Visions of the Sentient Ocean

A strange imagining, a water-filled dream. Faces - alien faces - forming in it, screaming, speaking but not in any language one could ever understand, for it is not a language of sound or sight but of the pull of the currents, the saltiness of the water, the subtle gradients of temperature and the throbbing of the weight of the ocean above, water around. Desperate flight, ripped from somewhere. A door, pulled open, a portal, following the tendrils of magic to a new place. A home. “We could not stay,” the currents whisper. “We could not stay. The homewaters collapsed around us, the worldwaters were crushed. We fled. We were lucky to find this place.” You feel the heat of dryness behind you, a concept – dryness – that seems completely alien in this language of salt water and currents and temperature.

The ocean turns to the party, questioning. You, Wellby, could have stayed, stayed in the Green Sea, stayed with family, with roadhomes and shiphomes. Yet you didn’t? You, Delwath, could have stayed in treehomes, in feywanderings, could have not gone to war. Yet you didn’t?”

In the face of these visions, the ocean questions the party, pressing them, why did you leave your homes?

In response, Wellby says, or thinks, or imagines, all those homes, the tidy, tight little ship cabins that he sailed in for years and years. The sound of the gulls over the water. The wagon homes, cabins along with the wagons filled with trade goods. But he also thinks and remembers thinking back to all the different times he sat with a map spread out on the table in front of him, all the different map shops and map sellers, and the little book of maps that his family had, the sea charts, over and over again, putting a finger down across all different ages, from a little young halfling to grown man on the blank places on the map and saying, what’s there, what’s there over and over again. And at last, says, that it took me a long time to realize it down to my bones, but that’s where my home really is. The blank places on the map.

*As Wellby speaks, the currents swirl, forming strange images: a massive island floating in the sea. giant city underwater carved in the side of a huge underwater mountain that stretches immensely through water murky and blurred in your vision, a ship seen from below and then somehow alive, diving below the ocean, its shape shifting as it does. And you can see, you can hear, a slight discordance in this, as the ocean seems to be acknowledging your the strangeness of the world. And yet still there is this longing for what is now gone.

Delwath is thinking, and I guess, speaking, but it’s hard to express in words, of the dreaming. When he was a child of this place amongst the trees, where he would run and talk and play and explore and experience with his his age, mates, his ka, his generation, all the things that humans experience in dreams that elves no longer do once they awaken from their childhood. He recalls the stars shouting a warning from that place. Elmerica in particular, the elven Wild Star, shouting a warning into the dreaming war, awake, war awake and waking up with his age mates, too young really to be awake, to be taking up the burden of adulthood. And he thinks of the debate that spread across his age: Do we do we help or do we flee? Do we march out of our fortresses and help the humans, help the dwarves, help the others, or do we stay protected? Delwath never doubted. It was his place to march. Now, as he thinks about it, he doesn’t really know why, it was something in that moment when he was awakened, that star shouting a warning. He just couldn’t stay home and hide, and he never considered the idea that he would stay home, stay in the safety of the elven forests. From the moment he was awakened he he knew he would march. He had to. There was no choice. Sometimes he wonders, you know, why did I do that. But it always felt like the right decision, and despite everything that happened, he’s never regretted it.

The ocean circles, and you can feel the emotions in this entity. Clearly not human, but resonating Delwath’s story. The pain, the regret. We were not warned. We did not know what was coming. The water seems to cling heavily to Delwath for a moment. We had no protectors, we had nobody watching over us, we had no divinity. We had to make our own power. And we were young then, and weak. We would have liked a warning as it begins to float away, as the rest of you begin to sink down. There’s a shift in the in the ocean. You hear the sort of melody, this low hum begin and colors begin to grow in the ocean life, coral, fish, kelp, whales, starfish. We had no protectors. But we became protectors. You see this image of the ocean full of life and this current, this water sort of flowing over the ocean, flowing across the fish, some of them swimming through this current and growing. beginning to stretch, and their forms shift, growing legs, long legs with long toes, with broad webbing between them, arms, with long hands, with webbing spread out, fins that run down the sides of their arms. Beginning to grow faces. eyes, mouth, stretching out into sort of somewhat humanoid features. We made something to protect.

