[center][h3][i]Edukeshan Sea , the Gulf of Ouroborasia[/i][/h3]
Ostrob - 300 AWH

[i](Collab with Publius, whose hard work I shamelessly butchered.)[/i][/center]

The spectre of night had long plunged the dawn far beneath the horizon, and the tumbling seas were shrouded in thick mists. The blinded Justinian captain came onto the deck of his ship, named The [i]Watchman[/i]. His was accompanied by another ship and a smaller boat, tasked with navigating the eastern seas ahead for any sign of hostile elements, before the Justinian fleet of the Domain would enter the Gulf of Ouroborasia in full force. The sky and sea turned from the calm sunlit cerulean to sombre grey, sailing for the shores of night. Torch-lit, the vessel glided gently on the haunted waters; a vanguard of a small candle through the vast dark.

Clad in the ocean’s mists, hostile shadows are closing in on the crew. Dark motions. A boy-sailor alerts the Captain, Therus Faldrow -- a wizened grey man a couple scores of seasons past his day. Unknown vessels are upon them, their masts and heathen Red Pantheonist banners, though barely visible, wave in the eastern wind as omens for death. Therus gives the signal to retreat. And so his ship, named the [i]Guardian[/i], abruptly manouvres about to set course for the opposite direction again, and warn the main force. The [i]Scout[/I] ship follows. What remains is a single vessel of Magna Excelsiorum, the smallest of the three, the [i]Watchman[/i], to buy the others time to get away and stand against the impending attack. Its captain understands he is tasked with a heavy burden. The unknown Red Pantheon fleet come ever nearer, and the [i]Watchman[/i] manoeuvres sideways and prepares its sole cannon; all the while the captain prays that the [i]Guardian[/i] will make it to safety, and their own sacrifice not be in vain. Though the captain also knows he needn’t worry, for the [i]Guardian[/i] is a battle hardened ship and the agent of many a good ship's doom.  
Meanwhile the Second Mate of the [i]Watchman[/i], a human woman, pointed a blunderbuss at the rows of silhouettes from the strange people awaiting her on the opposite deck, now only meters away from the bow of their ship. But ominously still silent as the grave, and the mist between them is so thick that it cannot even be said whether she is facing Humans. She fires with her blunderbuss, and the intense bright spark therefrom lifts the fog, if only for a second. A scream is heard, and it sounded human. At the very least, she now understands that what they’re up against are [b]not[/b] the alien creatures the southern oceans are notorious for. Yet all the same, her effort to stave the enemy off is vain – their lone vessel is hopelessly outmatched. And having opened fire at them already, the Justinians can expect no quarter.

Then came their response.

A hellish blaring of castanets and the beating of drums rings through the dark fog and through the eardrums of each man and woman in vicinity. The Red Pantheonists came on steadily with a vicious clamouring of masculine roars and jeers towards the three Northern ships, rowing fast. The sound of beating drums and the braying of zornas spread across the nearby water as the first corsair ship cast hooks attached to rope at the scouting vessel, while untold numbers of other corsairs closed in. It was impossible to make out just how many of them there were, but as they were all chanting and screaming it sounded like a great many hundred bloodthirsty men, making noises as feral beasts to invoke the demon of war. Perhaps they were thousands. 
As the clamouring and encroachment went on, they were blasting holes through the hull of the [i]Watchman[/i] with their cannons, and water from the salty brine poured in through the holes. 
[b]‘’Don’t waste your powder. Go and warn the others before [i]they[/i] take the ship!’’[/b] The captain cried at her frantically. The Second mate looks to him and she soon agrees. The signal is lit, though it is far away enough that the bulk of the Northern Justinian fleet might not even perceive it in the ocean’s dark and misty veil. There is only the hope that the other two scouting ships will make it back safely.

Then a voice is heard in a language the northern Justinians did not understand. A cloaked man of swarthy complexion with a strange symbol on his garments, and armed with a curved blade, a pistol and clad in black lamellar mail, had boarded the ship. He looked at the Second Mate with a fickle glare, blood visible between the bleeding gums of his bare and grinding teeth. He was, without a doubt, one of the Axohar from Uudhin.
[b]‘’Yield.
Or.
Kill you.’’[/b]
The Axohar man spoke to the northern Justinian crew in Sancthiyin, with a very thick accent.
The boat was already sinking as more Uudhinites entered the deck to seize the northern sailors and any possible loot stashed away. Meanwhile the other corsair vessels were hot on pursuit of the two ships that had evaded capture, where they are led to an uncertain fate.
Artros the boy sailor, an elven migrant and ship's cleric, stashed and hid his [i]Canonica[/i] in his satchel. With bowed heads, he and his comrades were dragged onto the Uudhinite flagship.

