A ramshackle fishing village rests along the chalky gray limestone cliffs of the Crystal Coast, cradled within a gentle slope that stretches up from the rocky beach. Five rickety piers reach out from the shore like the fingers of a decrepit hand. Fifty wooden and thatch shacks are huddled together, connected by muddy footpaths that lead from the water’s edge. Twenty dingy fishing boats are moored in the harbor, and a decrepit dock house doubles as a trading post and pub. At the top of the cliffs about a half-mile from town is a collapsing fieldstone shine to some unknown god.
An man in a hooded cloak approaches "Do you hear the call of the deep like the others do? Don't you listen to it! Don't you trust anyone!"
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