Mini Brain Dumps

Hello everyone! I hope you’ve been well since our last chat. Today, I’m excited to dive back into my latest project and share more with you. Thank you to everyone who read the first chapter! I have been eagerly working on the next installment.
If you haven’t read the first chapter, you can find it here: The Darkest Depths Beginning

I hope you enjoy as much as I’ve enjoyed crafting it!

Trigger Warning: This novel contains references to sexual assault and mental health disorders. Reader discretion is advised.

Chapter 2:

Quentin raced through the narrow, twisting streets towards the Town Square, the daylight slipping away quickly. Maybe it was pointless. Perhaps the ships were already gone, the merchants and sailors carried far away from Marielle on their sails… But even if that was true, he had to try.

His footsteps echoed on the stones as he navigated the familiar streets of Marielle.

As he approached the square, Quentin’s eyes lingered on the boats lining the docks. He almost heard his mom chastising him for the way he gawked, going on yet another tangent about the dangers of the ocean. He knew that his mother had lived in fear of losing him to the same cruel fate that had claimed his father, but the ships were so beautiful, so alluring, so tempting.

Shadows began to creep through the streets, stretching like fingers across the worn facades of the buildings, and the last of the merchants were lazily cleaning up for the day. It was definitely a far stretch from how busy it typically was on market day. Usually, the square was crammed shoulder to shoulder with people.

Quentin exchanged a few nods and greetings with familiar faces as he passed by, though his eyes were set on finding a small, weather-beaten captain.

The captain was a legend in his own right, at least according to Quentin. With his salt-stained beard and eyes that gleamed with wisdom far beyond his eccentricity, Dutton had woven tales about his adventures at sea. The captain’s stories had been Quentin’s one reprieve from the repressive nature of Marielle.

Captain Elias Dutton stood amidst a clutter of nautical relics and trinkets; his face illuminated by the warm glow of the lantern hanging overhead. The captain was arranging a display of tarnished compasses, his fingers dancing across the weathered wood as he positioned each artifact.

“Ahoy there, lad!” the captain called out as he took a step back from his booth and noticed Quentin’s approach. “Here I thought ye might have gotten tired of me stories.” His eyes crinkled at the corners as he flashed Quentin a yellowed and crooked tooth smile.

“Me? Tired of your stories? Never…” Quentin grinned.

Captain Elias’s hand reached for the worn leather pouch at his waist, where he kept a stash of sea stones collected from distant shores. It was a habit Quentin had noticed many times before. He did it whenever he was excited to tell one of his tales. Quentin had once asked him what he kept in the pouch and had subsequently spent hours looking at the stones with him.

Captain Elias chuckled, a twinkle in his eyes. “Was just about t’ pack her in, but somethin’ told me to wait a wee bit longer. That ye would come. And look-y here, yer ne’er disappoint! Come… come…” the captain gestured towards a makeshift seat by his side. “Pull up a stool.”

Quentin settled onto the seat, the wood groaning slightly under his weight. For a moment, he feared the stool would collapse beneath him, but somehow it managed to stay upright. He leaned heavily on his feet, sitting in more of a squat than a comfortable position, but it was worth the burning in his legs.

“So… tell me, lad,” the captain began, his voice low and gravelly, the same way he always began his stories.

Quentin leaned forward, his attention rapt as the captain began to intricately spin tales of his youth, of daring escapades and harrowing encounters. Quentin found himself drawn into his past.

“Have ye ev’r heard of the,” he looked both ways, leaning forward and lowering his voice, “The Serpentine?” Captain Elias began. “It had been a dream of mine to become a captain of such a ship…. Mind ye, it’s the reason I became a captain in the first place!” The captain smacked his leg and laughed heartily.

“The Serpentine,” Quentin whispered, the name rolling off his tongue like a prayer.

“Be careful,” the captain shot him a crooked smile. “She has a way of bewitching the spirit if ye say her name too loud.” Quentin ducked his head slightly; he felt a heat creeping up his neck.