[center][b][i]The following morning[/i][/b][/center]
The mist had partially cleared away, and the sun’s dimmed light graces the Edukeshan waters through the grey and sombre clouds. The Northerners from the scouting boat captured in yesterday’s skirmish, were tied up and gagged – sealed below deck with no clue as to where the Axohar will be taking them.  Above deck, captain Yaldbaw of Daveithai stands atop the bow of the Uudhinite flagship as he narrows his eyes firmly at the western horizon. An island had appeared, and his lips curve once more into a vicious grin. 
[b]‘’The Island of Arban. These infidels have no right to the Islands of Edukesh.’’[/b]

The Uudhinite fleet navigates its course to remain out of sight of the watchtower flanked on Arban’s eastern coast, lest the fog is completely gone, for making use of it was essential to their strategy. At the south of Arban, the Uudhinites were well aware the area is barely populated, if at all, and an organized assault would cause any of the remaining Ouroborasian garrisons to succumb. Or so they thought. 
Four lone carracks split off from the massive corsair fleet, heading south to take roughly 300 Uudhinites to the southcoast, while the other roughly eighty ships circumnavigates around the island towards the western coast armoured in fog, from whence the Ouroborasians would expect the relieving force from Magna Excelsiorum.

After several hours, a flare was seen coming from the island. The corsairs from the four carracks had seized one of the towers from overland, and lit the beacon. Through intel they gleaned from Axohar locals that had lived on that island since the time of Axohaan’s Second Rebellion, the Uudhinites learned how to communicate the arrival of allied ships to the Ouroborasian garrison. They would believe, falsely, that the fleet of Uudhin is the one from Magna Excelsiorum. 
Now Yaldbaw knew the time had come to move in the remainder of the fleet. The corsairs lowered the sigils of the Salt Prince and hoisted up those they had captured in raids against the Justinians, now with the [i]Watchman[/I] in addition. The banner of Magna Excelsiorum was depicted on the Flagship.
So far, everything is going according to plan.

The fleet rowed towards the north-eastern beaches towards a castle positioned there. The fog had mostly dispersed by then, and the ship’s Justinian banners flew proudly in the wind for the castle garrison and Arban’s other inhabitants to see.

[hr]
[center][b][i]Meanwhile on the Ouroborasian mainland’s coast,
 the fishing village of Bajarë[/i][/b][/center]

[i]‘’The Northerners... are far away foreigners in a strange and distant land. Our peoples might both be Justinians now, but they know nothing of us, our customs or our history. They have no knowledge of just what they are up against.. They have never seen them. The Demons of the Deep – the Ghouls of the Salt Prince.’’[/i] An old fisherman spoke, smoking a pipe as he cast a gaze outside through his bushy eyebrows,  and through the window of his old shack out over the sea.  Pitch black clouds were drawing towards the land from the horizon, and the wildlife has migrated deeper inland. As the wind was setting up,  dogs were barking anxiously at the cloud and the waters. Beyond that, it was eerily quiet. It is as though the seagulls had sensed the impending catastrophe and completely dispersed.
[i]‘’Delin, tell the other children to get to the lighthouse on the hill...’’[/i]
[color=92278f][i]‘’But, grandfather. How do you...
Alright, grandfather’’[/i][/color] Delin, the young grandson, rushes through the ramshackle door to reach his friends frolicking at the beach, where they gaze with wonderment towards the distant skies, and what is already happening there.
One of them speaks with enthusiasm, oblivious to the supposed dread that is about to befall their home.
[i]‘’Da says that an evil phantom known as the Prince of Salt lives over the horizon there! The dark clouds appear because he is belching the seawater. And that he has an army of horned octopuses that eat sailors and drag kids into the waters... Prolly why every fisher here’s forbidden from drifting further from shore than about a mile, huh?‘’[/i]
[i]‘’Horned octopuses? I want to see one!’’ A young village girl speaks up with a cheer. ‘’My uncle once reeled in a HUGE fish! But it wasn’t really a fish.. More like some.. monster-creature? It was covered in spikes and had at least 5 eyeballs and fins growing on places there shouldn’t be any... It was pretty freaky. But also pretty awesome.’’[/i]
[i]‘’Bah. T’is all stupid lies I tell ya! Just tales to keep us kids away from the beaches.’’[/i] A boy says.

[i][color=92278f]‘’Guys! Guys!’’ [/color][/i] Delin catches up to the quarrelling children.
[i][color=92278f]‘’My grandpa says we need to get off the beaches! It’s not safe out here!’’[/color][/i]
A boy replies. [i]‘’What are you talking about? -- the seas are mostly cleared of vessels!  No corsairs or other of them pirates will raid us when the weather’s THIS bad! They’d be insane! Just look at the thunderstorm that’s brewing over there!’’[/i]
[i]‘’Yea, this happens at least once a month remember? We’ll definitely survive some rain, that ain’t never bothered us!’’[/i]

The black clouds drew closer. The scent and vapour of the wild salty brine entering their nostrils.

[color=92278f][i]‘’That’s not what my grandfather .. I mean.. it’s not the weather or pirates we should be afraid off. This isn’t natural weather.. this is.. I think he meant to say the Salt Prince is angry that our families haven’t been bringing him sacrifices anymore. And now he’s going to flood the land, and the only place we’re safe is the Lighthouse!’’[/i][/color]
[i]‘’Come on, there aren’t any windows in that damp old lighthouse. I don’t want to miss out on the action…
...
Alright, alright. I’ll come.[/i]’’ Sighs the boy, ultimately caving in to what is sensible.

