A cursed place, a wasteland beaten and raked by a desiccating heat, its rocks cracked and flaked into razored shapes untouched by the slightest dew. A fitting place for the punishment of a cursed kraken, hellish and hateful, its salted stench still assailed the area, its melted arms and tentacles now contorted shapes, blackened and shrunken, their armour of salt-crystals having fallen away.
The sand ship got smoothly underway, gliding into the approaching night. Structurally damage was minimal, the morale of the crew however had taken a battering. Two sailors had been taken but the beast would know better than to tangle with them again, a poor trade for a tale to tell and a greater reputation. The druid was lucky, the gods surely looking out for him.
Greenbough and the others were taking on water, their injuries had left them dangerously dehydrated. A large circular suction injury marred his shoulder where the beast had grasped him, attempting to pull him under the sands. From his time under a silver smir of sand and salt had coated him, a crust punctuated only by the red wetness of numerous cuts and wounds.
For once Goran was serious, still and thoughtful, fingering his invisibility ring whilst he scanned the ground below the ship. Ironwall was kneeling attending to a broken railing as if it were an injury to the ship itself while Saabu sombrely prepared to invoke Thoth-Hermes. All were injured.
Shadows were claiming the landscape below the horizon and a sky incapable of rain was changing into open naked night, the only beauty in this place. Arcael was reminded of the cursed and blasted lands of his home and the vast abominations that claimed it.
This place would be good training.