Paladin of the Dead God

Both the sailors aboard Eidan’s ship and those of the ghost ships stared in a trance.

The tendrils stretching out from the ghost ship were unmistakably larger than the ship itself. They crushed and shattered the hull as they overflowed, resembling the flesh of a mollusk spilling out of a broken shell—or perhaps the sight of intestines bursting from a shattered skull.

The sight itself was a cascade of sacrilegious and abominable images.

The immeasurable chaos surged forth, swiftly engulfing Horace’s ship.

The tendrils rising from the abyss wrapped around the ship, dragging it toward the depths—a nightmare every sailor carried in the back of their mind.

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A booming shout jolted everyone from their stupor.

Horace’s bellow brought both the undead sailors and the Salt Council’s crew back to reality, dispelling their frozen fear. The undead crew scrambled, hacking at the tendrils with axes to free their ship from the grip of the monstrosity.

Fear, after all, stirs the survival instinct in those with intelligence. And survival instinct manifests in two ways: either through retreat or awe.