Inside the lighthouse, it appears the grandfather for his part had busied himself gathering and evacuating his fellow fishermen, together with all their wives and families, and most other folks that lived in their coastal community. It was cold, damp and dark inside, and certainly not meant for this number of people. Many of them huddled in corners or climbed to the small balcony on the second floor from whence they could look out over the forested hills and the ocean. The dark clouds were now directly upon them, and from above was heard the distant murmuring of slithery and baneful words. Strange new birds were flying overhead, high and far enough that none of the Ouroborasian villagers could recognise what they actually were, but strange sounds were coming from them -- some of them resembling words of actual speech that, to some of them, might’ve been faintly familiar. 
The lighthouse was outwardly a square-shaped stone building, sturdy built to withstand many a storm or hurricane. Above the entrance hangs a wooden ornament, depicting a sigil of sorts. At the centre of the domed roof a small tower, narrow enough that stairs wouldn’t fit in its interior and so it can only be scaled by a rusty iron ladder from the outside, from the balcony earlier mentioned. Since only one person can fit on the tower (and because the lighthouse is incredibly crowded), the children weren’t allowed upstairs lest they be seen by the birds. The grandfather watched in the tower, with a look of concern on his face. Yet not one of fear or surprise. He looked at the waves of the Edukeshan sea, who have gotten greyer.
[i]‘’Hey! There are still some people at the beaches! Someone needs to warn them to get out of there, and fast!’’[/i] Cried a village senior watching from the balcony.
[b][i]‘’No. Don’t!’’[/i][/b] Responded the grandfather to the man below him. [i]‘’Those aren’t people.’’[/i]
[i]‘’Come on Gencian, you know better than to say that of others.’’[/i]
[i]‘’No you fool.’’[/i] The grandfather sighed with a hoarse and monotone voice. [i]‘’Take a better look at their proportions.’’[/i]
[i]‘’By Justinian… They’re coming out of the water.’’[/i]

On the beaches were indeed crowds appearing, seemingly washed ashore and grasping onto the white sands, as they pulled more and more of their fellows onto land. And they weren’t gathering in one place, either. Looking from the top of the lighthouse Gencian saw new people appearing on the Ouroborasian shores for as far they stretched, and as far his failing eyes could still see.

The further they moved onto dry land,  the more they resembled an endless array of angry and swollen, bloated people.  And each new one to rise from the water is less human than the next. And just when one thinks a creature couldn’t appear more horrifying, the following one is worse. From closeby one can tell there is not a shred of conventionality to them -- creatures completely alienated from Materia’s mortal races, all resembling grotesque animals. Horrible. Ugly. Angry. And each was different; no two looked alike…
When they came out of the water, they were raging and smashing and stomping around, including at each other, and hissing and gnashing and screeching. Yet strangely, they completely bypassed the homes of the local villagers and touching close to nothing of their property. Their soggy feet only sauntering through the narrow streets and alleys.
At the sight of them, words as [i]‘’unbelievable’’[/i], [i]‘’horrifying’’[/i] and [i]‘’ungodly’’[/i] were oft repeated by those humans in the lighthouse. 

 [i]‘’Hey Delin, how come they aren’t coming this direction? What does your grandfather know? Who [b]IS[/b] your grandfather, anyway?’’[/i]
[i][color=92278f]‘’I... I’m not sure I know.’’[/color][/i]


[center][hider=Map of the territory under attack.][img]http://i.imgur.com/VVTiJTs.png[/img][/hider]
[b][i]The Ghoul Invasion of Ouroborasia[/i][/b][/center]

The villagers of Bajarë dared not leave the lighthouse; all they could do was wait out until the Ghouls had left. It took hours, soon a whole day. The sun went and came. The grandfather stood watch from the tower and saw it all. Even deep into the night; their unholy clamouring was heard, resounding in the cool night air. There was no end to them.  Yet they came not to destroy or ransack their homes, nor did they even notice the buildings comprising their village. They did not ravage the crops, or nibble the fish hung outside to dry. They cared for none of it but rather moved straight forward, bypassing the lighthouse, further inland where they disappeared into the hills. Screams were heard in the distance. 
The Ouroborasian villagers were confused, and only few, such as Gencian, dared guess what is happening, or going to happen in coming days. The warriors of the Salt Prince returned to renew their ancient war in Ouroborasia. And this time; they are there to stay.
In the days that follow, they would spread out quickly and suddenly across the countryside, rallying outside every city’s outter walls across the southern vicinity, where they raise the Salt Prince’s sigil on their tattered banners as a direct challenge to the Ouroborasians, and their right to inhabit these lands. It was the same sigil that hung above the entrance of the lighthouse. The creatures form ranks to something resembling armies; that now there could be no mistake as to their intent.