Squiffy Ghast

When the moon waxes terrible, aethereal harmonies cascade through the hollow grottos of the Cove, haunting the dreams of Hamlet dwellers with visions of mossy crevices and the unspeakable horrors of the sea. In the comfort of full candles, mariners tell of briny corpses taking up a barnacled bow to draw out faded memories of revelry long past. There is only madness in the melody of those rime-encrusted notes. To dance to the tune of the tottering Squiffy Ghast is to quicken the heart to bursting, and forsake attachment to the wholesome, surface-dwelling life. What fate then, for those hapless heroes whose ill-charted course leads them to dance forever in the aphotic shadows.