The Crimson Council.
The Island Lord received the horrifying news of the failed subjugation of the Blue Tribe just as evening began to fall.
He sat upon a towering throne carved from bleached leviathan bones at the head of the grand Council Hall. He was an incredibly broad and imposing merman, his massive frame draped in a heavy crimson coat woven from the skin of a deep-sea predator.
In his right hand, he gripped a massive red trident that reflected the dying sunlight that bled through the high stone windows.
Before him stood his elite commanders and a single trembling survivor of the camp massacre.
"Speak clearly! You tell me that a force of three hundred elite warriors was wiped out by the cowardly Blue Tribe? A tribe that barely has enough weapons to hunt fish?"
The survivor swallowed hard. His eyes still wide because of the lingering terror of the slaughter.
