Virel
Explorer
Fifteen Years Later… and I Brought a Story
Fifteen years since I last logged in here. Back then, ran an AD&D campaign, for thirty plus years.
Life, work, and too many miles on the odometer pulled me away. But lately I’ve been writing again — not campaign logs, not fan fiction, just straight-up fantasy. Thought I’d share one with you all.
What I’m after:
No-holds-barred feedback on pacing, tone, and style. If it works, say so. If it’s garbage, say so. I’m not after polite; I want to know if this kind of writing would keep you turning pages.
The setup:
LizBet’s Vacation Cruise follows a bored passenger volunteering for a boarding party on a suspicious derelict at sea — and discovering it’s carrying something far worse than rats.
If you’ve ever wondered how a calm morning coffee turns into a knife in the chest before breakfast, this is that story. No heroics, no sugar — just a bad ship, worse luck, and the kind of choices you can’t scrub off.
Story’s below. Tear it apart. I can take it.
LizBet's Vacation Cruise
"Flesh rot," the ship's doctor announced, pulling back the canvas shroud. "Fast-moving. Enters through wounds. You can't catch it breathing, but touch an open sore and you'll be joining the choir invisible before sunset."
LizBet studied the blackened corpse in the hammock and wondered why she'd volunteered for this particular morning's entertainment. The Doria Bright had looked suspicious wallowing dead in the water, but she'd been magnificently bored, and boredom made her intrepid.
"Gloves stay on," the doctor continued with the brisk authority of someone who'd seen this horror before. "No heroic exceptions."
The dying sailor they found slumped against the bulkhead looked up at her with desperate clarity. "Please."
She met his gaze, looked to the doctor's solemn nod, and pulled her boarding knife from its sheath. "All right, old sailor. Quick and clean, as you deserve."
Her blade took him through the heart with surgical precision. Some mornings started with coffee and contemplation. Others started with mercy killings and the promise of losing good boots to the fire barrel.
Earlier That Morning
The Vanguard had slipped through pewter dawn like a knife through silk, sails whispering secrets to the steady wind. LizBet had been standing at the quarterdeck rail, mug warming her palms, when the ship's doctor emerged from below—cassock collar turned against the chill, a squat brown bottle cradled like a beloved child.
"Morning, fellow sufferers. Best remedy for weak coffee on a cold deck." Without ceremony, he blessed each of their mugs with a generous splash of dark rum. "Strictly medicinal, you understand."
LizBet sipped, felt warmth bloom through her chest like liquid sunrise. "Doctor, you may yet live to see me genuinely grateful."
His grin held the satisfaction of a man who understood practical theology. "My calling is to keep everyone in one piece—myself included, naturally."
Before anyone could voice appreciation for his morning ministry, the lookout's shout cracked the stillness: "Sail ho! Two points off the starboard bow!"
Captain Areille Varkonnen materialized on deck with the fluid authority of someone born to command salt water. Tall in his weathered greatcoat, dark hair bound against the wind, he accepted the mate's spyglass and studied the distant smudge with the patience of a predator.
"No colors," he announced finally. "She's wallowing like a drunk priest. Current's running east-southeast, but she's not keeping pace."
The mate's voice carried careful neutrality. "Spotted movement on her deck, sir. Could've been crew. Could've been scavenging birds."
Varkonnen's tone turned to tempered steel. "Could be derelict. Could be bait. Could be something considerably worse." He swept the assembled passengers with calculating eyes. "I need a boarding party—two oars, one officer, one healer. Who's feeling charitable toward their fellow mariners?"
LizBet's hand rose before rational thought could intervene. "Count me willing."
Veyon regarded her with the expression of a man watching someone volunteer for plague duty. "Why?"
She offered a smile sharp enough to cut glass. "Because I'm magnificently bored. And because you're coming with me."
The ship's doctor chuckled, patting his leather satchel with fond confidence. "Well then, I suppose that settles my morning plans. If there's anyone breathing over there, I'll see what miracles I have left in me."
"Five minutes to prepare," Varkonnen commanded. "Arm yourselves properly. And if you encounter anything that breathes wrong—leave it precisely where you found it."
