As dawn broke over the open sea, the crew set off under hazy skies, drifting in a salty breeze as waves lapped steadily against the hull. They feasted on fresh crab, savoring the brine and spice of the meal—perhaps their last taste of calm before the challenge ahead. The fisherman Njal, eyes shadowed and voice low, revealed the location of the sunken ship and warned them of the Shattered Shallows’ eerie reputation: the red lights below, he said, were a sinister omen that wise sailors heeded with care.
Before casting off, the crew sought guidance from the local fishermen, the ones who’d spent their lives navigating these unpredictable waters. Gnarled old hands pointed toward the Shallows, hollow-eyed with remembrance as they spoke of “the blue lights,” urging the crew to heed their mystery and to avoid the red. Finally, Gilly sent them off with a sharp cheddar biscuit each and a carefully brewed underwater breathing potion, made from herbs the crew had gathered with their own hands. A small piece of familiar comfort before a journey into the unknown.
As the shore disappeared into mist, the sea seemed to test them. Six miles out, the Shallows loomed on the horizon, demanding proof of their worth. Gale, uncharacteristically eager to lend a hand, took to the ropes with fingers unmarked by calluses. His inexperience was evident, but he somehow managed to keep the sails steady against the rising winds. Pharox’s eyes stayed sharp on the water, guiding them between lurking rocks and treacherous currents. Meanwhile, Nightshade tried to scale the crow’s nest, seeking a better vantage, but the ship’s relentless rocking made the climb impossible.
Amalfi, ever the faithful, murmured a prayer to his water god, yet his words found no purchase in the stormy silence. Alana, sensing the uncertainty, joined Pharox, her instincts guiding them through the last leg of the journey. Together, they finally arrived at the Shattered Shallows, a labyrinth of broken coral and ghostly shadows. The anchor dropped, and the world grew still, save for the eerie glimmer of lights below.
In the depths, phantom blue and ominous red lights pulsed in the darkness. Amalfi reached for his spells, parting the murk with magic that revealed the depths below. There, two factions of crab-like beings lingered—creatures of chitin and claws, their bodies adorned with warlike hues that cast eerie glows in the dark water. The Claws and the Pincers, fierce rivals and keepers of the Shallows’ mysteries.
Pharox, Kaldor, and Maylin took a deep breath and submerged, breathing potions ensuring their descent was calm and controlled. Maylin, ever the diplomat, reached out to the creatures, whose eyes flashed with cautious curiosity. It soon became clear that the creatures spoke not in words but through a complex language of pulsing lights. Together, the trio studied the strange signals, piecing together a primitive code that allowed them a tentative understanding. Watching this exchange from above, Gale noted their progress but chose to keep his observations to himself, a small secret among many he held close.
The remaining crew—Nightshade, Gale, Alana, and Amalfi—descended to join them. As the group floated in this alien world, they learned the truth of the rivalry between the Claw Crew led by Clawmancer Azura and the Pincer Party lead by Pincermaster Grug, whose battle was not mere sport but an ancient ritual. Known as the Wartide, it was a brutal clash, part sacred rite and part battle for supremacy in the underwater realm. Each faction viewed the surface-dwellers with wary interest, seeing in them both potential allies and witnesses to their timeless struggle. The party decided to assist the Claw Crew.
As the clash of the Wartide began, the underwater world darkened with the shadows of movement and the charged tension of ancient rivalry. Gale, his usual nonchalance briefly set aside, took position close to the wrecked ship at the center of the battleground. With a flick of his hand, he granted Alana a sharp glance and a subtle nod—a Help action to prepare her strike. He murmured a few words of inspiration, bolstering both Nightshade and Amalfi with quiet confidence for the chaos ahead.
Alana was the first to strike, her newly fashioned psyblades gleaming with an ethereal edge as she lunged forward, targeting one of the enemy Pincers. Her blade sliced cleanly through the water, finding its mark, and a dark cloud of blood drifted from the wounded creature, its light briefly dimming as it recoiled.
