There are nameless oceans swum by things of dread and bone. The undead sea. A vast expanse of pitch black, oily waters sailed by only the most daring necronavigators. Coral graves reach up from the depths, and whole sunken armadas are risen to serve their sorcer admirals.

A bottle washes up on shore. Inside is the first love letter you ever wrote. It smells like cool, summer skies and fresh flowers. You pull the cork and drink the bottle whole. It sits light and giddy, somewhere just beneath your heart.