In the depths where even sunlight dares not tread, there lies an ocean of antiquity, a realm older than man's earliest whisper. Here, the water is a shroud, a keeper of secrets sung in the language of death and forgotten lore.
Upon the sunken ruins of once-proud citadels, the great leviathans of summer past now slumber eternally, guarded by cerulean phantoms and the mournful toll of unseen bells. Their dreams are echoes, ricocheting through languid tides, touching the leviathans of night in verse and shadow.
Should you wish to delve deeper, beware the ancient mariners' warning: "To seek the heart of the vanished tides is to court the specters of the abyss." Venture further into the unknown.