The Sea Drake cut through the waters like a spear cast from the hands of titans. The sails, taut with the breath of the wind, carried them ever westward, away from the black cliffs of Blacktide and into the vast, unyielding Sea of Solitude.
For the first few days, the waters were merciful, their surface rolling in gentle swells beneath a sky of shifting silver and gold. The ship moved with purpose, its crew adjusting to the rhythm of the voyage—securing the rigging, maintaining the weaponry, preparing for the trials yet unseen. The dwarves, unused to the sway of the ocean, spent much of their time grumbling against the treacherous deck beneath their boots, while Khaltar and his warriors moved as though the sea itself had birthed them.
Yet the serenity of the waves was a deception. A calm before a storm not yet spoken of in whispers.
The wind whispered warnings through the rigging, a ghostly voice swallowed by the vast emptiness of the Sea of Solitude. The Sea Drake pressed forward, its hull cutting through black waters that stretched to the ends of the world. The sun hung low, its golden light swallowed by a creeping mist that slithered across the waves like a living thing. Then the wind died.
A silence fell upon the sea—a silence unnatural, absolute. The ship did not slow, yet the water beneath it grew still, as if the very ocean had ceased to breathe. The mist thickened, curling around the vessel like spectral fingers, coiling into shapes that should not be. The crew felt it in their bones, an unseen weight pressing down, turning breath to stone in their lungs. They had entered the Black Trench.
A place where the sea was bottomless, where the light of the sun could not reach, where ships were swallowed without a sound and never seen again. The darkness beneath them was more than the absence of light—it was a void, an abyss older than time, a wound upon the world where the dead whispered and the living disappeared. Then the first ripple came. Not from the wind, nor from the waves. It came from below.
A vast shadow passed beneath the hull, deeper than any whale, larger than any leviathan known to man or myth. It did not rise, did not break the surface, but its presence was a monstrous weight, a thing that should not exist, yet did. The ship shuddered, as if its keel had been caressed by something ancient, something hungry.
And then the stars vanished. Not all at once, but one by one, swallowed by a vast shape that rose from the depths—a form unseen, yet undeniable. The mist thinned just enough to reveal a glimpse of something colossal, its surface shifting like the backs of a thousand coiling serpents, its movement slower than death itself.
Then the ship lurched. A force unseen dragged the Sea Drake downward, a pull so powerful it sent men sprawling across the deck. The timbers groaned as if the ship itself was screaming, the hull trembling in the grip of something that did not belong to this world. The ocean churned, not from waves, but from the movement of something immense beneath them, something that had waited in the abyss for prey to stray too close.
The ship tilted, its bow sinking ever so slightly, as if the sea itself had turned into a maw and begun to devour them. The Black Trench did not let go of those who trespassed. For a moment, there was nothing but silence and the pull of the deep. Then, just as suddenly as it had come, the grip was released.
The Sea Drake shot forward, propelled by an unseen force, as if flung away like a discarded plaything. The mist peeled back, the weight lifted, and the ship surged ahead, leaving behind the abyssal darkness.
Yet, as they emerged from the trench, the sea behind them remained unchanged—a black void upon the water, a wound that did not heal, a place abandoned by light and forsaken by the gods.
As the wind returned with a vengeance. No gentle breeze, no steady gust—it howled like a wounded beast, shrieking through the rigging, twisting the sails into tortured shapes. The Sea Drake plunged forward, her hull groaning as the ocean itself rebelled against their passage. Before them, the sky twisted in agony.
Clouds, black as ink, swirled in a vast, spiraling maw, devouring the heavens with a hunger that rivaled the abyss they had escaped. Lightning ripped through the sky, illuminating the monstrous storm, revealing the churning vortex at its heart. A storm not born of nature, but something older, something that should not be.
The Maelstrom. A vast, spiraling pit in the ocean, so wide it could swallow entire fleets, so deep it seemed to bore into the bones of the world. A storm without mercy, without end.
The ship bucked and twisted, the rudder fighting against the current, as if the very sea had turned against them. Waves rose like mountains, crashing down with the force of falling gods, each one threatening to break the ship like a child's toy. Rain lashed their skin, cold as iron, carried by the storm's furious breath.
Then came the voices. Not the wind. Not the thunder. But something else. Something within the storm. Whispers. Beckoning. Pleading. Mocking.
Shadows moved within the lightning, shapes that flickered for but a moment—figures of the drowned, their hollow eyes staring, their arms reaching. They called to the living, their voices riding the storm, a chorus of the forsaken.
The ship tilted, the bow plunging toward the swirling vortex, as if unseen hands were dragging them down. The crew fought, pulling at ropes, battling the storm with everything they had. But this was not a storm to be conquered. It was alive. A force that remembered every soul it had taken and demanded more.
The whirlpool grew deeper, its heart nothing but darkness. A graveyard of ships, of sailors, of entire histories long forgotten, pulled into the abyss where no light would ever reach. The storm screamed. The sky cracked open. And then—the wind shifted.
A sudden gust, a force unnatural, pushed the ship sideways, away from the maw of the abyss. The Sea Drake groaned but obeyed, her bow lifting as if spared at the last moment. The whispers faded, the ghostly figures melting into the rain.
