Below, in the village of Eldermire, chaos erupted. Doors splintered as a mighty wave crashed over the shore, dragging boats and homes into the hungry depths. Villagers screamed, clutching each other as the air became thick with the scent of salt and decay.
Through the madness, old Elias Thorne, the village's most ancient fisherman, watched with vacant eyes. He had known these whispers in his youth and spent decades ignoring the call. Now, standing before the monstrous sight, his lips twisted into a bitter smile. "It has come," he murmured, "and there is no escaping it."
A group of villagers gathered around him, desperate for answers. Elias took a shuddering breath and recited an old tale: "When the stars align, and the sea boils with sorrow, the Sleeper awakens to reclaim the world that belongs to the deep." His voice broke as he whispered, "We have awakened the Sleeper."
In that moment, the sky split open, a deep rift in reality itself, and tentacles thick as trees lashed from above, dragging down pieces of the heavens. The Sleeper's will made flesh, unbound and furious.