What fate then, for those hapless souls whose ill-charted course leads them to dance forever in the aphotic shadows? To sing and dance along to the tune of the tottering Squiffy Ghast is to quicken the heart to bursting and forsake all attachment to wholesome, surface-dwelling life.
In these melodies there is no joy or reverie to be found, only madness and death.
In the comfort of bright candlelight, mariners speak of briny corpses rising from the depths and taking up a barnacled bow to draw out faded memories of revelries long since past. When the moon waxes terrible, aethereal harmonies begin to cascade through the hollow grottos of the Cove and out into the surrounding environs, haunting the dreams of any and all who dwell nearby with visions of mossy crevices and the unspeakable horrors of the sea.
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