Gods had raged across the land for millenia, far too long for any but the eldest Pulare - the great aquatic ones, skin grey and blood yellow - and the nascent Dungeons to remember, the efforts marring the land.

Shark-queen found this well. Not every world had gods who you could see- gods you could lift your fins from the water and touch, black eyes wide in wonder and reverence. No.

Some worlds were quiet things, the great, hiccupping sobs of the titans illiciting nary a whimper below, nor the grand stone-works granting rising fervor like the great furred manes of the things that lope in the desert.

Shark-queen was glad her world was loud, teeth bared and eyes forwards and ever moving like one should with a goal, and watched.

Perhaps, if she were lucky, the Ichor of the brawl would fall, cell by cell, into her grasp. The krillcores, she found, were incredibly, incredibly useful, as long as they did not wash away.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

It was, however, the ocean, and thus such loss was to be expected. Shark-queen accepted it as little more than the teeth of a cleaner fish biting deeper than they should.

The krillcores were nothing compared to being trodden on. That was less than ideal.

Her gills splayed to herself, a wheeze of amusement playing at the little joke she told. Indeed, being stood on wasn't the greatest way to spend one's time.

Waiting to harvest a god's corpse, though? ...Gods died ever so rarely. The marrow of their bones could cure the worst, the carnelian-corallish things, the many-armed starfish that hides itself under your skin, the faulty crabs with no shell that overgrow your gills and weigh you down until you choke on your own breath. The marrow could free it all.

Perhaps, if she were really lucky, she may pop an eye from it's socket and drink sweet nectar where her teeth slice it open. She needs more uses for her teeth, she thinks. They dangle on a threaded, beaded rope and do nothing but annoy the netted ones.

Yes, an eye would do nicely for her haul.

She misses the silver-sky gleam of ichor.