The matter becomes even more frustrating a few days later when the Sea Wyvern is becalmed. There's nothing strange about this, as it's happened several times before over the past couple of months, though never for long. The prevailing winds at this time are generally good. But a few hours, or even days, of calm is nothing to worry about. It's only the fact that there is some question about the fate of the Blue Nixie that makes it so frustrating. As the sun sets and the moon rises on a still sea, the crew and passengers of the Wyvern do their best to keep entertained. But no one seems to be in the mood for festivities just about now. Most people turn in at dark, leaving only a couple of sailors on deck for the evening and morning watches.
As the grey dawn breaks, burning fitfully through the morning fog to light the sea, something seems very strange about the waters below. They seem almost solid. as if the sea had formed some strange sort of skin. The air seems dead as well, and the sails hang limp, heavy with moisture from the receding fog.
Finally, the mist begins to clear, and what is unveiled is not the gently rolling vista of the sea, but a wet green field of weed. The swath of dirty green stretches in all directions. To the stern, it extends for perhaps half a mil, beyond which lie the open waters of the mocking sea. In all other directions, the weed extends to the horizon. Trapped within its vice are dozens of other long-dead ships. their hulls protruding from the sargasso at odd angles, masts askew, sails hanging in tatters. One such ship lies mired only six hundred feet to port, and it seems to be in better shape than the others. Perhaps most unnerving, however, is neither the sight nor the smell of so much sun-baked seaweed. It is the unnatural silence, for the thick choking green has robbed the Sea Wyvern even of the strangely comforting sound of water lapping against her hull. It is not a healthy silence. It is the silence of a graveyard.
