[New Location Unlocked: Water Shrines] (Pyke) — 20 EXP gained.
____
The weathered Sanctuary of the Drowned God atop Pyke's jagged reefs shuddered under the roar of the waves, each crash a drumbeat from the abyss.
Inside, the air was thick with salt and the acrid smoke of burning whale blubber. Whale-oil lamps sputtered in stone niches, throwing jagged shadows over carved sea monsters whose grotesque forms seemed to twist and leer in the dim light. The weight of a thousand years pressed down on the sanctuary, heavy and sacred.
At its heart stood Skalen Reef, the Drowned Priest, as unyielding as the reefs themselves. His gaunt frame was draped in seaweed robes stiff with salt, dark and matted. Sun and brine had baked his skin to leather, streaked with gray-white salt.
He gripped a whalebone staff, tipped with a polished whale tooth and strung with shark teeth and the bleached bones of drowned men, which rattled hollowly at every tremor of his hand. His sharp, shadowed eyes fell on the two stone basins before him.
One held coarse salt, grayish-yellow, caked, and bitter—the tribute of Salt Cliff Island, pride of Lord Garrik Botley.
The other held Refined Salt, crystalline, fine as early winter frost, glowing faintly even in the flickering torchlight.
Skalen's fingers trembled as he lifted a pinch of the coarse salt to his lips. Harsh, bitter, familiar—the grit of the Isles. Then, almost hesitantly, he touched the Refined Salt. It melted on his tongue, clean, pure, carrying only the essence of the sea. His murky eyes flared, awakening like a deep-sea leviathan from centuries of slumber.
"This… salt," he rasped, voice brittle as dried coral, "it is unlike any I have known."
Euron stepped forward, calm and measured. "It is the new salt of Pyke," he said. "Crafted by my hand and those I trust most. I bring it to you so your judgment may crown it worthy."
Skalen's gaze pierced him. "And why would the Drowned Priest concern himself with your ambition?"
"Because your word binds the faithful," Euron replied. "If you approve, the people will follow. The holds will embrace it. This salt is more than food—it is a promise. A lifeline. A way to lift the Isles from their own bitterness."
A slow, rasping laugh escaped Skalen, like wind over jagged rocks. "You bring new ways to the old sea… and yet, I see your mind. Not for yourself, but for the Isles. Bold. Clever. Worthy of attention."
He raised his trembling hand above the basin. The torchlight caught the scars of his skin and the salt of his robes. "By the Drowned God, may this salt strengthen Pyke! Feed her people! And honor the blood of your house!"
Euron inclined his head, a faint, satisfied smile crossing his lips. The blessing had been earned.
...
News of the Refined Salt swept the Iron Islands like a storm surge. Lords poured into Pyke, each certain they were owed a share.
Lord Hrothgar Drumm, reeking of ale, slammed his fist on the black stone table. "Lord Greyjoy! Drumm will not go empty-handed!"
Lord Garrik Botley stepped forward, eyes sharp. "Botley blood has served the Iron Islands for generations. We will not be denied!"
Lord Korren Blacktyde's jaw tightened. "The High Priest has spoken! The salt belongs to all—"
"Quiet!"
The hall fell deathly silent.
Lord Quellon Greyjoy's voice cut through the stillness, sharp as a blade. "Speak carefully.
My patience is as thin as wet rope—and when it snaps, I do not warn twice. On Pyke, a single misstep is enough to drown a man in his own fear."
From the shadows, a group of Ironborn emerged, axes and spears in hand, ready at his command.
The lords and captains went pale, shock etched across their faces.
Quellon's gaze did not waver. "Now, we speak as men, not children."
---
📚 Author's Note:
Thanks to Magzhan_Alirahman for the 1 Power Stone!
🐧