Ship Rumors: Port Moonmarsh

Log Date: Lantern Cycle 23 – Under the Bloom’s Periapsis 

Commander: Admiral J. Aurelia Caelestis

Vessel: The Medusara - Docked

System: Fringe Expanse – Sector 88-Δ

Location: Port Moonmarsh – Solanthis

Every time I dock at Moonmarsh, the same things happen: the tide sighs, the air warms, and someone starts telling stories.

No one here admits to starting them. No one claims to believe them either. But everyone knows the details.

They’re not the kind of tales you hear in starports — no pirates, no contraband, no fortunes. Just whispers about the way things behave when you aren’t looking.

Here’s what I’ve gathered.

Rumor One: The Bells Beneath the Dock 

They say on still nights, when the tide rests low and the air holds its breath, you can hear bells chiming under the water. Not church bells... something softer, metallic, and far below. The Skelkin claim those are the signals of old vessels that never left. The sound isn’t heard through the ears, but through the bones. Those who listen too long start walking toward the waves, as if answering a call.

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Rumor Two: The Lantern That Follows 

Sailors swear that if you walk home alone after curfew, a light will drift behind you, faint blue, never closer than twenty paces. If you stop, it stops. If you run, it fades. No harm ever comes of it, but every witness reports the same thing when they finally reach their door: the smell of salt, and a single droplet of seawater glowing on the threshold.

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Rumor Three: The Moss Knows Names 

Inland from the docks, the moss-covered stones remember every footstep. Some claim that if you whisper your name to the ground, the forest hums it back in perfect pitch. Others say it only answers the names of those who are about to leave for good. The barkeep tells me the moss keeps track of who belongs here — and who doesn’t.

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Rumor Four: The Skeleton Who Tends The Bar

 He tends the coral bar that faces the tide. Always in the same place, hat pulled low, his presence steady as moonlight. They say he was once the first captain to ever make port here — refused to leave when Solanthis drifted out of mapped space.

But now they whisper that his body isn’t truly his anymore — that the sentient moss from the Verdant Depths wove itself through his bones, stitching him upright and letting him move. When he turns his head, faint green light flickers through the seams of his jaw, as though thought itself had taken root.

He gives a smile — but not actually— but sometimes the lanterns above the bar sway, and the glow inside his ribs softens, like the tide easing after a storm. When he speaks, the moss hums low in his chest, giving his words the resonance of something spoken by both man and planet.

Some say there are others like him: townsfolk thought long drowned, now walking among the living with that same quiet calm. But no one proves it. No one asks.

The barkeep listens more than he talks. When he tips his hat, the lanterns bow back.

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Rumor Five: The Doors That Only Open Once

At the edge of the marsh, where the sand turns to glass, are ancient archways carved into nothing. They lead nowhere... until they do. Travelers claim they open only when the stars reflect perfectly in the tide pools, revealing corridors of light beneath the water. The ones who step through come back different. If they come back at all.

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No one writes these stories down. They don’t have to. The port remembers them — in the creak of the docks, the hum of the lamps, the way the waves rise just high enough to touch your boots.

The skeleton bartender says there’s truth in every rumor, but it shifts like the tide.

“The sea tells stories the stars are too proud to keep,” he told me tonight.

I believe him.

— Aurelia, out.