[color=8dc73f][b]Deck of The Syreen - Lord Commodore Mordred Locke in command[/b][/color]

Heavy footfalls struck the decrepit deck of the old pre-war vessel, as the Lord Commodore strode towards across its deck. [i]The Syreen[/i] was nothing like what it had been before the war. Mordred could remember a time when these decks were pristine, polished to a mirror shine by the diligence and discipline of the seamen aboard her: so proud of her were they that she was the best maintained ship in the Navy. Of course she hadn’t been called [i]The Syreen[/i] back in those days either: she’d gone by another name. But that was long ago lost to history. She was, and would forever be now, [i]The Syreen[/i]: Terror of the North Seas, and The Witch of the Atlantic. Like him, she’d long ago been lost to the horrid corruption and decay of the new world they’d found themselves in. 

Mordred stared at his hands, glowing bright green and rotting with the filth of ages. He could see his bones nearly poking through his slowly decaying flesh. Held together and alive only by the very radioactive hell that had wrought him in the first place. 

Yes...just like his ship, he was long gone now. He hadn’t even the slightest inkling of what it meant to be human. 

“Three captures this time Lord Commodore, they be awaitin’ your decision,” the toothless grin of one of his necrotic crewman ghouls interrupted his reminiscence. The first mate pointed towards three bound and gagged human wastelanders, pistols pointed to their heads by three half-ferals who stared ahead with vacant expressions and gaping mouths. They were sad hollow shells of the former humans they used to be: the horrific results of the Tattered Fleets cruelest of practices. 

Mordred walked towards the condemned prisoners, two males and one female. The two men sunk their heads low when Mordred stepped forward, their bodies seemingly wilting under the intense radioactive aura that the ancient Glowing One emitted. He could immediately tell that they were unworthy of his gift. Such individuals were fit only to be turned into half-ferals, or simply killed and used to feed the mutant abominable dregs that lived in the depths of the fleet’s vessels. However the woman stared at him unflinchingly, a look of defiance and outward physical potency that meant she was bearing the immediate brunt of his aura: a promising sign. She was clearly frightened, that alone was evident in the subtle shaking of his form as she knelt before him, but the radiation obviously appeared to affect her less so than the others. Indeed, Mordred was surprised just how strongly she appeared to be resisting. 

He approached her, ignoring the other two as they began to writhe in agony at the intense radiation now tearing apart their very cellular structure. 

“What is your name?” Mordred asked. His voice deep and tainted with the sound of decay and necrotic rot. 

“Sarah,” she said. Her voice shook with fear, but she never broke away from his gaze. 

“You’re resistance is remarkable. You’re strong ...stronger than your frail humanity deserves to be. I offer you here and now a chance to ascend. Join my crew, and live life everlasting in service to me. I offer you my gift.”

The two wastelanders to either side of Sarah had now collapsed, their bodies shaking and spasming. They were bleeding profusely now, and their skin was peeling, leaving blackened rot where once was soft flesh. Their eyes began to turn glassy white. 

“In a few short hours, they will become as they are now,” Mordred pointed to the half-ferals still standing behind them, “Little more than beasts. And yet...this fate is not for you.”

Mordred grabbed his pistol and pointed it at one of the half-ferals, firing a shot straight into its chest. It crumbled to the floor with a sickening crunch. Mordred grinned and turned to Sarah,

“You may ascend and perhaps even become one of my chosen. Behold….such power you might wield.”

Mordred knelt and touched the fallen half-feral, his body glowed bright, so much so that Sarah had to shield her eyes. Radiation oozed from Mordred and somehow, something seemed to reignite life within the dead half-feral. Perhaps the creature hadn’t really been dead but simply wounded, and the radiation now healed its injuries...or perhaps something far more sinister was at work. Either way, the results were unquestionable. The half-feral now stood once more, and grabbed his pistol as if nothing had happened. 

“Now comes a choice. Pledge yourself to me willingly, and I will grant you eternity. Resist ...and you will serve me in death. Choose wisely.”

“I will not join you,” Sarah replied, her head held high, “Atom will guide me to the warmth of the eternal glow.”

Mordred snarled and approached her, reaching out his hand he grabbed her by the neck and lifted her up. As he did so, a medallion slipped from her hand and landed hard on the ship’s deck. Mordred tossed her aside and picked up the trinket, looking it over closely. It bore a strange symbol, and seemed to emit a radioactive source of its own, albeit faintly. 

“Who gave you this?” He demanded. 

“A missionary of Atom,” She said weakly, clutching her throat, “He came to our village and offered protection and guidance to any who might walk the path. I was the first to take Atom’s salvation and be born anew in the glow. He gave me that as a token of my new faith in the one true god.”

“Atom,” Mordred hissed and tossed the medallion overboard, “A fool’s name for a false god. I will have no such filth aboard this vessel,” He turned away and called back to the half-ferals, “Dispose of it.”

The ferals immediately turned and approached Sarah, pistols brandished. Shots rang out just as Modred began to head below deck. 

“Orders Commodore?” One of the ghoul officers asked. 

“Stay the course and ready the fleet. Burn every village along the coast. Kill any who resist. If Atom’s children try to stand in our way….send them to the depths.”

“Aye Commodore.”