The Legend of the Frostwhale

Upon the sea, where the cold winds creep. A frigate moves like a shadow

in the sleep. Her hull is iron, her spirit bold. She carves her

name in the oceans cold. And lined along her weathered rail. A weapon forged

from a winter gale. They call it Frostwhale, icy and still.

A drifting omen of iron will. Oh, hear that ghost shot driftin' slow.

A pale light fallin' on waves below. When it takes flight,

the night turns still. No mortal ship can defy its chill.

From the frigate's side, where the lanterns fade. The ocean bows