The Derelict
The Doria Bright presented a more intimate portrait of decay up close. Her sails hung furled but loose in their rigging, as if hastily secured by dying hands. Her hull wore a beard of weed and worse things that preferred not to be examined closely.
They climbed aboard into a silence that felt deliberate—the kind that suggested secrets were being kept just beyond hearing.
Near the mainmast, a hammock cradled what had once been a man. The doctor drew back the canvas covering and delivered a curse worthy of a dockside tavern.
"Flesh rot," he announced with the crisp authority of someone who'd seen this particular horror before. "Moves through blood like wildfire through dry wheat. You can't catch it from breathing the same air, but touch an open wound and you'll be joining the choir invisible before sunset. Keep your gloves sealed. No heroic exceptions."
They advanced with the careful deliberation of people who understood that carelessness was frequently fatal.
A barred hatch near the bow surrendered two survivors when pried open—a boy barely past his first whiskers and a young woman whose gaunt features couldn't quite disguise her essential beauty.
"He's still wandering the ship," she said, nodding toward the shadows that pooled amidships. "We sealed ourselves in before the sickness could follow. He was... he was a good man. Before."
They discovered him slumped against a bulkhead like a marionette with severed strings. His left arm had blackened to the elbow, fingers curled into claws that would never straighten again. The doctor knelt beside him, placed gentle hands on the ruined chest, and whispered words that called down golden light.
The light flickered. Wavered. Died.
"It's claimed his blood and bones," the doctor said quietly. "Nothing in my power can call him back from where he's wandering now."
The dying man's eyes found LizBet's face and held there with desperate clarity. "Please."
She studied his gaze, then looked to the doctor. His nod was small, solemn, and unmistakable.
"All right, old sailor," she said with gentle finality. "Quick and clean, as you deserve."
Her blade took him through the heart with surgical precision. His breath caught once, then left him forever. She released the weapon where it stood and turned away without ceremony or backward glances.
As they stepped clear of the spreading pool, LizBet asked, "How quickly does this corruption spread?"
"In hours," the doctor replied with grim certainty. "Sometimes considerably less. We're not setting foot on the Vanguard until I'm absolutely certain none of us are carrying death back with us."
Quarantine in the Boat
The launch bobbed beside the Doria Bright like a faithful hound, the survivors huddled beneath an improvised canvas shelter. The doctor transformed into an agent of militant hygiene, forcing everyone—boarding party and rescued souls alike—to strip to undergarments, scrub exposed skin with vinegar-soaked cloths, and endure the open air's judgment.
"Four hours minimum," he announced, settling onto a thwart with the patience of someone who'd learned not to gamble with plague. "If the rot has claimed any of us, we'll see the first signs before the sun reaches zenith."
The wait stretched like warm taffy, broken only by water slapping against wood and the occasional gull offering commentary on their circumstances. Veyon complained once about the vinegar's assault on his nostrils; LizBet observed that it was preferable to the perfume of decomposing flesh.
When the doctor finally pronounced them clean enough for civilization, they were rowed back to the Vanguard like penitents returning from pilgrimage.
The Burning
The survivors vanished below deck to be scrubbed again and clothed in garments that hadn't witnessed death. Everything the boarding party had worn fed the fire barrel—including LizBet's newest boots, which she watched disappear into the flames with genuine mourning.
"They'd better rot in the deepest pit of the Abyss for that," she muttered.
Veyon's smirk held no sympathy. "You volunteered for this adventure."
"Not to sacrifice perfectly good leather to necessity."
Captain Varkonnen received the doctor's report with the stone-faced acceptance of someone who'd heard similar tales too often. "Flesh rot. Crew dead. Ship fouled beyond salvation."
His voice carried the weight of absolute authority. "Burn her."
No one suggested alternatives.
An hour later, the Doria Bright blazed against the horizon like a Viking funeral, black smoke writing epitaphs across the brightening sky. The sails surrendered first, collapsing into beautiful destruction, then the deck planking caught, until the masts leaned drunkenly and toppled into the consuming fire.
LizBet raised her coffee mug in farewell as the mainmast died in a spectacular fountain of sparks.
"Well," she observed to Veyon, "that proved considerably more stimulating than discussing the merits of various fruit preserves."
