The ship groaned as it sliced through the water, showing the world that it was in fact, a survivor.
It limped across the water like a wounded animal, looking cracked and battered.
The mast had been splintered in three places, the sails were patched with uneven canvas, and the hull bore burn marks where soul energy had licked across the wood.
Patches of dried blood still stained the railings, and in more than one place, jagged spears of broken timber jutted from the deck like bones sticking out from a wound.
The Tidecallers aboard worked silently, exhausted and grim, tending to the wounded and securing what was left of the rigging. Even their eyes had lost their usual gleam.
At this point, they were survivors now, not warriors.
The Deep had attacked them just the once, but unfortunately, it seemed as if it had put a mark on them.
On their way home, they'd been attacked by beasts of the sea on more than four occasions, having to fight their way back home.