“She was a vessel like no other,” Captain Elias went on. “A hull o’ the finest wood, sails spun by the gods themselves—so they say – and at its helm stood Cap’n Sheldon.”

Quentin popped his head up at the mention of Captain Sheldon. He had read about him in his books as a child.

“But it wasn’t just the ship that made her so legendary,” the captain continued, his eyes gleaming with excitement. “No, it was the treasure she carried…”

“Gold and jewels, yes, but also magic. Scrolls with words long forgotten, statues filled with power. She sailed the seas, chasing lost things… and she always found ‘em.”

The words washed over Quentin. For the time being, he had found what he had been searching for—a glimpse of the adventure that awaited him beyond the confines of his mundane existence. If only he had the courage…

“But as with tales of greatness, there came a time when the Serpentine’s fortunes took a dark turn. It was on that fateful night that she was battered by the wind, wave after wave crashing into the bow. She had found herself ensnared in the clutches of the Kraken.”

“Desperate to save his beloved vessel, Cap’n Sheldon called upon every ounce of skill and courage he possessed. Some say he even rode on the back of the beast! But, alas, the storm was relentless, unforgiving, and she was torn to shreds.”

“But before she slipped beneath the waves, the cap’n used the magic that she had been keeping, a talisman kept in the belly of the ship, to lure the Kraken into a depth-less sleep. Sheldon never abandoned ship, and they say that the cap’n sleeps beside the beast that took his beloved from him.”

As the echoes of the captain’s tale faded into the night, Quentin found himself grappling with a torrent of questions.

“Where was she last seen? The ship?”

The captain furrowed his brow, considering Quentin’s question. “I believe you may already know where she lays… the Graveyard of the Atlantic,” he replied, his tone grave.

“The Bermuda Triangle,” Quentin gasped.

“Not the Bermuda Triangle,” the captain said, throwing his hands in the air with exasperation. “Everyone always blames the Devil’s Triangle… those blasted Children of the Deep…” the captain grumbled to himself. “I’m talking about the coast of a far-off land, on the other side of the world.”

“Oh,” that really hadn’t answered his question, “What about the Kraken?”

“Aye… still slumbers, down in the black depths, coiled ‘round the bones o’ the Serpentine. But mark me words, lad—should it wake, the seas’ll never be the same.”

Quentin’s heart quickened at the thought of the Kraken lying dormant beneath the waves, its ancient slumber undisturbed. The marketplace had grown quiet around them, the last few stragglers disappearing into the night.

“Thank you, Captain.”

Captain Elias smiled warmly; the lines etched into his weathered face softening. “It was me pleasure, lad,” he replied, clapping Quentin on the shoulder with a firm yet gentle hand. The weight of the captain’s touch lingered even after Quentin bid him goodnight, the echo of Captain Elias’s tales still vivid in his mind.

As Quentin made his way back through the narrow cobblestone lanes, the sound of his footsteps punctuated the stillness of the night. The familiar path home seemed to stretch on endlessly, each step carrying him further away from the captivating allure of the market square, and closer to the comfort of his own bed.

The night enveloped Quentin as he lay in bed. Though he tried to sleep his mind refused to rest conjuring up images of ships and sea monsters. As sleep final took hold, he had a smile across his face.

* * *

As the first rays of dawn filtered through the window of Quentin’s cottage, he stirred from his slumber, the remnants of his dreams slipping away like morning mist. But before he could fully awaken to the promise of a new day, the sharp voice of his mother pierced the tranquility of the morning.

“Quentin. Time to get up!”

With a weary sigh, Quentin rubbed the sleep from his eyes and pushed himself upright in his bed. There would be no time for lingering or daydreaming of far-off adventure—not when there were crops to tend to and animals to care for.

As Quentin trudged along the familiar path to the well, he couldn’t shake the feeling of emptiness that gnawed at his insides. But even as he returned to the routine – plowing fields and tending to livestock, chopping wood, and collecting eggs – Quentin held on to the tales of Captain Elias Dutton, biding his time until he could see him again.

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