These people, these fish men and fish women, begin to stretch, flex, and open their eyes. They look around as the currents swirl around them. There’s a connection between them and the currents—a bond, an understanding. The ocean seems to befriend them, drifting along, and as it does, the merfolk follow, staying deep, hidden far below the surface, dwelling in the water, in the depths. As you watch, time seems to pass. You see people living their lives, building cities, learning—either teaching themselves or being shown—how to weave kelp fronds into structures, how to coax the coral to grow, how to tame manta rays. Yet, at the same time, there’s something very alien about this. There are no temples, no signs of anyone worshiping a god, no writing. They seem able to communicate over great distances without speaking. There’s something deeply alien about this culture, something strange about the ocean swirling around you now. It’s neither good nor evil—just strange.

Yet, the emotions triggered by Delwath’s story, emotions that you aren’t strange. There’s a sense that of we, too, would go to war to protect what we hold dear. We too understand what it means to be warned and have no choice but to fight. As this image grows, you feel a bitterness—a metallic tang in the water. Even when we did not win, we did not give up. This is what we were protecting. This is why we stayed.

*Amidst this protectiveness, this motivation to do whatever had to be done to keep these people safe, a question probes at you: Why did you keep going? Wellby, were held by Grash’s blade and could have stayed in the memory of your people or turned to safer journeys. Yet you came back. Delwath, you found answers to your questions, found a people who would celebrate you for saving their gods, and still, you didn’t stop. Riswynn, you are twice renowned among the dwarves for recovering the Chalice of the Rune Priest, celebrated among the orcs for saving Xukrhaz, one of the most famous dwarves of the current age–none could doubt that you had served the duty of your gods. And yet, you haven’t stopped. And you, Seeker, you were offered a chance to join the ancient scholars of Tollen and learn the intricacies of every mystery in the universe, at the cost of only five years of your life. And yet…

Seeker in response, thinks, or says, funny you should mention that. Why not join the guild that seems to have all the answers? Growing up, I saw many leave the fastness in search of wealth, or even just for adventure. But I wasn’t interested in that. I wanted answers. I wanted to understand how the world works, and for many years, I thought that was the most important thing. When I encountered that guild, I thought they had all the answers. Now, I’m not so sure.

I’ve also realized something very important about the people I’m traveling with—that they just couldn’t do it without me. It’s not just the magical explosions I create, or my ability to make them larger or smaller, or to magically help them with their tasks at critical moments, or even to turn a demon into a worm. It’s not my endless knowledge of the arcane either, without which we’d have no idea what to do, mostly. I think it’s my ability to sit down on the beach, pick up what appears to be a random stone, and notice some non-obvious fact about the local geology. In that way, I can unlock the key to a puzzle. It’s my curiosity that this group couldn’t do without, right?

At any rate, what use is that to anyone else? It seems to be useful for this group of friendly people. And really, I just want to keep finding those quests along the side of our journey to pursue. So, I feel that this fellowship needs me, and I need them in that way

The ocean swirls around Seeker as he speaks, and you see images forming, surrounding Seeker’s memories and stories. There’s clearly something here that the ocean—or this intelligence you’re interacting with—doesn’t quite understand. You realize that Seeker is the first one to talk about himself independently from the group, as an individual within the group. This concept doesn’t make sense to the ocean. It seems to think that all five of you are one person.

It speaks in the third person, referring to “we,” but there’s no sense of “I” yet. This isn’t a collection of different individuals—it’s as if the ocean perceives you all as a single entity. It sort of floats up to Seeker, curious, as he talks about traveling with a group and being useful to that group. You get a deep sense of puzzlement from it as it begins to swirl around Seeker, trying to understand what it might even mean to feel useful to a group of people who are not oneself. It waits for someone else to speak. You get the sense that it’s not just about what resonates with it. It’s partly judging you. Are you worthy to pass through this barrier? Are you going to help the merfolk?

Riswynn thinks, or speaks, about why—why she wasn’t done with the fame and achievements she’d accomplished thus far for her gods—she thnks about how she sits around with her armor. Back home, she first realized how she could be of service to Bahrazel and her people through her mending skills, skills that manifested as she became connected to the power she was channeling from her gods. She always tinkers with her armor whenever we’re sitting around at a campsite because you repair it, and then it breaks again. It’s constantly in use, and there’s always a need for mending. The history of the dwarven people and the peoples of Taelgar is long, with missing pieces that need to be found and reconnected. She needed to find her people’s shield, her people’s cup. She met others who needed to be reconnected—the giant with his eyes, for example. There are pieces that constantly need mending. The work of repair is never done. There’s always a new task, which comes naturally to her, reconnecting with the past.

