wind. “They must drop sail or shouts of the man in the waves and the laughter of the
anchor, if they do not wish to dash themselves birds. Shuffling to his feet, Hans stands beside me and
upon our shore.” watches the other ships come apart like clouds before
a breeze. Presently, the harbour is empty. Still staring
It is not just me, then. The boat is ploughing through out to sea, the dockmaster’s voice whispers from be-
the waves, much faster than any vessel ought to this hind his mask.
close to port. The wind fills my eyes but I can make
out nothing in the mists or on their tail. The cold “What a thing it is, not to trust one’s eyes. To
brings me to tears. I blink them away. “What are they work each shift unsure of what is real and what
thinking?” is not. The mists be damned.”

“They are not thinking.” After a brief moment, in He is right, of course. And yet, they do not show us
which the boat shows no signs of slowing, Hans’ anything we have not already hoped, or feared. Today,
voice bubbles from his throat. “Abandon post...” the fleet that we all pray returns. Tomorrow, the like-
ness of a friend or family long lost at sea. Once, it was
Turning seaward, realisation washes over the Inns- myself I watched crawl from the waves across the
men stationed at the end of the pier. Dropping their jagged rocks: thin-faced, straight-laced, mouth tight
crossbows, they stagger back. Knucklebones tumble as a mermaid’s purse, dripping with slime, both bar-
from the cap — not bones at all but seashells, scat- ely recognisable and undeniably me. How many times
tering across the decking. I do not need to see where since have I walked past him in the crowds, unwilling
they fall to read their futures. Even from here, the to look back?
men cut small shapes, tiny even, before the appro-
aching ship and the flocking birds and the sea. With a After a moment, the dockmaster turns to me.
leap, one of them plunges from the pier. I cannot hear “The stab-coral is aptly named.”
his comrade’s prayer over the clamour in my ears but
Welcome to Innswich

I follow his gaze to my palm. “So it is. I will get it The book is ruined, its pages sodden and stained with
looked at by the temple.” With my uninjured hand, watered-down blood, presumably from when I slipped
I fish for a knife and slice a corner of fabric from my on the rocks. Left to dry, some of its contents may yet
cape. “For your gloves.” survive cockled, but I don’t hold out much hope. My
words are lost, and yet those swirls of redness are a
He is already looking away, out across the waves.
record in themselves, an indelible reminder of what
“There is blood in the water.”
has transpired here. What water has destroyed, it has
The fishermen have huddled in a mass at the begin- also preserved, after a fashion. I find myself looking
ning of the pier. One of them is staring after me again, not to the encroaching fleet but to the town behind
his lips fixed into a smile. I look away. With a stiff me.
bow, Hans steps away to join them.
Its misshapen silhouette slumps beneath the glo-
Life returns slowly to the docks as behind us, the wering skyline, and yet it endures. It too is soaked
rest of Innswich starts to stir. The fishermen resume through, and it still tells a story. That is real faith; a
mending their nets, other townsfolk arriving in carts tale we tell ourselves to hold back the darkness. How
laden with crates ready to remove and process the many times might Innswich have slipped from the
shift’s catch. Several faces watch me from the swathe history books into the waves?
of their arms, or rather, one face repeated several
The black breakers lap against the pier, empty now
times, a veiled depiction stabbed over and over in
except for a solitary cap, drifting against a half-drow-
dark blue ink. One such likeness stares back at me,
ned post. There, just above the water level, an older
lips moving with the knots of muscle sliding underne-
carving watches me from the wood. Rotten scales
ath —
slough from its makeshift face, mouth bristling with
The first sail breaches the fogbank with the westerly splinters. Two holes have been bored where the eyes
wind. With a lingering glance at the townsfolk behind should be, empty depressions blinded by the tide,
me, I wander the rest of the jetty until I am level with reduced to tears with every crash of the waves. Wa-
the guardsman at his post. ter gushes from them, following salt-licked runnels
through its teeth.
“Johan, isn’t it?”
“Blessed be the Bountiful Deep.”
He is pale-faced, barely twenty summers and not
a hair on his chin. I knew his mother once, a rare
beauty, right up to the moment she left these shores to
dream forever beneath the Black Reef.

Her son’s eyes remain fixed on the waves. “He... jum-

ped.”

“You have had quite the shift. Go, see if a swift

one at The Clam cannot wash it away.”

“Yes, Chamberlain.”

His hands are shaking as he passes the crossbow

to me. Only when the knock of his boots against the
decking is a dull thud do I rest it against one of the
posts. In its place, I reach for the ledger at my waist.
My fingers come away damp and pulpy.
 o p l e g a v e
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Sam

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