The Drowned Tide
In the deepest, most forsaken parts of the Brentrial, where the sun dares not penetrate and the sea churns with an ancient, unyielding wrath, there are whispers of a crew that sails not on the tides of time, but through them, never to leave. The mariners of the Brentrial speak in hushed tones, their voices trembling as they recount the fate of those who dared trespass too close to the Veil—the dark expanse where the ocean’s pulse grows erratic, and the horizon vanishes beneath a veil of fog so thick it suffocates the mind.
The tale begins with a ship—the Wretched Fate. It is said that the crew, once men of flesh and bone, are now little more than phantoms—drowned souls twisted by a pact forged in the very heart of the ocean. Led by Captain Garreth Blackthorne, whose very name is spat with contempt by the few who still live to speak it, the Wretched Fate sails where no mortal ship should venture. It is a ship that does not sail on water, but on the tide of nightmares, drawn from the deepest chasms of the Brentrial.
The Wretched Fate has no need of wind to fill its sails, no need of oars to row its hull. The ship is alive—its timbers groan with the tortured wails of the dead, and its black sails pulse with a sickly light, a light that never fades. The air around it stinks of salt, blood, and the coppery scent of decay, the kind of decay that lingers long after death has passed. Those who see it from afar—if they live to tell the tale—say it is like a shadow cutting across the water, a thing that shouldn’t be. Its presence is the harbinger of doom, for it is followed by storms of unnatural ferocity, and worse still, the Fate’s wake is said to bring something far darker than just the storm.
Those unlucky enough to encounter the Wretched Fate—the foolhardy merchant ships, the brave adventurers, or the desperate souls searching for fortune—are greeted by a crew that is not alive, nor dead, but something far worse. They are the Drowned, their skin slick and pale, their eyes black and fathomless. Some claim their skin is marked with the faintest glimmer of light—blue as the depths, white as the foam of a tidal wave, their bodies covered in intricate tattoos that glow with the rhythm of the ocean’s pulse, as though the sea itself speaks through them. These marks, once said to be the signature of the living, now brand the crew as the cursed emissaries of the Deep Ones. They sail to claim, not treasure, but souls.
There are no survivors of the Wretched Fate. There are no exceptions. The last anyone sees of those who cross its path is their bodies, still twitching with some unholy life, dragged beneath the waves. For it is said that the Fate is not just a ship—it is a vessel of souls, and when it sails, it draws the living into its dark maw. If you hear the call of its crew—the sound of windless sails and a voice that whispers through the fog, a voice like the low crash of waves against stone—there is no escape. The ship will come for you, not to take you, but to bind you to it, to curse you into servitude for all eternity, a living part of the darkness that claims the oceans. The Wretched Fate does not take its toll in gold, but in flesh.
And so the Drowned tide continues, and the crew sails, ever onward, bound to the ocean’s deepest secrets. To the sailors of the Brentrial, their warning is clear: never sail too deep into the mist, for the ocean will take more than your life—it will take your soul, and with it, your eternity.
It is said, the last thing you’ll hear before you’re claimed by the deep is a low, rhythmic chant carried by the wind—the voice of Captain Blackthorne, and those who follow him. "Hoist the colors, sail the tide, we are the ones who never died."
The tale begins with a ship—the Wretched Fate. It is said that the crew, once men of flesh and bone, are now little more than phantoms—drowned souls twisted by a pact forged in the very heart of the ocean. Led by Captain Garreth Blackthorne, whose very name is spat with contempt by the few who still live to speak it, the Wretched Fate sails where no mortal ship should venture. It is a ship that does not sail on water, but on the tide of nightmares, drawn from the deepest chasms of the Brentrial.
The Wretched Fate has no need of wind to fill its sails, no need of oars to row its hull. The ship is alive—its timbers groan with the tortured wails of the dead, and its black sails pulse with a sickly light, a light that never fades. The air around it stinks of salt, blood, and the coppery scent of decay, the kind of decay that lingers long after death has passed. Those who see it from afar—if they live to tell the tale—say it is like a shadow cutting across the water, a thing that shouldn’t be. Its presence is the harbinger of doom, for it is followed by storms of unnatural ferocity, and worse still, the Fate’s wake is said to bring something far darker than just the storm.
Those unlucky enough to encounter the Wretched Fate—the foolhardy merchant ships, the brave adventurers, or the desperate souls searching for fortune—are greeted by a crew that is not alive, nor dead, but something far worse. They are the Drowned, their skin slick and pale, their eyes black and fathomless. Some claim their skin is marked with the faintest glimmer of light—blue as the depths, white as the foam of a tidal wave, their bodies covered in intricate tattoos that glow with the rhythm of the ocean’s pulse, as though the sea itself speaks through them. These marks, once said to be the signature of the living, now brand the crew as the cursed emissaries of the Deep Ones. They sail to claim, not treasure, but souls.
There are no survivors of the Wretched Fate. There are no exceptions. The last anyone sees of those who cross its path is their bodies, still twitching with some unholy life, dragged beneath the waves. For it is said that the Fate is not just a ship—it is a vessel of souls, and when it sails, it draws the living into its dark maw. If you hear the call of its crew—the sound of windless sails and a voice that whispers through the fog, a voice like the low crash of waves against stone—there is no escape. The ship will come for you, not to take you, but to bind you to it, to curse you into servitude for all eternity, a living part of the darkness that claims the oceans. The Wretched Fate does not take its toll in gold, but in flesh.
And so the Drowned tide continues, and the crew sails, ever onward, bound to the ocean’s deepest secrets. To the sailors of the Brentrial, their warning is clear: never sail too deep into the mist, for the ocean will take more than your life—it will take your soul, and with it, your eternity.
It is said, the last thing you’ll hear before you’re claimed by the deep is a low, rhythmic chant carried by the wind—the voice of Captain Blackthorne, and those who follow him. "Hoist the colors, sail the tide, we are the ones who never died."
"The Brentrial holds mysteries that few are brave—or foolish—enough to seek out, and yet, this Wretched Fate... It strikes me not as a tale of mere superstition, but of something ancient and far more unsettling. A ship that does not sail by wind or will but by some dark compulsion, following the whims of those long lost to the depths—it's a nightmare." - Victoria Pendrake
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