It is said that those who roam the Broken Sea are madmen. The squalls and storms can rise up at any moment and there are always whispers of a more malevolent nature, of ships cutting through the waters bearing flags of nations long since forgotten. Ships that, under a cloak of fog, vanish from sight to never be seen again. There is talk of creatures larger and longer than the bowsprit of Wynspurlan War Galleons with fat rubbery tentacles that can crush a man completely. For a man to be a sailor in this stretch of water is madness, but for a man to fish is quite far beyond reason.
Elric of Adon captained a small scut he titled Windsplitter. She was a sea worthy vessel, cut from the heartwood of an oak his great great great grandfather planted on their farm some three hundred stones ago in the time of Calleon. Elric spent two nights chopping down that tree. The sound of his blows carried through the thin air and rose like a warble to the village at the base of the beach. Each morning he would leave his retreating lands to find rope and tar and tether all to help him with his quest. He was not a fisherman. He came from hard earth and tilled corn and wheat well past his twenty seventh stone.
When the drought fell, he knew his farm wouldn’t recover and he turned to the great oak. He turned to the Broken Sea.