In the shadowy depth of forgotten waters, where curry-flavored fog tickles the Titanic's rusting bow, an irony whispers—its name is bureaucracy. The ships lie, not quite sleeping, as their paperwork was never filed correctly, wedged between the Bermuda Triangle and a bureaucracy that dares not speak its name.
Once proud vessels, they were doomed by the very architects of their dreams: "Forward to our destiny!" cried the captain, oblivious to the ship’s manual titled "Expected and Unexpected Sinkings in an Irony-Laden Era," which rested unopened in the captain's well-drawn chest.
And what of their journeys? Underwater tours of the mundane, marred by salt and secrets, echoed only by the Doppelganger of Galleon, charting plots neither here nor there. A crew that could have been, should have been, opted instead for naps—those unmatched mariners of the deep.
Among these leviathans lies the "Doomed Destiny," once declared too sea-worthy to fail, now an undersea landmark to failure itself, holding an annual subscription to the League of Underwater Misadventures.
Wander Down to the Ghosts of the Guessed The Lost Compacts of Crustacean Diplomacy