Fifteen years since I last logged in here. Back then, ran an AD&D campaign, for thirty plus years.
Life, work, and too many miles on the odometer pulled me away. But lately I’ve been writing again — not campaign logs, not fan fiction, just straight-up fantasy. Thought I’d share one with you all.
What I’m after:
No-holds-barred feedback on pacing, tone, and style. If it works, say so. If it’s garbage, say so. I’m not after polite; I want to know if this kind of writing would keep you turning pages.
The setup:
LizBet’s Vacation Cruise follows a bored passenger volunteering for a boarding party on a suspicious derelict at sea — and discovering it’s carrying something far worse than rats.
If you’ve ever wondered how a calm morning coffee turns into a knife in the chest before breakfast, this is that story. No heroics, no sugar — just a bad ship, worse luck, and the kind of choices you can’t scrub off.
Story’s below. Tear it apart. I can take it.
LizBet's Vacation Cruise
"Flesh rot," the ship's doctor announced, pulling back the canvas shroud. "Fast-moving. Enters through wounds. You can't catch it breathing, but touch an open sore and you'll be joining the choir invisible before sunset."
LizBet studied the blackened corpse in the hammock and wondered why she'd volunteered for this particular morning's entertainment. The Doria Bright had looked suspicious wallowing dead in the water, but she'd been magnificently bored, and boredom made her intrepid.
"Gloves stay on," the doctor continued with the brisk authority of someone who'd seen this horror before. "No heroic exceptions."
The dying sailor they found slumped against the bulkhead looked up at her with desperate clarity. "Please."
She met his gaze, looked to the doctor's solemn nod, and pulled her boarding knife from its sheath. "All right, old sailor. Quick and clean, as you deserve."
Her blade took him through the heart with surgical precision. Some mornings started with coffee and contemplation. Others started with mercy killings and the promise of losing good boots to the fire barrel.
Earlier That Morning
The Vanguard had slipped through pewter dawn like a knife through silk, sails whispering secrets to the steady wind. LizBet had been standing at the quarterdeck rail, mug warming her palms, when the ship's doctor emerged from below—cassock collar turned against the chill, a squat brown bottle cradled like a beloved child.
"Morning, fellow sufferers. Best remedy for weak coffee on a cold deck." Without ceremony, he blessed each of their mugs with a generous splash of dark rum. "Strictly medicinal, you understand."
LizBet sipped, felt warmth bloom through her chest like liquid sunrise. "Doctor, you may yet live to see me genuinely grateful."
His grin held the satisfaction of a man who understood practical theology. "My calling is to keep everyone in one piece—myself included, naturally."
Before anyone could voice appreciation for his morning ministry, the lookout's shout cracked the stillness: "Sail ho! Two points off the starboard bow!"
Captain Areille Varkonnen materialized on deck with the fluid authority of someone born to command salt water. Tall in his weathered greatcoat, dark hair bound against the wind, he accepted the mate's spyglass and studied the distant smudge with the patience of a predator.
"No colors," he announced finally. "She's wallowing like a drunk priest. Current's running east-southeast, but she's not keeping pace."
The mate's voice carried careful neutrality. "Spotted movement on her deck, sir. Could've been crew. Could've been scavenging birds."
Varkonnen's tone turned to tempered steel. "Could be derelict. Could be bait. Could be something considerably worse." He swept the assembled passengers with calculating eyes. "I need a boarding party—two oars, one officer, one healer. Who's feeling charitable toward their fellow mariners?"
LizBet's hand rose before rational thought could intervene. "Count me willing."
Veyon regarded her with the expression of a man watching someone volunteer for plague duty. "Why?"
She offered a smile sharp enough to cut glass. "Because I'm magnificently bored. And because you're coming with me."
The ship's doctor chuckled, patting his leather satchel with fond confidence. "Well then, I suppose that settles my morning plans. If there's anyone breathing over there, I'll see what miracles I have left in me."
"Five minutes to prepare," Varkonnen commanded. "Arm yourselves properly. And if you encounter anything that breathes wrong—leave it precisely where you found it."