Pharox, channeling his powers as a druid, called upon the surrounding seaweed to tangle around the nearest Pincher, slowing their movements and giving the Claws’ team a slight advantage. Kaldor summoned a bolt of crackling eldritch energy, which arced through the water with a ghostly glow, slamming into a nearby Pincher who had been eyeing Maylin. Amalfi, invoking the power of his god, formed a shimmering trident of water, directing it toward an advancing foe with a fierce thrust. Maylin, always one to lend her finesse to the party’s strength, swam forward with a dagger in hand, striking a Pincher with precision and forcing it to retreat back toward its allies.
Across the battleground, Nightshade, her eyes gleaming with the shadows of her new Gloom Stalker skills, zeroed in on the Pincher Alana had injured. With a steadying breath, she raised her longbow, releasing a well-aimed arrow that cut through the water like a spear. The arrow struck true, finishing off the wounded creature, which sank slowly, its red glow fading as it drifted lifeless into the sand below.
While the crew battled on, the Pincers took advantage of the skirmish to gather food from the hydrothermal vents, slipping more points into their side of the contest. Their movements were swift and focused, and soon they had taken a commanding lead in the game. Above the fray, the head Pincher leader set his gaze on Pharox, a snarl of recognition twisting his mandibles—this was no mere battle for the leader; it was personal. With a burst of speed, he lunged forward, claws snapping toward Pharox in a flurry of strikes that would have torn into most, but Pharox narrowly dodged the worst of it.
Meanwhile, the Claws rallied, seizing food from the vents themselves and pulling even in the score. Their leader, spotting the opposing Pincher leader in the open, surged forward, launching a powerful attack that left a deep wound in his rival’s side, blood streaming into the water as the Pincher leader snarled in pain and anger. Maylin took advantage of the distraction, gliding in close to the vents to harvest a share of food for their team.
In the thick of the melee, Gale quickly assessed the battlefield, moving with feline grace toward the fringes, taking in details of the scene. His expression was difficult to read, his focus shifting between the wreck, the battle, and the waters below as he quietly plotted his next move.
Outside, Nightshade refocused her aim on the Pincher leader, her arrow cutting through the water and landing a solid hit, though it wasn’t enough to bring him down. His gaze never wavered from Pharox, a grudge now burning in his eyes as he ignored the pain of his wound.
The battle intensified as the crew fought to gain the upper hand. Kaldor summoned another blast of eldritch energy, sending it hurtling toward a group of Pincers, causing a small explosion of light as they scattered. Pharox shifted his position, roots from his earlier spell still tangling some of the enemies, and summoned a surge of healing water around his allies, mending minor wounds as they pressed their attack. Amalfi’s conjured trident struck again, pinning a foe long enough for Alana to slash at it, adding to their mounting victories.
As the third round began, the team pressed forward, tensions mounting in the eerie red and blue glow of the Shattered Shallows. Gale, eyes narrowed, kept his gaze on the scene, calculating his next move amidst the chaos of the game.
Back in the fray, Nightshade took aim at another Pincher but missed her mark. Quickly adapting, she turned her attention to Maylin, assisting her in gathering food, hoping to bolster their side in the last stretch of the game. The Claws and Pincers continued to battle fiercely, neither side yielding in their determination, as the crew found themselves caught in the middle of this timeless war.
In the final round of the Wartide, tension hummed through the water as the teams clashed in one last chaotic scramble. Most of the party and their Claw Crew allies focused on gathering food from the undersea vents, swarming the prize to secure the final points needed for victory. Alana, however, slipped through the currents and closed in on a distracted Pincer grunt, a quick flash of her dagger ending the skirmish with a deadly flourish. The waters stirred with the final tally, and the Claw Crew erupted in cheers—victory was theirs.
