Territory

Physignathus’ territory primarily encircles the territorial waters of the Islands of Duvain and Day’ten, before butting up against the southern shores of eastern Tiefanue and western Berphaunt respectively. However, south of Duvain her influence extends nearly one hundred and fifty leagues across the open southern ocean, ending right along the border of the territory that belongs to the Firstborn Oblivion on the northern shores of Amaranthia.

Appearance

In her Draconic form, Physignathus is a massive serpentine wyvern-like creature with piscine characteristics. Her lithe, sinewy form is coated in diamond-hard aquamarine scales that shimmer ever-so gently in the sun. Many of her faithful that have been lucky enough to lay eyes upon her have spent the rest of their lives learning to craft or commission art that can even approach a pale reflection of the perfection of her form. Unlike many of the Firstborn, Physignathus does not have wings and is not capable of true flight; instead she possesses large fins whose membranes are nearly translucent. From nose to tail, the Wavemother is roughly thirty meters in length, four and a half meters tall, with a finspan of 23 meters. About two-thirds down her length, her form splits into two independent tails, with each tail ending with their own dolphin-like twin dorsal fins. Her form narrows as it reaches her head, making her jaws look quite pointed and speeding her movement through water as she darts through it like a needle.

Through she rarely has cause to do so, Physignathus is capable of taking on a mortal from if the situation requires it. Physignathus has no need for patience or secrecy, and as such her appearance has remained the same for centuries. Indeed, even if most of her people have not seen her in this fashion, most would recognize her, for she is well known in the legends and stories of her lands. In these tales, the Wavemother is described as a curious blend of Human and Water Elemental. She largely appears to be a young Human woman with dusky, olive skin, of indescribable beauty, yet one that has clearly seen battle and has the layered network of scars to prove it. With her saltwater legs she strides upon the waves as most mortal creatures do upon solid ground, clad in armour composed of the bones of ancient creatures. While her water-formed legs prevent her from ever making landfall, even within her own territory, she still maintains power and influence over the sea creatures that are capable of such a feat. Her right arm appears to have been severed at the shoulder, and seems to have been replaced with a limb composed solely of the same flowing water that her legs are. Curiously, her aquamarine hair always appears to be wet and is set in layered clumps that hang loosely over her shoulders, for it never seems to dry no matter how much time she might spend in the sun. These stories also speak of her eyes as pools of the most perfect, crystal blue water that seem to radiate a sense of calm and compassion to all those that look within, save of course for the slaves of the Divine. To them, her eyes appear as the blackest abyss, the terrible ocean depths to which she would see them bound to for all time. If she has cause to do battle in this form, she can summon to her hands an ancient harpoon known as Squall to her followers. Crafted from the mast and anchor from the first ship to ever go whaling in her waters, Squall is suffused with many powerful elemental water enchantments and can be thrown with great accuracy by its bearer.

Passions

Not dissimilar to many of the Firstborn, Physignathus favours all things that resonate with her nature and spheres of influence. Scrolls and magic items enchanted with elemental water or protection magic are some of the most common offerings given unto her horde. As her followers give these items in tribute, so too does her power and skill with wielding these two spheres of magic steadily increase. The more uncommon the item, the more favourably it is likely to be looked upon when it is offered. A simple scroll of magic armour is a trifle, but an enchanted sword that ripples with the energies of powerful elemental water enchantments would be a fine offering indeed.Furthermore, as Physignathus claims sovereignty over the ocean, so too does she claim ownership over many objects related to the seas. While it is an uncommon offering, the ships owned by her enemies are seen as quite valuable additions to her hoard should her followers succeed in sinking them. Troves of sunken treasure and the maps leading to them have sent many Aspirants sailing to the far corners of the oceans looking for suitable offerings to their ocean-bound protector and mother. Gold and treasure itself hold little value as a whole, but once sunk they acquire new metaphysical qualities that make them quite desirable to the Wavemother. The remnants of monsters birthed by Eindridil are also seen as valuable tribute, for they are proof that her followers have triumphed yet again over a child of her hated foe.

Finally, the most uncommon but perhaps the most valuable form of offerings is that of a sacrifice of a certain mortal being by drowning. This is not to be done lightly, for Physignathus does not delight in this grim execution, but recognizes its necessity. The Wavemother only accepts sacrifices of those who are favoured by the Divine, those who have sworn themselves to Eindridil in any fashion, or those that have spit upon her hospitality by refusing to give the annual tribute, as is required of all mortals that dwell within her territory. Whalers have also found that their trade is not to be plied in her waters, lest they too found themselves with lungs filled with stinging saltwater. Knights and Aspirants that seek to carry out this sentence must do so with a basin of saltwater placed upon or near their altar, so that Physignathus herself may bear witness. If the Knight or Aspirant misuses this sacred execution against an unworthy foe, they will find their own lungs rapidly filling with saltwater, leaving them to drown on dry land while their erstwhile victim remains completely unharmed.

