[center][img]https://txt-dynamic.static.1001fonts.net/txt/dHRmLjE0Mi4wMDAuVUdWeVpXZHlhVzQsLjAAAA,,/two-turtle-doves.normal.png[/img][/center]

[b]Location:[/b] The Avalon Infirmary
[hr]

The unreality that Peregrin seemed to exude was ever present as her body shrank a few centimetres, drying up and changing in the sick bay of the ship. Landfolk see a woman - they want to see a pretty young lady - but all it really took was a closer look, not even a scrutinising glare but a prolonged glance, to begin to see the monster for what it really was. Her hair, if it even was hair, was thick and coarse and wiry. Her skin was tough, something akin to a whale or a shark, and darker than any land race that populated the surface. Her breasts were a facade. She didn't even have any nipples, they were just lumps of fat placed there to give the impression of womanhood. And the teeth...the teeth didn't change with her body. Sharp and yellowish and innumerable behind lips carefully sculpted by millennia of breeding between successful sirens. Peregrin not only seemed to dwell but thrive in that specific unease one felt when an uncanny replica of a person was placed before them; she was clearly the runt of the litter but just as equally displayed powerful, sinewy muscle built up by successful hunts and padded out with a comfortable layer of fat which accumulated in the right places to make her look just a little more human. All any siren needed was to fool their prey for a moment; after they were in earshot, it tended to turn out badly for them. Peregrin, despite her odd appearance, was no exception to the rule.

That being said, it was highly unlikely Peregrin would be doing any luring on [I]The Avalon[/I]. Or anything else for that matter. Her legs were especially bad, the muscles were spasming in her sleep and the fact alone that she hardly stirred as her body twitched and shuddered was enough to express just how ruthlessly she pushed herself. Solomon's examination was done around a tangle of slippery and often wriggling limbs as she unsuccessfully tried to get comfortable over and over again, unaware that the problem was her body and not the bed. Unsurprisingly, the robe tangled with her and did very little to cover anything. There was something though, stitched into the collar of the robe with a skilled hand and some sturdy thread:

[Center][I]The Wearer of this Garment is the Charge of CPTN SAMUEL CORTEZ. If Found, Please return to A Glasstonian Naval Unit and Report Immediately to The Arcadia.[/I][/center]

The royal insignia sat right beside it. Someone had paid good money for the embroidery and the robe, which never seemed to be designed for her decency but managed to cling to her regardless of the tide and current. The message's intent remained to be seen, but it was there, stitched neatly into her clothes and legible only by those who happened to be close enough to look.

Solomon managed to get through a few chapters before the unshakable sensation of eyes peering at the back of his head became too apparent to ignore. Two dull but reflective orange eyes peered out of a mess of robe, bedsheet and clammy flesh. They were half open, and her face was smushed against the pillow from her wriggling, but they were attentive for now.
[hr]
When the wax had been cracked away from the cork and the bottle finally opened, the condition of its contents were stunning. Both items were bone dry and unscathed; one might have even thought that the ink was still wet on the page, given the care to which the contents were carried over miles of open ocean. The letter was prised out first, and read as follows:

[I]To our Potential Saviour.

I am writing on behalf of myself, Captain Samuel Cortez of the Arcadia. We are fast approaching the Shadowmount Isles along the route that we were instructed to follow when we first set sail with the whale blubber. The journey, as expected, took a queer turn the moment we entered the vicinity of these isles, and it was certainly not due to lack of women onboard. The men claim to have started hearing whispers from all manner of sources. The wind, sea, and even the very wood of the deck above which they sleep. 

The crew's sanity aside; the barrelman, who might I add was his town's dart champion, claims to have spotted numerous silhouettes of vessels on the horizon. I am taking the necessary precautions to ensure the blubber's safety by requesting reinforcements to be sent to help guide the Arcadia to its destination.

Signed,,
Samuel Cortez.[/I]

The message was brief, vague, and peppered with seemingly irrelevant information. It barely took up half a page, if that - but it was in the man's own hand, and used the right sort of parchment. Aside from the note a small clinking, rattling thing came out of the bottle; an old brooch. Though unremarkable to most, those who were close to the Princess would recognise it as one of her many adornments.

Meanwhile, below deck and bundled in bed linens, the messenger of this curious letter was rubbing her face up and down the pillow slip with the sort of patient determination of someone who clearly knew what she was doing - even if her witnesses hadn't a clue.