Whispers of the Seventh Tide

The ocean always remembers those it swallows - whispers lost in the embrace of brine, cradled within salt and shadow. Seventh among the tides, your name always surfaced anew. Yet, names are like sand against the crashing echoes, constantly reshaping, vanishing.

Helm's Echo: A merchant vessel of dreams we drift, cargo costing nothing, dotted by stars that fell in slumber. Wishes unfurl like sails, patched and weary. Rumor whispers there are promises buried in wreckage, but no map survives the fog.

Once, the sky bloomed with hues unseen... now, it lingers in grey silhouettes, reminiscing with the tides. Here, after storms of crystal and night, we remain - visitors of a shore half-remembered, half-imagined.