[the anchor creaks and grinds alarmingly, its metal cold enough to burn your abused hands. it's somehow heavier than even its size and weight should suggest, and you can feel that you're pushing against something--

no sooner has it shifted the slightest bit than you gets an idea of what. a flood of images and feelings from the scene above rushes through you with nightmare intensity; the land ravaged and fighting back, the Jotunn howling in the flames burning the trees and grass, the sea freezing over into ice and breaking and freezing again as you thrash and scream and try to bite down on a man with a red beard in front of you. the whole scene is heavy in your gut, even the parts you're not directly touching: this is part of who you are.

the baby dragon cries out and curls into a ball like a pillbug, shielding its face with its wings.]