The Derelict
The Doria Bright presented a more intimate portrait of decay up close. Her sails hung furled but loose in their rigging, as if hastily secured by dying hands. Her hull wore a beard of weed and worse things that preferred not to be examined closely.
They climbed aboard into a silence that felt deliberate—the kind that suggested secrets were being kept just beyond hearing.
Near the mainmast, a hammock cradled what had once been a man. The doctor drew back the canvas covering and delivered a curse worthy of a dockside tavern.
"Flesh rot," he announced with the crisp authority of someone who'd seen this particular horror before. "Moves through blood like wildfire through dry wheat. You can't catch it from breathing the same air, but touch an open wound and you'll be joining the choir invisible before sunset. Keep your gloves sealed. No heroic exceptions."
They advanced with the careful deliberation of people who understood that carelessness was frequently fatal.
A barred hatch near the bow surrendered two survivors when pried open—a boy barely past his first whiskers and a young woman whose gaunt features couldn't quite disguise her essential beauty.
"He's still wandering the ship," she said, nodding toward the shadows that pooled amidships. "We sealed ourselves in before the sickness could follow. He was... he was a good man. Before."
They discovered him slumped against a bulkhead like a marionette with severed strings. His left arm had blackened to the elbow, fingers curled into claws that would never straighten again. The doctor knelt beside him, placed gentle hands on the ruined chest, and whispered words that called down golden light.
The light flickered. Wavered. Died.
"It's claimed his blood and bones," the doctor said quietly. "Nothing in my power can call him back from where he's wandering now."
The dying man's eyes found LizBet's face and held there with desperate clarity. "Please."
She studied his gaze, then looked to the doctor. His nod was small, solemn, and unmistakable.
"All right, old sailor," she said with gentle finality. "Quick and clean, as you deserve."
Her blade took him through the heart with surgical precision. His breath caught once, then left him forever. She released the weapon where it stood and turned away without ceremony or backward glances.
As they stepped clear of the spreading pool, LizBet asked, "How quickly does this corruption spread?"
"In hours," the doctor replied with grim certainty. "Sometimes considerably less. We're not setting foot on the Vanguard until I'm absolutely certain none of us are carrying death back with us."
Quarantine in the Boat
The launch bobbed beside the Doria Bright like a faithful hound, the survivors huddled beneath an improvised canvas shelter. The doctor transformed into an agent of militant hygiene, forcing everyone—boarding party and rescued souls alike—to strip to undergarments, scrub exposed skin with vinegar-soaked cloths, and endure the open air's judgment.
"Four hours minimum," he announced, settling onto a thwart with the patience of someone who'd learned not to gamble with plague. "If the rot has claimed any of us, we'll see the first signs before the sun reaches zenith."
The wait stretched like warm taffy, broken only by water slapping against wood and the occasional gull offering commentary on their circumstances. Veyon complained once about the vinegar's assault on his nostrils; LizBet observed that it was preferable to the perfume of decomposing flesh.
When the doctor finally pronounced them clean enough for civilization, they were rowed back to the Vanguard like penitents returning from pilgrimage.
The Burning
The survivors vanished below deck to be scrubbed again and clothed in garments that hadn't witnessed death. Everything the boarding party had worn fed the fire barrel—including LizBet's newest boots, which she watched disappear into the flames with genuine mourning.
"They'd better rot in the deepest pit of the Abyss for that," she muttered.
Veyon's smirk held no sympathy. "You volunteered for this adventure."
"Not to sacrifice perfectly good leather to necessity."
Captain Varkonnen received the doctor's report with the stone-faced acceptance of someone who'd heard similar tales too often. "Flesh rot. Crew dead. Ship fouled beyond salvation."
His voice carried the weight of absolute authority. "Burn her."
No one suggested alternatives.
An hour later, the Doria Bright blazed against the horizon like a Viking funeral, black smoke writing epitaphs across the brightening sky. The sails surrendered first, collapsing into beautiful destruction, then the deck planking caught, until the masts leaned drunkenly and toppled into the consuming fire.
LizBet raised her coffee mug in farewell as the mainmast died in a spectacular fountain of sparks.
"Well," she observed to Veyon, "that proved considerably more stimulating than discussing the merits of various fruit preserves."