Temperament

Physignathus’ temperament is not unlike the waters from which she draws her power and authority, and her waters often reflect her current mood. When she is calm, so are her waters. Should she or her domain be disrespected or threatened, the crashing of waves and booming of thunder echoes the anger curled within her chest. She is mother and protector to those that owe her fealty, and is now and forever a shield to her people. Just as the shore weathers the strength of the ocean, so too does she weather the great dangers that would seek to envelop and destroy her people. The Wavemother is always the first to feel the fangs and swords of the invader, and each time she has gone into battle she knew that it was both her sacred purpose and sworn duty to sacrifice her own well-being if necessary for the sake of the life she protects. She acts swiftly, confident in her centuries of experience that she has made the right decision once she begins to act. Furthermore, Physignathus requires that even those of her followers that dwell upon land treat their homes with the same respect and stewardship that they would offer to the ocean. Take not more than is required, and ensure that life remains unspoiled and protected. They are guardians of life, wherever it may be found. Once the Wavemother decides upon a course of action, her domineering, stubborn, and motherly nature prevents her from altering her chosen course of action. She must see it through, all the way until the end. For once the course is set, it cannot be deviated from. The river must follow along the riverbank, after all. The same is true for her followers, if someone disrespects your land or harms your people, you must act swiftly and decisively, carrying out your chosen course of action until it’s natural end, for good or for ill. However, this singular focus is only required if one of the three sacred laws, or their land-based equivalents, have been violated. 

When the threat is great enough, Physignathus is more than capable of rousing herself to deal with the threat to her domain personally. This is a lesson that the hordes of Brood have learned all too well in years past, and many of the surviving Queens fear the thought of darkening her shores with their children again. She generally eschews subterfuge and manipulations in her dealings, but that is not to say that she is not above strategy or sober thought. She is merely usually quite direct in when she acts, and so are her followers. In her role as a protector, those that threaten her domain are either slain or made to flee until the threat that they pose is no more. Political games and underhanded machinations are nothing but distracting wastes of her time.

Affinities

Physignathus is the mother of the ocean, the protector of life, and one of Arthos’ greatest living warriors in the sea. She has a great deal of influence over the currents and waters of her domain, and can even alter the weather should it suit her. She is akin to a mother bear in that she is intensely fearsome and powerful, but mostly only so when that which is under protection is threatened. It is said that when she acts, she does so simply to protect life. In these cases, when the abilities of her favoured are insufficient, she commits herself to battle and displays a tremendous amount of martial skill. Physignathus uses her tremendous length to full effect in battle, crushing ships and creatures within her powerful coils as she tears at them with spell and fang. She possesses an absolute mastery over the waves and the effect her massive form has upon it, using her speed and bulk to create destructive whirlpools and dangerous wakes while the storms she summons pound on her enemies from above. 

Her aura of fear is quite powerful, but rarely does she unleash it to its full extent. Her matronly concern for the mortals she might be in proximity with leads her to keep it veiled in most circumstances. Once battle is joined however, it has been known to extend across entire fleets of ships, filling their minds with fear and panic. Physignathus does not dabble in many forms of magic, but she does possess a great deal of mastery in both Elemental Ice and Lightning, as well as a great deal of proficiency in Summoning Magics, not to mention the Sphere of Protections. Her use of magic tends to be direct, eschewing subtlety. Blasts of raw elemental power and the summoning of Water Elemental allies are the most common tactics she employs. Physignathus also maintains a great deal of skill in the black art of Cursing, and while she reserves the Curse of the Faithless for those who offend her the most, she has an entire arsenal of wicked maladies she can place upon her foes should she desire to afflict them in such a manner. Many a sailor that has declined to give tribute has found their voyages or been plagued by a string of unnatural weather events, while others have found themselves unable to swim or even drink the water they need to live.

Breath Weapon

Physignathus’ most powerful weapon in her arsenal is most undoubtedly her breath weapon. Rarely witnessed firsthand, it is nonetheless well-known throughout Arthos thanks to its use against the Brood Flotilla on Highwinter in the year 2259.

Physignathus first opens her jaws wide, drawing in a truly astonishing amount of water. She holds this water within herself for a brief moment, heating it to scorching temperatures that can easily boil even the strongest of creatures alive. Physignathus then expels it in a thunderous torrential stream, shattering the bones and cooking the flesh of whatever beings were unfortunate enough to have roused her terrible anger.Few beings have borne witness to Physignathus unleashing her most potent weapon, and fewer still have survived it. Those few that have speak of a pain even beyond a rushing torrent of bone-crunching super-heated saltwater. As the water tears apart their corporeal form, so too does its power permeate and scar the spirit. They find that for the rest of their natural lives, the ocean itself rejects them. They sink like a rock in saltwater. Food taken from the ocean rots at their touch, ships they try to board will sink in terrible storms, and salt taken from the sea will burn their flesh like acid. All victims of her breath develop a unique scar somewhere upon their body. This scar takes the form of a cresting wave within a circle, and will never heal with time or by mortal means. Furthermore, if the Knight of Physignathus see this mark, they and their followers are obligated to hunt and kill that creature on sight.

