[*(This doesn't matter and is only here for a little explanation. They mean nothing.)]
You're drifting...
Far beyond the safe waters of the islands lies a vast sea that is rumored to be cursed.
Legend says, those who sail when the Death Sea's fog is up, never return out of the fog.
You can taste the seawater stinging your tongue.
The smell of wet, rotten wood is surprisingly leading. The scent of saltwater lost it's appeal after two hours of dehydrated vomiting.
You clutch on, refusing to let go of your buoyant plank. Your lower half is submerged in the warm water, kicking weakly at the waves.
Crying for help is fruitless, you discovered that twelve hours before. If you're gonna die, you're gonna die on this plank.
You look up.
Nothing.
You look down.
The water looks beautiful and ominous, so inviting. You feel your fingers become more and more strained, one by one they relax.
Your arms slackens, your cheek slides against the board. You submerge into the water and sink, your determination wasn't enough for hours upon hours of heat and dehydration.
You sink.
And the tendrils of cold seeps through your soaked pants leg, and it crawls up your body and slowly wrapping around your neck.
You can feel your air leaving your lungs...
Your vision turn blurry as your eyes accumulate pressure, your body demands air.
All humans who dare travel the Death Sea's fog, never return.
Your body is forcefully swept and you are pulled downwards, gravity is no longer a thing.