The Wildsea

An endless treetop sea…

A ship with a hull of painted leviathan bone cuts across the waves, the underslung chainsaw at the prow tearing a furrow through the blossoms and branches that regrow before it crosses the horizon. The crew are a motley - a humanesque cactoid at the helm, an ancient woman with a voluminous scarf and a laugh like thunder on watch, and a hive-mind of spiders slipping in and out of a silken skin as it tends to the wheezing engine.

There were more of them once, but the wilds are a bright and hungry place.

Foxes leap like dolphins off the port side, snapping at dragonflies and living whispers that dance on the spore-choked breeze. Parasitic flowers open their blooms to the sun, their larger and more ambulatory cousins hidden in the tangle below. A distant port built onto a shattered monestery sounds its bells, calling any who hear it to a festival of teeth. And there’s a scent of promise to the air, something that brings to mind blood and honey and hope. With a flurry of words and a spin of the wheel, the ship changes course.

For a wildsailor, there’s always something new to be found on the rustling waves.