Beatha

To gaze upon the endless of expanse of the sea is to give pause and fathom the fathomless depths. For every calm ocean breeze; for every babbling brook; for every idle day spent in contented regard of placid waters, there is an eve of nervous repose contemplating the drowned darkness. That murky realm, the domain of the Tidelord, is one in which strange and unknown things from the bowels of the Water God's domain might heap themselves onto the sandy shores in a tangled mess of foul, writhing limbs.

It is not enough to consider the salmon swimming upstream or the shoals of colorful reef life darting among the coastal shelves. No, for the world of the dragons is much changed in the present reckoning from its early life, and glories of ages lost to even the memory of the Living Gods dwell in the reaches of the black abyss. It could be said that Beatha is one such relic; a calamity of thought given form, spewed onto the world stage by the pitiless, cold oblivion hugging to the globe's sunken skin.

But that, too, is an exaggeration - Beatha is an Incarnate of the Tidelord, yet one infused by his baleful wrath and envy. As all things material are made in the aspect of the gods, so are all things immaterial, as well, and the progenitor's callow proclivities are evidence of that fact. Swirling with the boiling magics of a tempestuous sea, this mage of the murk coalesced her clan not from willing souls and a loving consort, but through the impassioned jealousies of sexual enthrallment. All within her influence are slaves in thought and sensation, and she greedily mates as many as she can to divest her capricious offspring in the ranks of other Flights.

Drawing others born of their deities to her fold - including a powerful and rare Imperial - there is no limit to the salt-stained witch's desires. Of the few gibbering wrecks who've escaped her grasp, but one stuttered constant falls from their shattered minds: that Beatha seeks a godhood of her own, to drown a world standing in the way of her vile ambitions.