Chanting echoed within the sea caves of Aesry Surlaenis'a, a sepulchral drone that rose and fell in accordance with the roaring of the surf from without. The body of a dwarf in privateer's attire lay discarded near a collection of small bones surmounting a pile of rubble, face down in a pool of blood flowing from a hollowed out chest cavity. The cavern's sole living inhabitant, a white scaled and one-eyed S'kra Mur garbed in a crimson cassock marred by great sunbursts of soot, knelt before a crude altar of rock slabs, incanting paeons to Drogor. A wan malevolence shrouded the S'Kra Mur, an eerily distorted anti-illumination superimposed over the natural darkness of the chamber that made her appear vaguely incorporeal; a cold specter of the Dark Immortals, chimerical and grim.

The rhythmic chanting continued as the S'Kra Mur raised up a small heart in her blood-drenched claws. With measured ceremoniousness, she brought forth a rusted, iron hook in her dominant hand, swinging it forward to rip open the meat of the organ, coaxing more blood to spurt out upon the surface of the altar in a gentle rill. Removing the still-dripping hook, she reverently placed the heart upon the rock slab.

She rummaged through the belongings of the dead dwarf, finally coming upon a yellowed scroll, which she held up before her. Gore and filth dribbled down from her claws, smearing and making illegible the text scrawled below the inscribed title of "Aspects of the All-God". Without hesitation, she slashed through the brittle parchment with her hook in a diagonal line. At first, nothing seemed to happen. Then, at once, a baleful black flame limned in purple roared into existence along the tear in the scroll. At the same time, an identical Stygian flame burst around the heart on the altar. With a thunderous peal and a crack of wet lightning, both offerings were completely immolated by the black fire, which then winked out of existence in a snap of brine-laden air.

The breaking waves outside the cavern seemed to rumble in appreciation and satiety, accompanied by a sense of hunger kept in check. In response, a film of crimson iridescence flashed over the S'Kra Mur's white scales, and for the briefest of moments, she appeared to be coated in a sanguineous oil slick. The veil faded away, leaving her scales seeming a little less ghostly and a little more... normal.

She dipped her head, so low that her snout nearly touched the face of the altar. Raising one hand in the air, crabbed claws splaying out toward the image of a shark etched into the rock of the ceiling overhead, she intoned:

"Praise Drogor, Lord of the Storm, who's indomitable wrath sends ships and civilizations to their ruin,
And excises speakers of demonic tongues,
He who drowns abominations,
And who shatters life and unlife to dust.
The Holy Servant abides."

As the final words faded into silence, the S'Kra Mur lifted her head and returned the hook to its home in a belt-worn case labeled 'Inquisition'. She then began to fastidiously wash her hands in a makeshift basin of seawater wrought from a scallop shell. The ritual complete, she rubbed a simple fob attached to her case and a mug of black coffee appeared in her right hand. With a murmured word of praise, she cupped the steaming mug within her hands and drank deep.

Some time later, the empty cup lay discarded on the rubble heap along with the dead dwarven pirate. The S'Kra Mur knelt before the altar in silent communion. Her head twisted abruptly, staring outward, as though her one eye could bore through stone, in the direction of the Mainland. "So it was unavoidable," she said. "The Mistress Rides."

She reached down to touch an adder-shaped sacrificial dagger at her hip, tracing the length of the serpentine blade with one claw. Then she withdrew her hand. "No. Not this time. This is a storm they must weather alone."

A glint of light and motion drew her attention to the nearby scallop shell basin. A droplet had fallen into it from the cavern ceiling, small ripples billowing outward. She made a soft clucking noise in the back of her throat as she leaned in.

"Faith is a vessel. Ah, but mortals are fragile, prideful creatures," she chirred. "Often have I seen it, the light of the neophyte in the eyes of hopeful children. But when tested..."

The S'Kra Mur smashed her fist upon the shell basin. It shattered. She laughed amidst a cascade of blood and seawater, a bitter, harrowing sound.

"Ride on, Milady," snarled the S'Kra Mur, her one eye as cold and hard as the stone slab before her. "Crash down upon the provinces in a wave of carnage. Let us bear witness to the integrity of the people's faith. Will they withstand the tempest? Nevertheless..." she glanced over at the once-pirate's corpse. "Even a weak vessel has its purpose."