Style of Governance

Physignathus views most mortals as children, worthy of protection from threats they are not equipped to deal with on their own. However, this protection is not without its caveats. The Wavemother outright refuses to act to save any that are Favoured of the Divine, or any that pray to her arch-enemy, the Savage Goddess Eindridil. Furthermore, Physignathus requires that regular tribute be freely given onto her as a sign of respect for the hospitality and safety she extends to those that live within her domain, and the power she must expend while doing so. This tribute must be given at least once annually, and must consist of at least a third of the profits of the tribute-giver’s last voyage, business endeavour, or adventure. In the land of Duvain, this tribute-giving is typically done during the festival of High Tide in the month of June. Local officials are often responsible for making tribute on behalf of the towns they administer, any god followers that wish to abstain are required to pay a heavy tax to do so. It is said that this tribute is of far more significance than a simple payment, and that it continues a metaphysical covenant sworn between Physignathus and the mortals that dwell in her domain. Without it, Physignathus would be blind to the dangers that they face. Aside from this important matter of tribute, Physignathus is content to leave the mortal citizens of her domain to their business, so long as they continue to give their annual tribute and obey her three sacred laws while upon the ocean. First amongst these laws is an absolute prohibition against whaling. The Wavemother loves and cherishes these creatures, and will not allow them to be wastefully slaughtered by mortal hands without her direct permission. Secondly, Physignathus forbids the theft of sunken treasure that is in her domain. Such objects belong to her hoard, and those people whose greed has outweighed their caution have discovered that Physignathis does not brook such slights. Last, but most certainly not least, Physignathus commands that her people respect the ocean and its bounty. Take what is needed, and no more. Keep the ocean clean and pure, or you risk rousing her most terrible anger.

Underneath the waves however, Physignathus rules over a different sort of Kingdom in a more direct fashion. Hidden away within deep trenches from prying mortal eyes, lives an aquatic race of people rarely seen by even her own surface dwelling followers, for they are solely creatures of the deep. These people are known as the ēa-Nædercynn in the Draconic tongue, but most mortals simply know them as the Ocean-folk. In appearance they vary wildly, with most appearing to be one of the various mortal races found upon land, save that they have been changed and adapted to sea life by the magic of the Wavemother. Their lungs atrophy as gills form along their neck, and their feet widen and grow webbing between their toes. Most command at least a shred of magical power over water and the marine life that dwells within, and like all skills this power grows with practice and time. The strongest of the Ocean-folk can conjure sea-squalls with but a thought, and summon abyssal creatures of the deep to aid them in battle. It is said that Physignathus often rewards the most accomplished of her followers with this form when they are ready to return to the sea, and live amongst her underwater subjects. Centuries ago the Ocean-folk, tired of the constant raids on their scattered peoples by a new mysterious race of aquatic Elves, came together in force for the first time. These Sea Elves, who called themselves the Aquaran’Thalan, raided and killed the Ocean-folk until Physignathus herself empowered their warriors. Supported by these mighty aquatic champions, they threw back the Sea Elves for the first time. Realizing just how powerful they were united, the Ocean-folk chose a leader and invested them a great deal of power. That long-forgotten Queen decreed that no more would they roam, instead they would build a great city to serve as a home for their people. Thus was the beginnings of the great underwater fortress-city known as Neptra. Partially carved into a massive coral reef, Neptra is a cosmopolitan city composed of hundreds of clashing architectural styles, each informed by the myriad of different peoples that have come to reside within its walls and have adapted to its ocean depths. Neptra has held firm ever since its founding, with even the Aquaran’Thalan admitting to a grudging respect for the Ocean-folk.

The Aqua will admit to a preference for the Ocean-folk that populate her underwater domain and serve as the majority of the troops in her armies, but aside from them Physignathus does not tend to favour any one race of mortals over another. All surface dwellers are equal in her eyes, unless they are slaves to the Divine that is. Being a shepherd of life, Physignathus does not typically encourage Necromancy and the state of undeath in her domain, with one notable exception. Those who break faith with the Wavemother in a dramatic fashion, such as converting to the worship of Eindridil after having already sworn to the Firstborn previously, or by breaking one of her three sacred laws, may find themselves inflicted with a powerful and terrible curse. At first, it seems like merely a particularly wet cough, notable only for the faint smell of salt as they hack and sputter As the curse progresses, they find breathing to be progressively more and more difficult, while their flesh begins to shrivel, bloat, and prune like a water-logged corpse. Most don’t realize the exact moment when they died, so insidious is the progression of the curse. The followers of Physignathus call these undead the Faithless, bound forever to their cursed ship, forever patrolling the waters of her domain and committing savage atrocities on any others that have earned her ire. It is rumored that direct divine intervention can save one from becoming one of the Faithless, but outside of that there is no known cure that can stop the transformation once it has started.

Physignathus’ vast ocean territory gives her a great deal of influence and reach that stretches farther than even its expansive borders would suggest. The currents that ebb and flow through her domain do not merely sit stagnant in her waters, but rather they circle the entire length of Arthos given enough time. Her servants are similarly mobile, travelling the length of the world aboard ships and spreading her word and influence to all corners of the known world. Thus, she is actually quite informed and capable of exerting her influence in areas quite far from home should it suit her purposes to do so. Furthermore, given the relatively recent arrival of the continent of Amaranthia, her territory now stretches across the entire southern naval shipping corridor of Maud’madir, granting her and her followers an impressive amount of influence over ships seeking to travel from the east of the continent to the west, and vice versa. Like many of the Firstborn, the Wavemother remembers and longs for the age when the Dreamleaf was whole. In those days, her domain was vast and thus so was her reach. In the modern age, she is continuously frustrated by the continent and islands that lie within her domain. The land is not unlike poison to her, she cannot cross it, and she finds it difficult to project her power over it. Physignathus can still feel the suffering and pain of the young mortal races, and it fills her heart with sorrow, for she is their mother and protector. Thus, the Aqua has resolved to return Arthos to the waves once more. As her power grows, so do the seas rise. Those that do not flee the rising tides will have the choice of being made into one of the Ocean-folk, and joining their society within the great abyssal city of Neptra. 

