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Deep in the ocean, many leagues below the surface, your submarine silently glides under full power. The waters are dank and pitch-black. There are no technicolor fish swimming past, no beautiful coral shining up from the deep. It's hard to see, and there's a powerful sense of dread clinging in the stale air.
“Chief, isn’t this where they've seen… you know? The monster?” You scoff and walk away, but the pit of your stomach sinks. Your hands shake as you pour from the autopercolating samovar, hoping a hot drink will calm your nerves. It is, indeed, where The Kraken is said to lie in wait. Your steampunk vessel is a wonder of innovation, a truly modern marvel full of gears and incredible technology, and it will be your head if it’s lost at sea. You also sincerely don't want to be swept into a whirlpool, nor do you want to die being crushed by a giant tentacle. You give orders to surface, out of the deep, to flee from the threat you feel lying in wait. But it can't be true; it's an old sailor’s tale, a fiction, not at all possible.
As the submarine starts to surface, slowly, you feel the floor begin to quake beneath your feet. Oh no, no, it can't be. You run to a tiny porthole, surveying the water. It's so dark, it's almost impossible to see. Yet you can just make out, yes, there, far out but getting closer… the largest tentacle you've ever seen, somehow glimmering in the minimal light. And another. And another. The Kraken approaches.
You race down corridors, the photon globes overhead starting to flicker with the power being directed away from the galvanic piles and to the steam-driven propellers. You slam into the engine room, turning every possible gear to make the boat surface faster, yelling at everyone aboard to get to their battle stations. You scream at the young ensign shoveling coal into the Pyroic Thermal Field Generator, telling him to work faster, as though his life depends on it. You turn gears upon gears that turn even more gears, inching you towards the safe surface of the water. The smell of metal fills your nostrils as the cryptothermal radiation chamber begins to melt down, and you pull the ultrahydraulic lever, your last attempt to rocket to the surface. And that's when the first tentacle wraps roughly around your boat, dragging you and your crew down into the depths, never to resurface.
Scent notes: murky deep ocean water, fresh sea moss, rich amber, metal