Ashes In Your Mouth : Report 3-1 : Cauldbrath Isle

Filed by: Investigator Maurice
Team: Assistant Investigator Brodie Lee, Angela, Remy, Ander
Date/Place: Autumn, 1932 — Isle of Cauldbrath (between Ireland and Wales)
Subject: Ardent Hope wreck; Witherkin; converging external interest

Travel to Isle of Cauldbrath

We crossed on a steel-plated apology for a ferry, then crammed into a dinghy that objected to our presence with every oar stroke. Weather was passable: cold wind, low tide, lighthouse functioning. That last one mattered.

Our destination—a cargo freighter beached beneath the cliffs—sang its condition before we boarded. Plates groaned, cables whined, the whole frame echoing like a dying whale. Ander held onto his breakfast and his dignity. The rest of us acclimatised. We tied off, climbed aboard, and started reading the wreck like a crime scene.

Ardent Hope

Inside was what you get when you try to house people where they were never meant to be. Rusted bunks, swollen doors, and paint peeled up like diseased skin. The hold’s centrepiece: Container 19-B. The door was not opened. It was punched out from the inside. Steel peeled like a can lid. Someone wanted out badly enough to win.

Inside were two coffin-shaped boxes—hand-built, sealed with resin, and reeking of enchantment. These weren’t ceremonial. They were tools. Containment, not burial. And the thing inside? Already gone.

We picked through the leftovers: Biera’s scarf, his hat (claimed by Ander), and a tooth necklace with Remy’s family signature all over it. There were no rations. No water. No insulation. Just wood, rope, and hope. Barrow shipped people knowing what they’d become. And what they’d do.

The bridge held the blood. Two height bands. Claw marks across the console. The exit route was obvious: doors bent outwards, screws popped. Whoever turned, fought their way free. We found the logbook. Container 19‑B. Origin: Barrow, Pennsylvania. Destination: Portsmouth. Carrier: Brekon & Hope, a Barrow subsidiary. They really do like to keep their sins in-house.

Remy tapped the psychic residue: fear, followed by fury. Defensive, not predatory. That tracks when what’s left of you is still trying to protect the name someone once used for you.

One more surprise: an oversized mannequin spotted in a rupture in the hull. Just standing. Waving. When we looked back, it had gone. Stranger protocol. Show up, vanish, leave questions.

We climbed to shore. The tide wasn’t offering a return trip.

Approaching Cauldbrath Village

The stone steps from ship to summit were hand-cut and honest. At the top, we were met by Saoirse MacCraith, lightkeeper and human welcome mat. She radiated gentle warmth—Remy and the others felt it. Brodie didn’t. Curious.

She pointed us to the tavern without sharing names. Later, Donal Reeve gave us more than he meant: called her duties “responsibilities.” Which usually means keys, rules, and something locked up nearby.

The village was thin. Forge, butcher, a lorry that hadn’t moved in days, and two men leaning on it like unpaid extras. Seamus said they were waiting for a “delivery.” Fergus, a priest with a dead wife and a grudge against weather, blessed us with apocalyptic metaphors.

All signs pointed the same way: fewer people, heavier silences, too much patience wearing out its boots.

Tavern

Brigid O’Durnan served food, fire, and firm hospitality. Maebh stared like she was memorising our habits. Aoife distracted the local spawn with stories. Agnes delivered bread and suspicion. Captain Niall Bryn looked like he was waiting for a reason not to leave.

We ate. Settled. Then the team asked the question they’d been dancing around since Barrow.

I answered:

I’m a fear entity under containment.
Not parasitic. Brodie remains peachy.
He sees me as human: tall, pale, dark hair. That’s his mask. Not mine.
I do the thinking. He does the walking.
Why doesn’t he know I’m a sock? No clue. Not me. Probably his brain putting safety rails around the abyss.

The room did that thing where it exhales quietly because the worst answer was “yes” and I’d just said “no.” We picked corners with backs to walls. Just in case.

Talk with Manny (the mannequin) in the toilet

Nature called. So did the Stranger.

Manny was waiting in the outhouse: plastic, oversized, seated like it belonged there. It didn’t. One door. One task. No witnesses. Ideal spot for a covert debrief.

The message:

We weren’t invited.
Multiple groups are coming.
The target isn’t fully human.
Games start at dusk.
Stay off the centreline.
Stranger want’s me to come back, I’m going to pass.

Tone: polite. Not friendly. Confidence reads louder when no threats are required. I left with a chill in my sleeve. Brodie didn’t ask. He never does. He just feels the shift in pressure.

Back in the tavern

The day collapsed inward. The island got smaller. Angela’s focus snapped toward the lighthouse like a compass. Something was building near the lorry—a knot in the air, waiting to pull tight. Ander muttered about boats and regretted the stew. Remy traced the broken tooth like it was a map, and she was ready to fight for a brother who might not be himself anymore.

No grand speeches. Just mutual understanding. Chairs pushed back together, nobody scraping wood. Outside, the wind rehearsed.

If they want a stage, they can have it. We’ll take the wings. No one dies tonight who didn’t choose to come here.

Filed By: Investigator Maurice
Supervising Officer: Still Me
Clearance: Way above yours