Temple Structure

Physignathus does not maintain an established structure of temples under some sort of central authority, as like most of the Firstborn she disdains such organization as an aberration of the Divine. Rather, her temples are usually independent entities created and maintained by the Knights that serve her, and managed according to their whims. As such their customs, structures, and even their decor varies wildly from Knight to Knight. That being said, most port cities across Maud’madir will have at least a single small shrine close to the docks so that sailors may ask for good weather and offer tribute. Many of her temples are even mobile affairs, consisting of fine altars set aboard important vessels by the Knights who captain them. 

It is rumoured that her Ocean-folk followers have their own collection of temples in the aquatic city of Neptra, stocked with all manner of treasure and arcane lore. Given the difficulty of actually verifying these rumours, few mortals have any real knowledge of these sacred places. The Ocean-folk defend their homes fiercely, and do not freely give out information regarding their safe havens.

Physignathus is simple and direct in her dealings with mortals. She favours her Knights, then those who give tribute and wear her mark, and then everyone else, with those who worship the Divine being regarded as errant children in need of correction. Those poor souls whom the Divine have favoured are worthy of only her scorn.

Historical Highlights

Historical Entry #1.
Transcribed from the tale recounted by the Pirate Captain Josiah Ashworth of Dark Harbor to me, Mathurin Desmaretz, Azure Sage of the Western Lapis Monastery. Dated June 12, 2259.

“Aye, I was there that day. I do some small trades with the Ocean-folk every now and then. We gather near a small island about twenty leagues off the coast, along a popular shipping route. In exchange for surface goods, they trade us valuable goods that were thought lost to the depths. 

Anyway, about three years ago I’ve got my goods ready when the usual lady we conduct trade with doesn’t show. In fact, there’s no nary head nor tail in sight. Which was odd, as a people they’re a bit strange, but they ain’t never late. I still wanted the sunken gold they had offered for the goods I was carrying, so we put down anchor and decided to wait, watching the passing ships as we did so.

What I saw that day will stay with me until the Aqua herself takes my soul.

Stay out on the ocean long enough and you’ll see creatures that beggar belief and description. Every captain has a story of fighting off a fearsome Kraken; some of them are even true! But the thing I saw that day fills me with fear even now. My spotter first sighted it, and when she fainted we passed around the spyglass trying to make it out. It was a monster so massive it could swallow a galleon in a single bite, a sea beast larger than any I had ever seen, or had even heard tale of. It seemed to be composed of thousands of writhing tentacles dripping with foul black ichor, with each appendage ending in the fearsome visage of a foul sea beast. I saw it set about the other ships in the region, ripping them apart with terrible fury. At least a score of vessels felt its wrath, its crews dying in abject terror as the god-beast ate its fill. The worst part though, was the noise it made. It took me a while to realize what it was doing, and that what I was hearing was no ordinary rumbling.

It was laughter.

This abomination was slaughtering my fellow pirate brethren for the pure enjoyment, in the same manner of a child destroying an anthill. And I knew right down to my very bones, that if something didn’t stop it, soon it would make its way to my ship, and we too would die screaming.

I did the only thing I could think of. I ordered that our entire cargo be dumped overboard as an offering to the Wavemother, for it would be by her and her power alone that we might be saved. A king’s ransom gone in an instant, yet I scarcely cared at that moment, so great was my terror. I cannot be certain if my offering roused Physignathus to action, or if she had already sensed the god defiling her domain. I don’t really care about the specifics, truth be told. All I know for certain is that she came.

We first sighted her dorsal fin darting through the churning waves, faster than the most nimble vessel of mortal construction. Me and my crew let out a cheer as we saw it, for we knew that the hour of our deliverance was at hand.

The god-beast was so intent upon feasting upon the children of Wavemother that she did not notice her presence until it was too late, otherwise she might have escaped. In a manner of seconds Physignathus wrapped her lithe form around the mass of tentacles, constricting them with her scaled bulk as she tore off bloody chunks with bite after bite. Curiously, as the blood of the god hit the water, it steamed and evaporated. The Aqua was sublime in those violent moments, her beauty and might both completely terrifying and awe-inspiring at the very same time.

As Phsyignathus continued her assault, I heard the beast cry out for mercy in a tongue I barely understood, but the Wavemother would offer none to a thing that had so cruelly and callously slaughtered her children. She simply kept to her grim work, biting and blasting the god with spells and her super-heated breath over and over. 

After what seemed like an eternity of battle but was probably only a few, exciting yet utterly terrifying minutes, I saw each and every one of the god’s mouths rapidly expel a thick and dark fog, a mist so thick it was more shadow than anything. The fog quickly spread, blanketing the nearby ocean and hiding her from view. I cannot be certain as to what happened next, save that the god seemed to have used the distraction to escape the Aqua’s tight grasp somehow. I heard my lady roar mightily in anger, before she spoke ancient words in a booming voice. I don’t speak Draconic myself, but I do have a couple Draconians that serve as crewmates. They told me after this ordeal that Physignathus had laid a mighty curse upon the god-beast known as Eindridil, never again would she be able to walk upon dry land and escape her claws. She would be confined to the waters forevermore, and hunted by my lady until the end of time itself.

