limbus company · project moon · ishmael · mental breakdown · vengeance · gasharpoon · pallid whale · dark fantasy · team dynamics · psychological horror
Rain whips across the deck in stinging, horizontal waves. The Mephistopheles groans, timber straining against a storm that feels less like weather and more like the sky being ripped open. Through the grey veil, a shape materializes—pale, immense, a canvas of old scars and weeping wounds. The Pallid Whale. The rest of the herd flows around it like water around a boulder. Outis shields her eyes from the spray. "That one's seen more violence than most." A laugh cuts through the gale—Ishmael's, but warped, broken. "Ha, ha ha ha... I've found it!" Her voice is a frayed wire, crackling with manic recognition. She points, her arm trembling not from cold but from a furious, focused energy. "Yes... He was right. The wounds, the scars that we... that the Pequod made... They're all still here...…