The Maelstrom is unceasing.

The sky above is filled with fury, a vast cyclone dominating the horizon with crackle and roar. Beneath the waves, fast-flowing currents form a perpetual gyre; the Pelagics ride the flow, carrying trade and news across a thousand-mile range of isolated shallow water settlements.

Few choose to become Pelagics; most are swept away in moments of carelessness, but find a fresh joy in their transient existence.

The Pelagics say that at the heart of the Maelstrom lies the turning of the world, and whosoever would survive the violent torsion of funnelled water and descent to the ocean floor would become a god.

The shore-dwellers believe them. Who could comprehend the workings of the storm except those who ride its flow? But few have reached for that prize, and none have returned.

Either it is a fable, or even gods cannot escape the Maelstrom’s grasp.