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My motley crew, neither fit to lick my boots nor curl my moustache, have bloody well betrayed me. And I was only trying to save them, those that remained true. Even now, floating prostrate upon a plank of wood, bathed in the dying embers of the evening sun, I hear the clitter-clatter of a million tiny claws. If I close my eyes, I see those tentacles reaching up to me out of the deep.

I don't know why the Brine King chose me. For weeks I've heard the voices, whispering of his return, gurgling of doom and slavery to us all. I tried to warn the simple men of my ship, made examples of those more violent disbelievers. Yet my prophecies only served to drive the rest into obstinate ignorance. They cast me overboard, perhaps in the vain hope that in my death, none of my utterances would come true.

Alas, as the morning sun peeked over the horizon, a pillar of green light rose up from the waves, vindicating my darkest fears. The old god ascended from the depths and laid waste to my ship and all aboard her. Now, without food nor water, I shan't last the night. My bones shall be plucked clean by the pincered multitude that haunts me even now.

May this message find land, and by the unholy revelation that Tsoagoth has risen, may my reputation be restored.
- Captain Caruso of the Lady in Waiting