They

Squirmers are not mentioned in Navy reports. By custom, they remain unnamed even in the ship’s logbook. But everyone knows. Their names and lore are whispered while at land, and their rituals are performed at sea.

A Mariner pissing over the railing hopes to keep them away with this smallest of sacrifices. The corpse of a cat you found nailed to the mast should have appeased them. Or maybe superstition turned to faith, and these fevered acts of devotion drew them to the ship. {if A Heretic = 1} And you do know the signs. How they are chained to the fevered tree, the truth's outermost layer, the one revealed to you in dreams. They have followed you, or you have followed them. They are the harbingers of something sublime, and you are blessed to see them again. {elseif An Occultist = 1} And you do know the signs. How they are chained to the fevered tree, the truth's outermost layer, the one revealed to you in dreams. They have followed you, or you have followed them. They are the harbingers of something sublime, and you are blessed to see them again. {elseif Feysilvered Lenses > 1} And you know the latitude and longitude of their signs. The Fevered Tree and Lightbringer. All beyond is rumour and sorcery. {endif}

They cannot speak; they are inhuman, tentacled monsters that lurk in the mists. But they sing. A piercing song that penetrates the mind. A choir of unfathomable wills, each demanding and exalting. The eldritch syllables call even you to service – and the women suffer worse.

”It’s my fault,” the Captain says. ”My fault and my duty.”