Meanwhile, deep within the sunken ship, Gale took on his own critical task. Using his Performance of Creation, he conjured a flawless replica of the wizard’s chisel, a glimmering artifact that looked and felt every bit as authentic as the original. He slipped out from the shadows, joining the celebrating Claw Crew and the party with the kind of casual ease that left no one suspecting his secret.
As the Clawmancer Azura took her Leader’s Right and entered the ship, Gale watched with barely-contained amusement. Soon, Azura emerged, triumphantly holding the replica chisel high. Her voice rang out, claiming the favor of the gods as a strange, ethereal melody filled the water around her—the enchantment Gale had crafted with such care had begun to work. She exulted, and the Claw Crew cheered louder, oblivious to the deception.
Seizing the moment, Gale caught the party’s eye and gestured toward the surface, whispering that their work was done. A few confused glances followed, but he nudged them on, citing that their water-breathing potions were wearing thin. Reluctantly, the group agreed, leaving the cheers of the Claw Crew behind as they ascended.
Back aboard the Fianna’s Favor, Gilly welcomed them with steaming hot toddies and warm blankets, pulling them from the cold grip of the sea and back into the embrace of dry land. Gale, ever the showman, waited until everyone had settled. Then, with a playful grin, he pulled out the real wizard’s chisel, brandishing it above his head with a grandiose flourish that echoed a familiar sense of triumphant adventure. As he turned the chisel in his hand, it caught the ship’s lantern light just right, glimmering as if infused with magic. A stray rope brushed against Gale’s lute, plucking a note that seemed to hang in the air—a perfectly-timed serenade to their success. The party erupted in laughter and applause, each one realizing the weight of their hard-won prize.
That night, they sailed back to Fjall under a clear sky, their spirits buoyed by the thrill of victory and camaraderie. Morning arrived crisp and golden, and the party made their way to Njal’s lighthouse, where the old runescriber awaited, eager to complete the Runestorm Compass. He greeted Kaldor with a nod of approval, recounting how he’d enjoyed sharing the ancient craft with him over the past nights. As they talked, Njal grumbled about the growing presence of outsiders on their islands, mistaking Kaldor’s own resentment of the Bohst for a shared complaint against foreigners in general.
After sailing through the night, the Fianna’s Favor finally anchored in the Fjall harbor under the pale light of dawn. Njal, worn but grinning with the satisfaction of hard-won success, disembarked alongside the party, who were still buzzing with the thrill of victory and the weight of the wizard's chisel safely in hand. The village, quiet in the early morning mist, felt like a different world after the clamoring depths of the Wartide.
Once ashore, Njal immediately started heading to his lighthouse. "No sense in wasting time," he muttered. Once back at his home, he got to work pulling a runescribing table from the corner. Njal settled onto a crate and called Kaldor over with a proud glint in his eye. “I appreciate a soul willing to learn the craft,” he said, setting out his tools with practiced precision. He muttered on about the ancient symbols and grumbled about the growing presence of outsiders on their islands, mistaking Kaldor’s own resentment of the Bohst for a shared complaint against foreigners in general.
Njal pulled out the wizard’s chisel. In his hands, it seemed as natural as an extension of himself, the tool radiating a faint aura in the morning light. He held up the Runestorm Compass, examining its smooth surface one last time, and began to etch, his weathered fingers guiding the chisel with practiced ease as it traced each ancient rune in succession.
With every precise mark, the compass began to hum, a resonance that pulsed in rhythm with the waves crashing against the docks. Sparks flickered along the chisel’s tip, lighting up each symbol as it took form on the compass face, embedding it with raw power. The party watched, mesmerized, as the magic built, swirling around Njal and the compass, filling the air with a crackling tension that made the hair on their arms stand up.
As he completed the final rune, the chisel shuddered in his hand and went dark, its magic fully spent and leaving only a dull, brittle fragment in his grip—a small but inevitable sacrifice for the power now locked within the compass. With a final tap, Njal dusted his hands, holding out the now-glowing Runestorm Compass to Amalfi, who took it with reverence.
