A desolate legend as old as the main wharfs soaked in Bilgewater, the protected goliath known as Nautilus wanders the dim waters off the shoreline of the Blue Flame Isles. Driven by an overlooked treachery, he strikes abruptly, swinging his colossal anchor to spare the pitiful, and drag the ravenous to their fate. It is said he comes for the individuals who neglect to pay the “Bilgewater tithe”, pulling them down underneath the waves with him—an iron-clad update that none can get away from the profundities.
To comprehend the legend of Nautilus, one should initially know the man—for even the tallest of bar stories concur, he was in fact a man.
In spite of the fact that the waves have washed away the name he was brought into the world with, most recollect Nautilus as no simple mariner, however as a rescue jumper. Just past the southernmost reach of the Blue Flame Isles lies a burial ground of boats, supposed lost while looking for a favored land, hoping to exchange abundance for eternality. On a reasonable day, their sparkling holds coax from underneath the surface. Numerous groups looked for jumpers to gather the lost fortune, and none could coordinate the aptitude of the fast sinking mass of strong muscle that was Nautilus.
With lungs that could take the air from a ship’s sails, Nautilus wanted to freedive. Continually raising a lot of gold or gems for the group, the man requested no exceptional wages—he asked just that the chief flip a coin over the edge as they set out, respecting and assuaging the immense sea. A mariner’s notion no doubt, however numerous an ocean dreading team made such contributions to guarantee a sheltered return.
Long stretches of rescue drained the simple fortune, each take getting less and less, until one day Nautilus’ group discovered that their boat and working papers had been purchased free from them.
The day break was red the morning the new chief got on. Hailing from an unfamiliar port, he carried with him a goliath suit of metal and iron. He focused in on Nautilus; for sure, he had bought the order due to Nautilus. It was clear the chief was fixated on a particular wreck, one covered in murkiness even on a reasonable day. The jumping shield could withstand the weights of the sea floor far longer than any man, sufficiently long to gather what was covered up in the strange murk.
The group concurred working was superior to starving, and Nautilus wound up being dashed into the suit, the wooden deck moaning under the heap. Frenzy rose in his throat when he understood that they don’t had anything to pay the offering. The unfamiliar skipper snickered as Nautilus was brought down into the water. He guaranteed the group that whatever the Bearded Lady was securing would make them all rich beyond anything they could ever imagine. At the point when Nautilus got back to the surface, they would make their senseless penance.
As Nautilus sank, the light above diminished, and all developed calm, the man’s own breath the main sound repeating in the iron suit. At that point something connected from the profundities. He was being pulled down, and unexpectedly Nautilus felt fluid dread fold itself over his heart. It was not treasure his commander looked for, yet some sleeping, eldritch force.
Nautilus snatched the anchor chain, his last association with the world above, and pulled himself up even as the thing beneath looked to drag him down. However, the weight was excessively. Similarly as his goliath metal fingers were going to break the surface, the chain snapped. Nautilus shouted inside the suit, however none could hear him. He tumbled once again into the inky frenzy, grasping the sinking anchor in urgency. Dim rings wrapped him, and he could just look as the darkening layout of his boat blurred away. At that point everything went dark.
At the point when Nautilus stirred on the sea depths, he was something… extraordinary. The haziness could not, at this point hurt him. The extraordinary metal suit had become a consistent shell around him, hiding the bond that the early stage power had made with his soul. Caught in the shadowy profundities, he could recollect just a single thing—the new skipper’s wrecked guarantee.
Nautilus pledged, there and afterward, that all would pay the sea’s offering. He would make sure himself.
Driven ever forward by this idea, he walked toward the shore. Be that as it may, when he arrived at Bilgewater, a long time had passed, and he could discover no hints of his commander or group. There was no life to which he could restore, no vengeance he could take. Rather he got back to the ocean, permitting his indignation to surface on the eager, gutting their boats with his powerful anchor.
In some cases, in the tumble of waves, ancient remnants of the past of what his identity was push up over the waterline… yet consistently the one who is Nautilus remains suffocated just underneath the surface.