Once every few moons, a faction of salmonids scrambles onto land, collapsing on the shallow beaches, barebones and gaunt from starvation. Their numbers grew as they dragged themselves ashore, desperate hunger driving them to lurch at birds in vain, collapsing after each failed attempt.
These are the Nadir Vultures, a tribe separated from the rest that will stop at nothing for even the smallest scrap of food. They laid completely famished before the horde slowly turned to the weakest individual in their numbers, their blurred vision distorting that view of a friend into mere sustenance. The Chum looks around at its peers confusedly before seeing them immediately descend into a feeding frenzy, reducing the unfortunate salmonid to bone within seconds. Briefly satiated but still starved, the group collapses again, indifferent to their act of cannibalism-a grim necessity of their bleak lives.
The shore grows quiet as the hordes of salmonids lay still, until their heads jerk up one by one and search around on instinctual alert. Unable to rely on their poor eyesight, they sniff the air to seek the source of their unease. The waves crash against the beach with an unnatural rhythm, carrying with it, an ominous undercurrent. Without any hesitation, the horde rises and flees toward the sea, a surge of panic propelling them into the water.
The dark depths make it impossible to see that the lurking terror beneath them. As the salmonids swam frantically through the waters, a section of the horde were launched out of the water and swallowed whole in the maw of a tyrant which crashed back down into the ocean, sending shockwaves through the fleeing masses. Survivors of the initial feast scattered away, their fear pushing them to their limits as the Megalodontia gave chase. Few escape its relentless hunt, the creature's gaping jaw clamping down on the stragglers.
The immense beast rises from the depths, body riddled on old scarring. This is Abaddon, the Devouring Despair-a being feared above all else. Eyes as black as voids make out the world around them. It grumbled deeply, vibrating the sea around it, bubbles rising from its maw.
Abaddon: Mmmm...ojul... (Mmmm...food...)
Abaddon paused, sensing a shift in the waters. Like a calling, familiar to them, and insistent, pulling its awareness. Abaddon's hazy vision shifts southwest, toward the sun fading below the horizon. The sense is unmistakable, the call to an isle, shrouded in smoke.
Abaddon: Alat aa hara? Jaasa igo fur. (Isle of smoke? I shall go.)
With a low growl, Abaddon dove back into the depths. They move steadily, lurking in the dark sea without the thought of danger crossing their mind. There is one certainty that always remains: all who know the Ancient Scourge of the sea, fear of its coming.