The ocean winds howled against the starboard. From below the vessel, in wait, was the sea’s lord. The ship was free from all crewmen. Gone by the tendrils of the kraken. Now only ghosts lived to tell the tale of the rocking mast. The undead no longer had a past. Neither did they have a future. Death had become their cure. There was no longer a gay drinking song. The shanties of day had been gone, so long. From ships, the ocean was dehydrated. So the lord of the sea sat and waited. Biting its time, as it wanted a bite. Soon the day had become night. The kraken waited and stood fast. It waited for another rocking mast.