On all sides shown the faces of the Old Guard; relics of a people of proud tradition. Once of

stature to rival the Sea, the structures now gave way, clinging to the water’s surface. The currents

are strong, constant, and the swell unrelenting; Time too had played its part.

The Traveler wiped his brow, the sleeve of his drab shirt, so stained, appeared as a mirror image

of the murk below. For how far he’d journeyed, he couldn’t say, but his earliest memory must’ve

been of these same ivory oars, grooved deep where his fingers lay, bound, so close to bone sewn

that, had he not known better, he might’ve sworn they’d been with him from the womb. Safe

harbor was a low-burning lamp, hung tentatively from the prow, a Sea’s breath from being

extinguished. The sky stood barren, as it had since the Dawn. This world was not born of the Light.

His muscles tensed under the strain of the oars. The lamp light threw deep shadows along the

musculature of his back, reflecting sea spray and his own sweat. He’d done well to keep close watch of his companion,

but the way was more treacherous now, and demanded his attention. As he contended with the Sea, Fate

arose from her nook at the stern, and breathed a song into his ear. For want of silence, his fingers

uncoiled from the depressions so familiar. No sooner had he realized his mistake that the oars

were lost to the water’s depths. The song grew to deafening crescendo, and so began Nero’s

descent into Madness.