As Riswynn talks about the constant need for mending, there’s a flash of an image—what looks like a city, or parts of a city, a great forest of kelp growing from the bottom of the ocean. But parts of it have rotted and collapsed in on themselves, and a great gash, like a crevasse, runs into the ocean floor through the middle of this image. You feel an intense wave of failure, a sense that it’s not quite ready—it doesn’t know you well enough yet to talk about what needs mending and where. But you definitely sense that this resonates strongly with it, this intelligence. There is damage in the world because of this, but it retreats. The currents pull into their shell a little as Riswynn talks about this, and the ocean grows still for a moment as it waits.

Delwath speaks, saying, if the world had been different, I might have stayed in the forest to the north with the Ko’zula. If I had fallen from the sky in their forest and not met anyone else, perhaps that would have been where I stayed. But I didn’t fall from the sky there. I didn’t not meet anyone else. He talks about how his time away in the Shadow Realm left him abandoned, disconnected from his Elven family. He had given up on his Elven age mates, given up on ever returning to the Elven lands like a normal elf. But he found companions among the humans, dwarves, and halflings. Having found them, traveled with them, and learned their strengths and weaknesses, he grew to care for them—for Kenzo’s stories, tattoos, and swift fists; for Wellby’s mapmaking, excitement for new places, and fondness for dangerous beasts with sharp claws and axe beaks; for Seeker’s obsessions, curiosity, dangerous lack of sense, and strong sense of self-preservation, which go together, you know; and for Riswynn’s faith and ability to mend and heal things. When he found the Ko’zula, it was too late. He had found other people he was loyal to and could not abandon them, even though the forest to the north did feel like a place that could be a new home. Loyalty drew him back.

*You sense the current begin to reach out slightly, with almost a hesitant touch, seeking something… hope, perhaps. It hesitantly begins to creep out a little bit, and the current picks up slightly from where it had gone still. There’s this memory, and it’s not clear whether “hope” is exactly the right word, or whether it’s just a sense that maybe there’s something to grab onto, something to look for. What it seems to be latching onto as Delwath was talking is the idea that you can be loyal to something that’s not yourself. This is something that probably never would have occurred to it because it doesn’t think of individuals as separate entities. As you say this, there’s an opening up, a kind of query as it tries to look at each of you. It’s trying to understand: would you be loyal to it? You don’t have to answer this with a story, but it’s clearly asking, “You are so alien from us, and yet, would you help us?”

Seeker, in response, pictures in his mind—it was honestly a low point for Seeker—his cloak in tatters, covered in demonic bile, sinking through the waters, but then being awoken by his companions at the moment of purging the sickness and cleansing the waters of Kaikkea, that sacred ocean spirit. So I’m just picturing the good deed we did to heal the sacred waters of the ocean.

You can tell that this has perked it up. This is what it’s looking for. As it looks around at the rest of you, this query is on its mind: is this something you would do?

By way of saying yes, Wellby remembers a time and shares the memory of many, many years ago—of him and a half-dozen other halfling kids gleefully jumping off the side of a boat to cut the fishing nets where a dolphin, who had been coming into the nets to steal the fish they were trying to catch, had gotten stuck. The half-dozen of them splashed in the water, cutting the nets free, making sure the dolphin could swim away safely.

You can sense a growing feeling of possibility drifting on the current as it swirls around Kenzo, Delwath, and Riswynn. Yes, this is true.

Kenzo thinks about the deep sense of calm and peace he has felt he has since being in this part of the world, this particular ocean. He reflects on his interactions with the Stoneborn, Kazuro, and the deep, genuine way in which he wants to learn and also share the beauty of the ocean. He wants to learn to listen to it, with a very deep sense of humility. He’s plugging into the universal vastness and love of the ocean that the Stoneborn also possesses, but that Kenzo feels a sincere connection to as well. There’s humility, but also an eagerness to serve—he thinks, “How can I also share the wonder of the ocean with my people?” He immerses himself in that deep, sincere intention, without specifically setting up a mechanism like a monastery. It’s more about the underlying feeling.

