The midday sun bears down mercilessly upon the beach. A lone wizened figure treads gingerly through the shifting sands.

The sands of the shore and the sands of time…

Though enervated, he knows he must press on. As he seeks out shelter, the fleeting images of the past again cross in the mid-distance like passing galleons.

Old friends and rivals. Loyal crewmen under his command. The grand ports that dot the cerulean seas of the Runiverse. Vittles, ales and dance during times of peace. Cannons, sabres and death during those of war.

He struggles: he can barely conjure his son's visage now. The one lost to the pagans who worship their Sacred Flame. He is out there somewhere, cursed to eternally wander the lands as Soul #3563.

From behind a dune the band of rogues descends upon him. No doubt, to them, the old man is easy plunder. They reckon his tattered rags hold little in the way of loot, but at worst he will sate their half-bored thirst for some bloodshed.

The swashbuckler halts and turns to size up his foes. He does not stand a chance in a contest of steel. They are close now. With his staff held aloft, he begins the ancestral chant. 'Tis not true that this Rune is completely forgotten.

They freeze in their tracks mouths agape as the tide recedes with incredible speed. There is no time to flee as the first wave crashes upon them. They suffer what is every seafarer's nightmare; the relentless torrent of saline brine is all they taste and hear as their flames are extinguished in the unknown depths.

Entered by: 0xf256…d250 and preserved on chain (see transaction)