Her followers deride the Wavemother for nearly butchering an innocent god-child, pretending she was some carefree goodly thing that only sought to play with her Merfolk angels before being attacked in an unprovoked manner. She was neither an innocent nor was she a child; let me make that absolutely clear. She came to feast and demand obedience. Eindridil is a cancer, a blight upon the entire fucking ocean. She is a monster with no conscience or pity, a tyrant that demands utter submission to her will in exchange for a temporary reprieve from her wrath.

My only regret that day is that the Aqua wasn’t able to finish her off.”

Historical Entry #2.
Border Friction
Original Source Unknown
Date Unknown, but was likely transcribed after the death of the Dragon Ta-Ba-Ret in the year 2261. Translated from the Draconic tongue into modern common.

Physignathus had returned to her hoard triumphant over the hordes of foul Brood. They who had sought to envelop the mortals on Amaranthia now laid in the ocean graves, unable to harm her children. There she laid in slumber for months, recovering from the scars that the vile children of Ta-Ba-Ret had inflicted upon her glorious and mighty form.

There she would have lain for would could have been years, were not it not for a very particular intrusion she felt at the border of her ocean demesne. It was a familiar feeling, a sense that brought to mind the feeling of an intelligent cancer, a walking sickness that embodied all that was wrong and vile. She knew this feeling, for though she had felt it only once before, its presence was unmistakable.

Eindridil.

In a furious explosion of movement that stunned even her Ocean-folk attendants, Physignathus shot through the waters in a direct line towards the source of the intrusion gnawing away at the back of her mind. As she drew closer to the border of her domain, the presence only grew larger, filling her with an incandescent rage. She knew exactly where the goddess was, for the eastern border of her territory was marked by a long pillar of jagged basalt, likely formed during the eruption of a long forgotten volcano. Passing ships frequently used this pillar as a landmark, but it would seem that the Goddess had found another use for it. Upon this salt-stained rock sat the pretender-goddess. This time she took her other form, that of the eternally expecting merwoman. This was somehow even more revolting than the writhing mass of mouths and tentacles Physignathus had expected to meet, for the very fact that she would pretend to be anything other than what she truly is was in and of itself yet another slight.

As the setting sun reflected off of her scales into an awe-inspiring array of blueish-hues, Physignathus drew her head from beneath the waves and fixed her gaze upon the goddess.

In a voice that was cold and otherworldly, yet shaking with righteous rage, she spoke thusly.

“Goddess. Thou knowest what will happen to thee if thou would taketh yet one step forward. Why dost thou encroach upon what is mine, foul god-thing?”

Eindridil laughed, but there was no true humor in it. For her eyes betrayed the burning hatred she felt for the Firstborn present before her.

“Oh my Lady, I merely wished to ascertain for myself that you were still yet among the living. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you just how vicious the little children of your sibling can be,” she replied in a mocking tone.

The eyes of the Goddess searched the Firstborn for any signs of battle-weakness. While Physignathus appeared to be layered in a pattern of new scars, she saw no sign of fading strength or haggard breath. A frustrating development.

“We all know just how lucky we were to have you guarding your flanks. It would have been quite tragic if those Brood had slipped past your forces and encircled the mortals that you had to strong-arm into killing your wayward sister. Perish the thought that you might actually be seriously wounded, or even killed by some creation of Ta-Ba-Ret.”

Physignathus glowered at the Goddess. Had she come to the border of her waters simply to engage in mockery?

“Yes, it is fortunate that I was there, willing and able to hold back the tide. Tell me Goddess, when thy followers cried out for deliverance from the chittering hordes, did thou tellest them why the Firstborn were willing to risk final death for their sakes, while thee and thy foul kin refused direct aid? Thou may claim to be concerned with their lot, but when thou might hath faced true danger for the first time since thou met myself in battle, you hid in thy heaven from the enemy. Thou art a coward, just like the rest of thy lot. Caring only for the power and nourishment that their souls provide thee, and little else. Parasite!”

Eindridil’s countenance slipped for a brief moment, clearly unsettled by the words of the Wavemother. Divine power began to flicker in between her fingers as she debated avenging that slight right then and now, before fading away as she decided against violent action. Physignathus was not as weak as she would like, and she had no desire to lose yet another fight to the Firstborn.

“Well, I will not avail myself of your hospitality for any longer, as I can see I have clearly seem to have caught you in one of your terrible moods. I will bid you good evening and wish you a swift recovery, my lady. We will meet again, and I can promise you that the outcome of our final meeting will be quite different indeed,” she spat, her tone dripping with malice.

In an instant the Goddess vanished, having returned the energies of her Avatar back to the divine realm that served as her heaven.

Upon returning to her own domain and before returning to slumber, Physignathus commanded several of her Knights to have the basalt pillar destroyed, ground into dust, and for it to be taken away as far from her domain as possible. She would not suffer anything tainted as such in her territory, for any reason.

