So you're the shite that's gone and summoned me to the beacon, eh? Dammit all... rules is rules and now I'm bound to you, the legendary Weylam Roth, Captain of the Black Crest, cursed to be the undead slave of some lowly... outcast, by the looks of it.
You got an arse for a brain in that thick skull of yours? Of course I'll ferry you to the Brine King's bloody reef. I be wanting to discharge this accursed duty and get back to me afterlife. It's not right, not natural, being above water without a beating heart in me chest.
Right, well on with it then. Go find yourself a salty sovereign to dethrone. Fools' errand if you ask me. Old Briny will gut you like a fish, but at least with you dead in the water I'll be free to get on with me own voyage. So off you go, matey.
Lord of Salt and Scale's what we used to call him. They say when the gods got the boot from our lands, that monstrosity went to sleep down in the deep. Dreamed the kinda dreams that cause all sorts of gilled abominations to rise up, to plague and hunt us for what he thinks we must've done to him.
Was a time we got ordered to hunt them things near extinction. Free the trade routes from Old Briny's tyranny. Even so, not a sailor worth his salt who won't sacrifice a lousy deckhand or two by light of the full moon, just to keep that overgrown crab slumbering in the Oriathan trench.
If he's risen again, you bet your bloody arse we're all buggered.
How did you...? You still breathing? Bloody barnacles on me arse! You, my new friend, are a legend of the high seas to behold! Tell you what, I've already done my bit getting you here, but if you're looking to sail on to Phrecia, me and the Black Crest would be honoured to take you.
Hold on to yer cockles, me hearty! The sea betwixt here and Phrecia be the most ill-tempered there is. Here's hoping you've as much steel in yer gizzard as ye seem to in yer heart.