On the northern shores of Zarkoum, the outcast Glacene struggled immensely. Blown off course and then shipwrecked by a sudden storm, those that survived the jagged rocks and furious currents found themselvesred washed ashore in an alien and inhospitable land. Leon Metar, a priest of Glacinus for a mere three years, had been appointed leader of what remained of the refugees. The ship's captain had died in the wreck, and much of the higher Glacii soon after. If Krustaliem had been seeking to punish the Glacii for some unknown slight, Leon thought that they could not have met a more suitable fate. 

The mere climate of this hellish land had already claimed a third of their number; the young, old, and sickly quickly perished from the heat alone. Pure water was difficult to procure, and Leon feared that dehydration would soon claim many more of them. There had been some short ventures into the thick jungle that bordered the beach, in search of food, survivors or civilization, but pitifully few returned. Thick, fresh branches were burned constantly, filling the air with noxious smoke. Many were made sick by it, but it was a nessecary measure after a child had been sucked dry by a mosquito the size of a dove. Aside from the phantom threats in the jungle, the Glacene had not yet encountered what could be interpreted as "people" since being cast away onto this brutal land, but Leon knew better than to relax himself. There were moments when he felt strongly like he was being watched, not only from the foliage but from the crashing waves as well. Those moments increased in frequency with each passing day.

On their eleventh night spent on the sands of that fateful beach, Leon nervously awoke from his already fitful sleep. He felt an overwhelming sense of dread, as though a terrible pressure was pushing down on him. Though he could not say why, he turned his attention to the nearby sea, and from the blackness of the ocean, all of his fears were realized. Great lumbering shapes emerged from the water, stalking onto the shore. From the fire's light he couldn't make out much at that distance, but he could see teeth, claws, and soulless, black eyes.

He wanted to get up, yell, scream, run, wake the others, nut he found himself frozen in fear. The pressure of the dread in his heart was pinning him to the ground. As the monsters finally descended upon the Glacene, Leon watched the nightmare unfold. With great, the washing jaws they tore apart his fellow survivors. They were torn limb from limb and devoured, their blood staining the sand a deep, dark red. The sound of ripping flesh and the cries of painful death filled the night, and Leon felt truly powerless.

Now closer to tthe fires, he could more clearly see these terrible beasts. They resembled fish that walked like men; unholy mockeries of nature that served no purpose but to kill and eat. As the survivors dwindled in number, too stunned to fight back, Leon laid limp, hoping to play dead and be overlooked. The sounds of carnage died down over time, and Leon dared to open his eyes to survey the scene. He immediately regretted it. Staring down at him was another fish-man, with an expression of what Leon almost perceived to be curiosity.

"A coward among the defilers?" It spoke in a shrill, yet guttural voice, "I'll savor you most."

As its massive jaws closed around him, Leon had a strange thought. Perhaps he was already dead; surely there could be no hell greater than this.