The Whispering Depths
The old sailor leans in close, the dim lanternlight flickering against his weathered face, deepening the creases carved by years at sea. His eyes, clouded with age yet sharp with unspoken knowledge, lock onto the party with an intensity that stills the air around you. The tavern hums with low conversation, but his voice rises like a phantom tide, cutting through the din like the scrape of bone on stone.
"You lot ever seen an ocean that ain’t water?" he mutters, voice like damp wood cracking in the cold. He taps a calloused finger against the warped table, leaving behind a faint dusting of green.
"South o’ the main isle, past the dead reefs and the gull-less cliffs, there lies the Whispering Depths. A sea that ain't a sea, a tide that don't move the way a tide should. Thick, rolling, and green as rot, it breathes like a living thing. Folk call it water 'cause their minds can’t reckon with what it really is. But I’ve seen it up close. Ain’t no water. It’s spores. A whole ocean of ‘em, dense as tar, stretchin’ out ‘round the Isle of Hollow Graves like a sickly fog made solid."
He glances over his shoulder, his fingers twitching slightly before he continues, voice dropping lower.
"The air there ain't right. You breathe it in, you start hearin’ things. Soft-like, just under your own thoughts. The Depths don't crash against the shore, they don’t ripple with the wind. They whisper. No birds overhead, no fish in the shallows—just that ever-present murmur, risin’ from the depths like breath from a sleeping beast. Folk say it’s the voices of the drowned, their last words suspended forever in the air. Others reckon it’s somethin’ older. Somethin’ that should’ve stayed buried beneath the land before the spores rose up and swallowed the sea whole."
His fingers curl against the table, tracing patterns in spilled ale, leaving faint green smudges where his skin touches the wood.
"Ships that drift too close don’t come back. No wreckage, no bodies—just gone, like they were never there. And those unlucky enough to make it ashore? Well... they ain't never quite themselves again. Somethin’ gets into ‘em, settles behind their eyes, makes ‘em hum with the tide o’ those spores. It don’t kill ‘em, not right away. But it’s only a matter of time before they walk back into that green abyss and vanish without a sound."
He exhales slow, his breath misting slightly despite the warmth of the room. His gaze turns distant, as if seeing something far beyond the wooden walls of the tavern.
"Those shores aint just alive. They know when you arrive. They can feel you breath. They know who you are. They're waitin’ for somethin’."
With that, he downs the last of his drink, the liquid inside swirling an unnatural green before settling clear again. A trick of the light, perhaps. Or maybe… something else.
Geography
The Whispering Depths stretch like a churning, viridescent abyss, a vast sea of spores so dense they mimic the fluidity of water yet resist it in eerie ways. Unlike true oceans, the surface of the Depths does not ripple with the wind nor crash against the land in waves. Instead, it moves sluggishly, rolling in slow, deliberate pulses as though inhaling and exhaling. The spores are thick enough that smaller objects can rest on the surface without sinking, yet deceptive enough that those who step too far are slowly swallowed whole, their forms vanishing into the murky green void.
Natural events in the Whispering Depths are as unsettling as they are unpredictable. At times, great spore geysers erupt from the depths without warning, sending pillars of luminous green mist spiraling into the sky before settling in thick, suffocating fogbanks that cling to the landscape for hours or even days. In some regions, the spores shift and separate, creating eerie, temporary voids where the seafloor is briefly visible—a sight few dare to look upon, as strange structures and impossible shapes lurk just beneath the surface.
Perhaps the most dreaded phenomenon is the Dead Tide, a silent rolling wave where the spores flow outward in all directions before violently contracting back into themselves. This sudden movement pulls in anything floating atop the surface, dragging lost ships, debris, and even whole sections of land into the depths. Those who witness it often hear whispers growing louder as the tide recedes, though none can say whether it is the sound of the spores themselves or the voices of those long claimed by them.
The air above the Depths is rarely still. Glowing motes of spore dust drift lazily on unseen currents, sometimes forming spiral patterns in the sky before dispersing. Breathing the air too deeply can cause hallucinations, as the microscopic spores work their way into the mind, blurring the line between reality and dream. In some places, the sky takes on a sickly green hue, and distant shapes can be seen moving just beneath the surface—shapes that vanish the moment one tries to focus on them.
Type
Gulf / Lagoon
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