Riswynn remembers the People of the Rainbow—the Orcs who had been forced to flee from oppression and had found a safe place, only to see that place become unsafe again. She remembers fortifying that place daily to keep the threat at bay and getting to know the people she was protecting as she stayed with them long during that work.

Delwath thinks of the memory of the Meswati, the lost gods of the Deno’qai, and his quest to free them from where they had been lost. And also, a time from the Great War when Delwath marched to war for many reasons, but he thinks back to the great forests of the elves—many of which have now become forests of nightmares. He feels a sense of failure that the elves couldn’t do more to protect those places, and he would give quite a lot to restore them or to have been able to protect them.

As you’re all speaking, the ocean, the current, goes still for a moment, and all is briefly quiet. Then you hear a humming noise begin, and in the currents, the whispers: “This is the story of Buruli and Gazankoa and the jade… and how we failed.” The water below you clears, and you’re looking as if through a mirror—but this is clearly not the present. This is a memory.

You see the city you glimpsed earlier—a vibrant image of the kelp forest, the city now alive, bright and colorful, with coral growing among the kelp. Merfolk are swimming and tending to it, carefully coaxing strange fruits to grow, budding off the kelp, letting them drift on the sea to be eaten, carrying some strange essence of the memories of the people and the magic of the Sentient Ocean across the world. This is the Garden of Names—a memorial, but also a place of reliving, where the stories of all who had crossed through the ocean drifted in the currents and could be found again. The power of this garden was stronger because of the jade—the magic of this piece of jade illuminated the forests. But then something changed with the coming of the jade.

Now you see an image of a merfolk warrior. He looks powerful and strong, with a face almost like a fish—bulging eyes, bald, with a fin running down the top of his head, fins where his ears should be. But as you watch, you can see the way he looks at the garden with envy, not content. Then the whispers start again, but you can’t see anything happening—everything is inky and black. The mirror goes dark, and you hear a name, a word: “Gazankoa.” Sacrifices and promises are made, and power springs to life in the heart of Buruli.

And then, war. In the middle of the city, in the center of the great palace that once housed the names, in the heart of this garden, where the kelp grew into this twisting, spiraling building, 50 feet tall, stretching halfway to the surface—in the middle of that, a rift opens. Creatures flood out from the Plane of Water, creatures that have long believed that the ocean is theirs to control. They see the Sentient Ocean as an intruder, something to be corralled and controlled. They threaten to spread across the deeps.

But then you see the ocean gathering its strength, forming a bubble around Omi—Omi, the name of the merfolk city. There is a deep sense of sadness as the ocean watches the merfolk, those who were not part of this attack and who could not flee, trapped, enslaved, dragged back to the Plane of Water. But the contagion was stopped. Buruli fled through the portal again, leaving only a small number behind to watch on this side.

Now, the portal is sealed by the ocean, but it can do no more. It cannot assault, cannot pass through, for if the elementals—its enemies in the Plane of Water—got hold of even a fraction of its essence, they would get a hold of all of it. And so it stays. The rot cannot spread, but nor can it be healed until Buruli’s power is taken from him, and the magic of the jade that holds this portal open is brought back to this plane.

As you see this story unfold in images and words, below you, you can see the events—the fighting, little vignettes of what you think are the ocean’s memories. You see the chaos at the beginning as many merfolk fled, some chased and hunted by Buruli’s warriors. You witness the desperate struggle to keep this rift that began to spread, from growing, to contain it, and stop Buruli’s war from spreading beyond Omi. And you see this image of many other merfolk cities spread across the endless ocean. This is not all of them, but this one was dear to us, for it was where…

The sense you have is that the merfolk don’t really have a religion in the traditional sense, but to the extent that they have a mystic understanding, it was centered around this garden of memories, of names, of tending to their past and future. Then you briefly sense a question—a last question. “How does this story end? How does this end for us and for you?” As the violence of this vision of war, destruction, rot, and corruption fades, there’s a moment of peace.

Now you can see the water below you has become clear, and you see the ruined city of Omi below you—the rotted bits of jade, the cracked foundations, this rift. You’re still high enough up that you sense you’re not quite through, but you see what is there now. And you hear the ocean asking, “How can this be made better? It’s asking not just about its story, but your stories too—where does this story go, and how does it end?”

And with your answers and thoughts, it lets you pass, not sure of the answer, but trusting you to find the right one, and ending that is better than the present.