In brighter days, the ship’s compass was cradled within a binnacle of teak and hardened glass. As the waves broke both masts and threatened to dash the Brisingamen against the rocks, the compass refused to waver in its dedication to its course, even as its swaying gimbals reached - and breached - their tolerance.

Now, the compass lies amidst ash-grey sand and the shattered remnants of its former housing, fifty fathoms deep.

It is said that the compass’s inability to chart a course home lay heavy upon it; that it chose a new purpose. Its hands no longer point cardinally, but in curving paths spiritual and allegorical.

It guides mermen to return to their coral caves, like fae to their hills; it lulls ancient deities to rest with the allure of their age-old slumber; and once in a while, it leads a storm astray, saving another of its kin from the Brisingamen’s fate.