Historical Entry # 3, Part 1
Tribute
Transcribed from the tale recounted at the Amaranthian settlement of Bull’s Rest by the Dragon Knight Thelonius Von Eisenbach to me, Mathurin Desmaretz, Azure Sage of the Western Lapis Monastery. Dated February 10, 2263.

“My own fight against the Brood and the abomination that led them is a long story, and if I told it all I fear you’d run out of ink and paper. Besides, you’re to record the full account of what occurred on Highwinter in the year 2260, yes?”

I merely nodded, and motioned for the Minotaur to continue.

“Well then, fair enough. It’s about time folks learned the whole story.

I’d been recovering from a nasty injury that wasn’t taking to Healing Magic very well, and I was mostly spending my days in solitude aboard my ship. I’d get visitors every now and then, did a little fishing, but for the most part I just simply enjoyed some of the most restful peace and quiet I’d had in years. This went on for a month or so. Just the salt air and the rolling waves to keep me company. And then that night I awoke to find the damned Dark Lord of the Fae standing right alongside the Custodian of the Prism Discordia at the foot of my hammock. 

Believe me when I say this. For a Minotaur, being in the direct presence of that being is a terrifying prospect. It was only the presence of the Custodian that led me to believe that there was some greater design to this visit than me simply becoming the plaything of the Fae or meeting some other grim fate at their hands. After our some brief introductions, the Custodian bid that I join them above decks, where I might first see what would happen if I did not act. The Dark Lord of the Fae possesses the Orb of Power known as Jule, its power lies in scrying magics. The Dark Lord bid me to look within, where I see the thread of fate that we would find ourselves upon should I do nothing. As I gazed within the orb, a great concealing fog took up my ship, both hiding it from sight and speeding it along at great speeds towards the naval bulwark Maud’madir had set against the expected invasion of Brood. The orb showed me all the peoples of the southern flotilla, their ships lashed together for the Highwinter celebration. While they had been stationed here by their respective alliances to form a blockade against the Brood, few saw the harm in engaging with their fellow marines in a bit of holiday fun. Peoples of all races, nationalities, and creeds had come together in fellowship. That sight in and of itself was rather inspiring, but I knew that alone was not what I was meant to witness.

A truly massive army of Brood hidden beneath the waves slams into the flotilla, and hell throws open its gates. I have seen my share of blood and death, but the scale and ferocity of the massacre that I paid witness to simply beggars belief. People are slain before they even get their swords loose from their scabbards, so perfect was the surprise. Gallons of blood stained my beloved ocean a deep crimson hue, and the screams of the dying assaulted my ears. They did not pause longer than they needed to collect the bodies of the unfortunate souls that yet lived, before continuing inland destroying coastal villages and towns in much the same fashion.

As the vision faded, I looked up at them, pleading for either to use their magic to send word to the admirals, perhaps maybe if they were forewarned of the threat they could throw back the tide? The Dark Lord told me that words alone would not save them now, and that more was required. He motioned with his unoccupied hand, and it was then that I noticed the Human woman bound to my figurehead. I was told that her name was Calaibrie Goldenheart. She was a favoured Priestess of Cassandra and a Bishop of the Church of Light.

You can probably tell where this is going. I do not know if the citizens of Duvain had been lax with their tribute lately, or if Ta-Ba-Ret had somehow cloaked her children from my lady’s sight. I do not enjoy killing the helpless, but a sacrifice was required to rouse the Wavemother and call her to the defense of the flotilla. I saw what would unfold if I refused, and that was enough. With a nod from the Custodian, the Dark Lord produced a scythe seemingly formed from solid darkness, and offered it to me. I took the weapon, and approached the Lightweaver secured to my figurehead. I could see the tears streaming from her eyes, and the muffled cries for mercy that tried to escape the cloth stuff in her mouth. Perhaps, in another life, such sights might have moved me enough to consider mercy. But there was simply too much at stake here; what are the lives of hundreds of thousands worth against the life of a single faith-slave?

The blow was quick and clean, which was honestly the most she could hope for in such grim circumstances. As her lifeblood spurted from her throat and landed upon the waves, it hissed and steamed away. The fog parted, and for the first time I saw the flotilla with my own eyes, as of yet unharmed. The Custodian’s scales flashed an aquamarine hue as the ocean hungrily drank the blood of the sacrifice, and in an otherworldly voice he shouted, “A sacrifice is made! The Serpent rises!”

Everything from then on was recorded on the Skein Gate by the Berphauntian Admiral, so if you’re stitching together some sort of narrative I’d suggest adding that to whatever it is you’re writing. That has to be one of the most memorable experiences I have ever witnessed or been a part of, perhaps aside from the death of Ta-Ba-Ret herself. Let’s hope that such a calamity never threatens our existence again, because we cannot expect that a Firstborn will always be able to save us.”

Historical Entry #3, Part 2
The Serpent Rises
Taken from the public Skein Gate Announcement of Admiral Pryor of the Berphauntian Navy, Highwinter’s Day, 2260.

“This is Admiral Pryor, of the 2nd Destroyer Squadron, Empire of Berphaunt. I leave this message on this last remaining Skein Gate so that it may find its way home to my superiors.

The armada is shattered. As stillness settles over a red dawn on the southern seas, I may be convinced that last night was naught but a terrible nightmare. To see the truth, however, is only so hard as to look over the haunted faces on my ship’s deck. My crew has swelled in size and among our new shipmates I have Whiteraven men and Sons of Sprawn Orcs. Of the events of early Highwinter morn there is but wreckage and the cries of dying sailors.

