The Baobhan Sith, the Scottish vampire deer-woman, was delighted. She had found a perfect, uncharted island in the North Sea—green, mossy, and strangely warm. She called her sisters. They began their Enchanted Reel, spinning and dancing to lure sailors to their doom.
"Here we shall feast!" she sang, her heels clicking on the "rock."
Miles beneath the surface, Aspidochelone woke up. The giant turtle-island felt an itch on its shell. It was a rhythmic scratching, annoying and persistent.
"Parasites," the beast grumbled in a voice that shook the seabed.
The Wash Cycle
The Baobhan Sith felt the ground tremble. "An earthquake?"
No. The island was inhaling.
Aspidochelone vented the air from its massive lungs. Titanic Plunge.
The "island" didn't just sink; it plummeted. The sea rushed in, a wall of cold, grey water. The vampires shrieked, their silk dresses instantly heavy. Baobhan Sith tried to cast Glamour Veil, but magic requires an audience, and the ocean is indifferent.
The vortex pulled them down. Down into the pressure, down into the dark. Vampires of the glen cannot swim. The iron in their blood reacted to the deep sea salt. They were dragged to the bottom, drowned before they even realized their dance floor was alive. Aspidochelone scratched its back against a coral reef, relieved the itching had stopped.