A Letter to my Dear Lord Byrun Hello old friend, I've taken pains in this letter to find the right words by which I might congratulate your failure to have me assassinated. Your mercenary may very well have knocked at the gate first, and gotten the same result. Fret not! This is neither a rant nor a slanderous attack on your Academy of Knives. Your spy was equally as acrobatic as he was cunning. Its a shame that my Brutgard don't take kindly to sly tongues, and an even greater misfortune that his screams fell on uncaring ears. They took every pleasure as they plied the teeth and tongue from his jaws... I'm quite happy that your man was caught and hung to save my hair- O but don't you despair, there's more to it than that, see! He was hung -upside down-, brought to the blackest chasm I could reward him with. His fate as of now is a surprise for you, Byrun (did I forget to say Lord?) but I promise he will come in the form of the most grandiose clothing I thought would best suit the renowned Master of Wardrobes that you are, and I must confess the gems I ordered stitched into his skin are of most magificent cuttings, and the gold thread by which his face has been re-stitched together is of a remarkable durability and alloy, a gift of the Spider King if I do say so myself. Now that your brain is careening, and your rage seething like the great walls of fire upon which your most glorious kingdom was built, I have but a few additional statements to make. My greatest gift to you, Lord Byrun, is but a seed planted in my fertile mind. You will see it when the time comes. By gods it will be more glorious than when the Red Star eclisped our holy Luna and cast that silken burgundy shadow upon all lands, more cleansing than when the Black Wind brought forth the Rotting Horde, and brighter moreso than when the Great God Sun enflamed and smote the earth to starve out the sinners of the warring kingdoms that brought no further progress onto our realm. Now, I understand that your wife- your beautiful Maalachandria Nephila was seized and taken by armed bandits along the Jagged Road, but fret not for I admit to you, my honorable brother and adversary, that it was -I-, the Spider King who fabricated her seizure, and assure you that she too will arrive safely and neatly packed in a box. Unlike your assassin who you will gladly wear as a trophy of our nostalgic age-old rivalry, your wife will be as full in the flesh as when you had requested her hand in marriage; I promise when you see the statue dipped and coated in molten silver your eyes will widen with utmost joy, even apprehension at the beauty of which I turned her into; an art piece worth more for the eyes of many than she ever was as a potential candidate to the Brittanic Magistrate's council. Soon you will be on your knees praying for the gifts I can give you. With sweet emotions, L'estat c'est moi. I am the State. (Lovecraftian) A steady wind swept the coast bringing the salty mist of the oceanic world with it; foam-crested waves crashed against the sharp, steep rocks of the Brigham Reef. An ominous gray haze concealed the horizon into the oceans beyond, its dense clouds pregnant with the possibility of a storm. A certain sick emerald-green seemed to emanate from the depths of the the reef and surrounding bay, staining the dark waters with a pale phosphorescence that the townsfolk had relegated to some foreign algae. Steeped in the thick, slimy murk of the northernmost tip of the Bay Crescent, the almost out of-place black stones that jutted up in between the normal rock shore took on their own cyclopean tone; for ages Brigham folk commented that this spot belonged somewhere else, and the fathers of previous generations left records of queer, oddly eroded markings on the black rock that stabbed up from the water like so many teeth. Thirty years prior, in 1980, an accident had happened in this place during the unprecedented arrival of a group of archaeologists. An explosion attributed to the poor calculation of an engineers attempt to produce a clearing destroyed much of the rocks, which seemed to resettle into their upright position with an almost unnatural speed. So queer was this, thought the Brigham elders, that the stones had long endured telltale legends, each vastly different and equally abominable in their telling as the many heads that live to retell them. It was said that after the explosion in 1980 which killed half the archaeologist collaborative in the area and left others missing to the depths, that the tip of Crescent Bay seemed possessed of an anomalous vortex that rushed in to compass the fragments, slowly steeping them in the muddy sediment of the shallow water upon which the site rested. Soon the whirlpool stalled and than stopped altogether; The earthy murk of the place settled and hardened, jutting up the rocks like pikes in this 'c' shaped enclosure which made the northern tip of Crescent Bay. It was during this time of activity and shortly after that was the last sighting of this algae, so disturbing in its ill greenish pallid globs of slime and phosphorescence that the first samples were collected. Dr. Stevan Vaughn, the most mentioned name of oceanic biology and expert in coral reefs, sampled the waters in the hot summer of 1981 when he reported that the heat seemed to amplify a foul stench in the location of the algae. Certain off-hand writings collected by his associates were posted in a June 6th edition of the Brigham Bicker revealing that the doctor had tense feelings of unease in this site, and despite many tests failed to identify any pheromone or emission from the green mass that could pinpoint the source of that assaulting dread. Dr Vaughn, they said, was perplexed and even manic about the algae that plagued such a small portion of the Bay above all others that it was said he would spend hundreds of reclusive hours in the coming months to gather any data he could, examining the muck under the newest electron microscopes and reanalyzing every experimented he performed to see where he could pinpoint properties. By october, the doctor had become secluded and anxious of the outside world; in particular townsfolk whispered that September 4th had been the last time he visited that place of strange stones, cursing the spot as an abomination and something not to be prodded before driving in his black Camaro to another, unreferenced place in the country. In February 1982 the algae seemed to dissipate, sloughing off in tendrils back to the ocean, back to wherever it came. Yet, as people trod along the risky inlet they reported that a certain subtle malodorousness never left. The place remained uncomfortable for people who went there, and many of the fish in these parts were stained by that mysterious color; The organisms in the water, they said, adopted an unnatural behavior and some seasonal specimens were said to have stayed in the inlet to mate in the summer yet never leaving during the winter to go back down south. After a few years the population of those unseemly pigmented fish boombed in several different species, and their almost sedated behavior soon became a violent cannibalistic frenzy that frantically splashed and whipped swathes of saltwater about the area which in the coming years became nicknamed "that sick reef". The population reduced, seemed to die off completely and through the 90s and early 21st century the reef had altogether remained normal, passing off the odd event as a mere anomaly. But in the summer of 2015, the algae returned again. This time it was said the 'stained fish' had returned suddenly to swamp the bay, as if having repopulated their schools from the sudden cannibalistic bottleneck that wiped most of them out in 1986.