The Rider
Goddess of the Sea
Foam-breaker, wave-wrestler, sheen-skinned swimmer, thrall-taker, fathom-thane, rock-beater, abyss-wife
The Rider was the Goddess of the Sea and all its life forms. She had command over storms, and her sea-wracked anger was the bane of mariners. Water was her primary medium— not only the sea, but the rivers and streams that mingled with her oceans as they spilled into her realm.
When she appeared to mortals, she did so most often in the form of a huge black horse, her long mane encrusted with seaweed, starfish, and writhing eels. Her skin’s watery sheen hinted at unseen depths, glimpses of bizarre shapes moving in the darkness of her flanks. Occasionally, brief phosphorescent flashes just inside her flesh would display a variety of pincers, eyestalks, tentacles, and rows of teeth, among other horrors.
She rarely spoke, but when she did, her voice rumbled and echoed through the air like distant thunder or the crash of waves on rocks. When she slammed her hoof against the ground, sparks lit the night, and the sound deafened mortals for miles.
Fishermen both loved and feared her. It was by her will that fish filled the sea—and the bellies of those who braved the waves to catch them. It was likewise her will that emptied the fish from the sea, leaving the coastal folk to starve until they righted whatever wrong had offended her.
The water wives, the sirens of the sea, were her spawn. Their eerie singing steered mariners from their proper lanes, breaking their ships on the rocks or leaving them wandering far off course. When the Rider was at a gallop, her trailing storm clouds would blot out the stars, preventing sailors from finding sea roads home.
When she was particularly riled, the oceans opened up and birthed a whirling maw—a whirlpool—that sucked in ships and swimmers, delivering them to her deep-sea realm. Legends tell, however, of a lucky few ships caught in the inexorable tide whose crews found themselves emerging into calm seas leagues away, even as far away as the shores of the southernmost continent.
She held sacred the blue crabs of Thule. Even now it is considered ill luck to eat them, for they might be ancestors returned. The coastal folk of Thule still allow the creatures free passage wherever they appear.
Mortals petitioned her to provide good catches, to calm her storms, to bring forth rain, and to protect travelers from drowning. Most of the time, these petitions brought not a ripple in reply. But when she did respond, the bounty proved great enough to continue petitioning, even when “her hooves refused to ring on the rocks” (there came no sign of her notice).
The peoples of the coastal lands made sacrifices to her by tying thralls—usually captives from enemy clans or interlopers from farther south—into nets and weighing them down, whereafter they would be tossed over cliffs into the sea spray, marched into the pounding surf, or thrown overboard from ships. The drowned joined her court beneath the waves, becoming gardeners for her undersea forests or soldiers for her unseen campaigns against Outsiders in the deep abyssal realms that exist only as rumors to mortals.
Inlanders sacrificed to her by rivers, especially where waterways met; at the headlands above vast bays; and into cataracts, as they spilled from great heights. These sacrifices—most often thieves, murderers, or captured soldiers—were held over the rushing waters as their throats were slit. Their blood joined the flow of water to the sea.
O Hoof-Thunderer, hear my plea: take up my enemy's ship on your bolting back and charge them to the whirling maw! Throw them off into the abyss; exile them from all breath! Let them serve you ever after in your bower!