The Sea Drake had outrun the Maelstrom, but the ocean never forgets. For days, the waters had been unnaturally calm—too calm. No wind, no waves, no sound but the groan of the ship's weary timbers. The sky was a sickly shade of gray, the sun a pale, bloated thing that offered neither warmth nor light. It hung motionless, as if the world itself had ceased to turn. Then came the stench.
Rot. Decay. A foulness that clung to the air like unseen filth, thick enough to taste. The sailors gagged, covering their noses, but it did nothing. It came from everywhere and nowhere, seeping into their lungs, curling in their guts. Then the sea changed.
The water, once deep and endless, turned black. Not like the abyssal depths of the Black Trench, nor the raging fury of the Maelstrom—this was different. This was wrong.
The blackness did not reflect light. It did not move with the rhythm of the sea. It was thick—too thick—like something that had spoiled, like something long dead. Then, something broke the surface. A hand.
Rotten. Bloated. Human—or what had once been. Its flesh was gray-green, split open like an overripe fruit, leaking black ichor into the water. Fingernails peeled back, slipping from discolored flesh. And then another hand surfaced. And another. And another.
All around them, they rose—hundreds, thousands, more than the eye could count. Bodies floating like driftwood, some whole, some mangled beyond recognition. Faces half-eaten, eyes milky and hollow, mouths open in silent screams. Some clutched at each other, tangled in bloated limbs, others floated alone, arms spread wide as if they had surrendered to the abyss. The Drowned.
Not just the lost souls of the sea, but something worse—those who had been taken. Those whom the ocean had claimed but never released.
The ship slowed, her hull dragging through the thick, unholy tide. The dead clung to the sides, their fingers curling around the wood, their weight dragging the ship down inch by inch. Some clawed at the deck, their swollen arms stretching impossibly long, fingertips splitting, bones poking through decayed skin.
Then came the moans. Not human. Not entirely. A sickening chorus, rising from beneath the ship, vibrating through the planks like the sound of bones scraping together.
The dead were hungry. A shadow passed beneath them—something massive. Something that did not float. Something that swam.
The sea lurched, and suddenly the corpses moved—not drifting, but crawling. Heaving themselves onto the deck, their movements unnatural, their broken limbs twisting as if moved by unseen strings. Their jaws unhinged, mouths yawning open too wide, too dark, too empty.
And then they screamed. A wretched, gurgling wail, the sound of lungs long rotted, of voices drowned in salt and despair.
The ship tilted, more bodies pulling themselves up, their fingers digging into the wood, splinters lodging beneath peeling nails. The sea dragged at the hull, as if trying to pull the living down into its embrace.
Then, from the depths, something rose. A face. No, a mask. Pale, smooth, devoid of features—a thing that should not be. But it watched. The bodies twisted toward it, as if answering a silent command. The ship groaned—it was sinking, being swallowed inch by inch.
Panic seized the deck. The dead clawed at the rails, their bloated fingers dragging over the planks with sickening wetness. Some had already made it aboard, twisted figures of decay, their hollowed eyes fixed on the living with an unnatural hunger. The crew fought with everything they had—axes cleaving through rotting limbs, swords hacking through torsos that should have long since stopped moving. But no matter how many they cut down, more rose from the abyss, pulling themselves free from the black tide. And then the cannons roared.
Flames burst from the muzzles, the thunderous explosion shattering the deathly quiet. Cannonballs tore through the sea of corpses, scattering flesh and bone into the unnatural blackness below. The scent of burned rot filled the air, but still, the tide of the drowned pressed forward.
Then, the sea groaned. A sound not of waves, not of the storm—but of something vast awakening. A vibration rippled through the water, deep and terrible, a force that made the very ship shudder like a dying beast. And from the abyss, it rose.
A wall of flesh, the size of a fortress, black as night and slick with the slime of the deep. A tentacle, massive beyond reason, surged up from the water, blocking out the sky itself. Another followed, then another, unfurling like the arms of a godless horror. The Kraken had come.
Its limbs reached for the ship, a hunger that had never known satisfaction, its presence alone twisting the air into a choking weight. It did not move with mindless rage, but with purpose, with calculated cruelty. The cannons turned. "FIRE!"
A barrage tore through the night, cannonballs ripping through the Kraken's flesh, leaving gaping wounds that oozed a black, steaming ichor. The beast recoiled, but only for a moment—and then it struck.
A tentacle slammed into the Sea Drake's side, splitting the hull with a sound like the earth itself being torn apart. The ship lurched violently, bodies—living and dead—flung into the air as wood splintered and sails tore.
The ocean rose—a monstrous wave summoned by the beast's fury, lifting the ship high into the air before bringing it crashing down.
Timbers cracked. The mast snapped in half, toppling into the sea. The crew clung to whatever they could, their screams lost beneath the storm of destruction. Another tentacle whipped across the deck, sending men and dwarves alike hurtling into the abyss. The Kraken struck again. This time, the ship could not hold.
The hull split with a deafening shriek, the Sea Drake breaking apart like a child's toy. Half the ship was torn away, claimed by the beast, while the rest was hurled forward—a final, violent thrust toward salvation.
And then—land. A jagged coastline, blood-red sands, the ominous cliffs of the Red Wastes. The ruined ship slammed into the shore, what remained of it crashing against the rocks, sending bodies tumbling into the sand.