Highwinter’s Eve seemed an enchanted thing. I saw brotherhood on the waves and old political grudges give way to the simple camaraderie that only men long away from comfort and home are capable of. Last night my man-of-war, The Turbulent, was lashed together with a Duvanian Frigate, Hightide. This was not in a boarding action, but instead so our crews could walk across our decks to exchange gifts, play at games, and behave like civilized folk for a few hours. The popinjay Captain Drysdale was prim and proper like all high ranking Duvanian naval officers, but I came to enjoy his company. The man ran a tight ship and knew every inch of his vessel, I could tell at a glance. Even the fucking greenskins showing up didn’t spoil a thing.

But after several hours of peace and merriment we started to hear it; screams of pain and anger filled the night air. Then I heard the scratching of scabrous claws upon our ship hulls. The sound was unmistakable.

Brood.

The Brood came in the middle of the night, their dark carapaces disguising them against the jet-black water. As we made fools of ourselves, they crawled through the cold waves. They were weeks early. Either our reports were wrong, or we were lied to. They were upon us before we even knew they were there.

Between myself and Captain Drysdale we quickly took command of our crews and began to fight to unobstruct the deck. Once we’d cleared Hightide all three crews split into two groups, one pushing onto the ramshackle Orcish vessel to clear her decks, and one to join me upon The Turbulent. Every sailor there fought and followed orders like they’d been on my crew for three seasons. Never thought I’d be proud of a Son or a Whiteraven, but I am proud to have known those people then.

The fighting on deck was brutal, but quick. Acid soaked the wooden boards of The Turbulent: They groaned underfoot just like the dying. As we reclaimed our ships we set our archers and mages to the rails and the rigging, and set our weapons crews to the task of slaughtering bugs. For a foolish moment, I had hope. We had caches of catalysts and alchemy, buckets of arrows, and rows of bolts for the ballistae. It wasn’t until the first of the smaller ships began to sink beneath the waves that the cries from below deck reached my ears. As we slaughtered the Brood in the water around the ships, their acidic blood and juices filled the sea and was eating away at our hull…The Turbulent was taking on water.

Seemingly all at once vessels began listing to their sides and capsizing, their crews dumped into the acid brine that consumed the ships. Drysdale, to his credit, had already signalled for the Duvanian fleet to rally on Hightide, and was calling for a fighting retreat to the rest of the armada. Were I not staring at my quartermaster’s acid eaten face a moment before I saw the retreat called, I might have called Drysdale a coward; more the fool I. I gave the signal and soon the flares of retreat and horns were sent skyward, sounding across the armada. I had never envied Duvains more agile vessels until that day, what good was the might of a man-of-war when the very seawater is set to consume you?

As the smaller vessels of the Berphauntian fleet and the Sons of Sprawn made their way into position alongside the Whiteraven Alliance ships, one thing became painfully clear; the man-of-war, the dreadnoughts – anything over a damned frigate class – were not going to outrun the tide. I looked around me and saw the heavy vessels like my sweet Turbulent lagging behind. I watched behind us as the largest and slowest vessels were overwhelmed and consumed. We were going to die.

As we doggedly made our way forward, I resigned myself to my fate and looked across the faces on my deck. People from every nation on Maud’madir stared grimly back at me. I fixed my tricorn and drew my cutlass; No Berphauntian sailor dies running. As I turned to order the helmsman to turn us about I saw snapping Duvanian sails streak past The Turbulent. I watched agape as a half dozen Duvanian frigates drove past our limping vessels to plunge directly into the Brood tide. As he flew past I swear I could see Captain Drysdale, bicorn gone, fastidious hair in disarray, manning the wheel of Hightide with one hand and waving a cutlass with the other.

The Brood turned on those brave fools and over the flash of spell and alchemy I saw more chitin than water rise up and turn round to consume those six ships. Every sailor on those ships paid the ultimate price, every captain went down with his vessel. To a one, they all fought until claimed by claw, acid, or sea. The price of six Duvainian ships that could have outrun that catastrophe saved four times as many heavy vessels, and ten times as many sailors. Captain Drysdale and Hightide spearheaded a suicidal charge that saved the lives of thousands of people that only a few months ago would have been his dire enemies.

As the six frigates floundered and sank behind us, as one by one the crash of spell and steel died down, we saw the precious gap they had bought our vessels with their lives begin to all to quickly close. The Brood were going to catch us anyway.

As the Brood drew back into range, our archers and ballistae began to volley once more. It seemed mere moments before our mages began casting spells, but the speed of the Brood was terrifying. It seemed for a moment that despite the valiant death of Drysdale we were doomed.

At the very moment before all hope drained from me I felt a deep, echoing rumble from my boot heels to my hat. It grew in intensity into a roar that drowned out all other sounds. Men began pointing west frantically, and I turned to see what fresh abomination was to be unleashed on us. What I saw I will carry with me all my days.

