The Mariner. Long ago when the stars shone in greater number than any could hope to count,

the seasons came in sequence and the sea was tame. The people of Spear

divided the earth into things called nations. Vast collections of cities that gave

fealty to a few powerful rulers.

Nations used the seas to make trade and war.

They spread their power across spear into places no one has seen in a hundred years.

Then the stars fell.

The seasons went feral and the sea turned foul.

There are none alive today who remember the world before the fall, but we tell the stories of those who heard stories from those who did.

They say there is an island that makes its home in any place a sailor can no longer see land.

It's not made from the bones of spear, the rocks and soil that you and I call home.

It's built from the bones of ships and dead men.

It calls to sailors, lost, hungry and homesick.

It offers them the promise of firm ground, green grasses, and dry air.

Whatever temptation a sailor needs to abandon their senses and change course from the Star Watchers chart.

Most who see the island are drawn to crash upon its shores

and rot away to join the rest of the bones that make up that foul place. Those clever few who escape the

islands call bear the mariners mark. A black spot upon their palm. Those foolish enough to return to sea after seeing the island never return again.

It was upon this cruel mockery of land that the mariner was born. It walks and talks like a creature of the land, but do not be fooled.

The mariner comes from the sea. Its blood is brine. Its flesh is foam, and its bones are the flotsam of 10,000 ships that met their end on that hateful island.

The Mariner is a prophet of dark revels, calling sailors from the land to the waves.

Today, those who bear the mariners mark hear that call.

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