The nomads stirred restlessly in their stitched-hide tents. A breeze rifled through the camp, and strangely for the arid plain, it carried the sharp tang of salt, and water, and rot. A voice cried out in fear, muffled, and carried away in the strange wind. As his tribe pulled the door-flaps tight, Massoud glimpsed something between the clouds as it slipped across the face of the stars. What it was, he could not say, but a shudder shook him to his core.
Far above, the splintered hull of a ghostly frigate pitched and rolled through the turbulent sky. Gazing from the deck, a lone figure spared no time for the huddled people below, his eyes fixed on the horizon.
Captain Greyling once plied the seas of Shyish as a mortal man. For a time, he made a name for himself raiding heavily laden bone-junks destined for Mannfred Von Carstein's storage-tombs and stealing away back amongst the Screaming Shoals. For a while, he brought light to the lives of the peoples of that coast, thieving from the followers of great Nagash himself. But as with all things of light and hope in that benighted realm, his deeds were as brief and fleeting as a spark. Having drawn the attention of one of the Mortarchs, his fate was sealed. A howling soul-storm sent his ship to the bottom with all hands, in any other realm, his story would have ended there. But it did not.
Now Captain Greyling captains the Hellbound, plying the skies above the Nomad Chasm at the behest of the Mortarch of Night. What he and his crew seek, none yet know.