Eyes of the Ancients, Tablet III, by the Ancient Priest.
Years passed, and the Warrior who had forsaken his duty for a life below the waves slipped from our minds. Perhaps we noticed fewer sea-kin on the waves. Perhaps not. We had no way of knowing that, far below, a sickness was spreading. It robbed many, the Sea Queen among them, of their voice — and of their song. With no harmonious words to give them purpose, the afflicted become isolated, resentful and cruel. They saw us as if for the first time; we were strangers once more. Who struck first? I cannot say. I know only that from the time of my childhood, to travel into deep water, while often necessary, invited great peril from below. Their new song was one of hatred. They clawed our boats apart and dragged us down in a baleful embrace. Without a word spoken, our two worlds were now at war.