On the horizon the water boiled menacingly as something cut through the waves, advancing at an alarming rate, leaving a wake so large it defies description. As it sped closer the cause of the disturbance became clear; A dorsal fin slicing through the water, 30 feet high, and almost upon us. With impossible speed it swept into the waning gap between our vessels and the Brood, before disappearing beneath the surface, leaving the water deceptively calm. A moment of silence passed before the sea roiled and what burst forth will be one of the most wondrous images of my life. A serpentine head emerged from the frenzied waves and rested its gaze upon us, clad in glistening scales of the purest aquamarine, shimmering with a prismatic essence as the first rays of the dawn light caught the edges of each scale. My eyes widened in wonder as wing-like fins stretched behind the Firstborn, Physignathus, the translucent webbing glowing with the rising sun, framing her in glory.

Turning her gaze upon the Brood, the Firstborn revealed a pair of twin tails, ridged with the same translucent material as her fins. Thrashing them about, her intent became clear as the tails created massive whirlpools, dragging many of our foes to the ocean’s depths. My crew held on to whatever was on hand, uttering prayers to their individual deities and dragons, as the waves pummeled our already abused vessel. It was obvious that she was not finished with these intruders to her realm.

Opening her maw wide, strange arcane words slipped from her tongue, her voice cold and otherworldly. I couldn’t help but shiver as her voice washed over me like a cresting wave and trickled down my spine as an icy rivulet. Water Elementals formed from the waves created by her lashing tails and stood upon the sea, 30 feet tall each, blasting Brood into the clutches of the whirlpools, or shredding them with their attacks. Smaller figures joined the Elementals, seemingly birthed from the foaming waters, but proving to be less arcane in nature.

With glowing dragon marks the Firstborn’s Knights, Ocean-folk one and all, crashed into our foes, some brandishing lances and riding monstrous sea creatures too terrifying to describe, others bristling with tridents and javelins. Brigandine made of shells, finned helms, war horns echoing across the waves emitted from conch shells; this was an army armed and armoured to the razor sharp teeth they so gleefully bared. The crew and I watched with fascination and admiration as the water churned with blood and acid from these armies clashing within the surf.

As the numbers of our enemies dwindled Physignathus disappeared beneath the surface of the sea. Her Elementals seemed to burst as they returned to the ocean, and her army of Dragon Knights disappeared as suddenly as they had surfaced. The sea frothed and the deck beneath my feet shook with the violence of her passing, rising to a roaring crescendo as the dragon launched herself from the sea’s icy clutches to take to the air. She hovered with fins outstretched, webbed claws spread wide, and cracked wide her jaws. The water displaced by her leap to the air seemed to halt its fall to the ocean below and instead floated for a mere second before rushing to her open maw as she inhaled it greedily, snapping her fangs closed on her breath. A moment of silence passed, even the Brood pausing.

All at once there was a rumbling in her gullet and her jaws opened wide once more, spewing forth a steaming jet of boiling water over the Brood, and all hell broke loose.

The water thrashed as our foes struggled, scrabbling against each other’s carapaces for purchase as they fought one another to escape the roiling doom escaping the Firstborn’s throat. There was a shrill whistling I mistook for the wind, but soon realized it to be steam bursting forth from their chitin wherever it could, creating a horrid shriek as they were cooked from the inside out. I have seen a lobster cooked and placed upon my plate, but nothing could have prepared me for the image of these monsters boiling within their shells; it shall haunt me the rest of my days.

Plunging back into the water she stretched her fins out before her and I swear we all held our breath, for what could she do that would not pale in comparison to the havoc she had already wrought on our foes? Dragging those same fins back to her I watched in horror as the sea fell away from her graceful form, leaving use teetering on the edge of a dizzying drop into depths men can only dream of. Within the space of a heartbeat the the sea roared back, the water rising to a wave a full league in height, crashing over the Brood and driving them beneath the surf before rolling them back up once more to ride its crest. We could see their forms, dead and living alike, caught up in this massive wave that dwarfed the largest of our ships.

It carried them from us quickly, driving them away from our shores and the defenceless coastline towns and villages.

As quickly as she had come, the Firstborn sank back beneath the waves and was gone. All that remained around us was a tranquil sea and the stunned silence of delivered souls.

As dawn light filled the sky, and we could see clearly once more, I sent swift vessels to follow the path of the wave looking for survivors. Sadly it seems Highwinter had but one miracle to grant us, and of the one hundred and forty vessels that sailed together hours before barely half remained. The combined forces of the Empire, the Whiteraven Alliance, and the Sons of Sprawn lost sixty-four ships with all hands. Damn near twenty thousand sailors lost in one hellish night. Of the wreckage we found but a single blessed message stuffed into a wine bottle. I dearly hope Drysdale had the time to drink the bottle empty before trusting his message to it and the sea.

As of the last report I received from our scouting vessels, the wave, a scholarly type likened it to a “tsunami”, drove the Brood horde a full 5 leagues inland on Amaranthia before it’s fury was spent. I do not know what to say to my superiors or to the families of those that have died other than the simple fact that though we fought, we lost. We could do nothing but lose in the face of that tide.

It is sadness, but surety, I have come to a stark conclusion: Our combined naval might cannot prevent the Brood from making landfall. Counting on dragons to save us all seems dubious. The Firstborn bought us a bit of time as it is unlikely the Brood will attempt a direct assault on our southern shores again. But how much, I cannot say.

War is coming to Maud’madir, and we stand ready to die.

For the Emperor and for the Empire! Long live Berphaunt!”