The Drowning Man

Mad-eye Marlowe, Ever Drowning

Planar Powers: Bel | Dispater | Mammon | Fierna/Belial | Levistus | Glasya | Baalzebul | Mephistopheles | Asmodeus | Pazuzu | Orcus | Graz'zt | Baphomet | Demogorgon | Dagon | Abyssal (magic) | Abyssal (war) | Abyssal (trickery) | Ravanna | Malkizid | Zuggtmoy | Juiblex | Paush | Eltab | Pale Night | Obox-ob | Abraxas | Kostchtchie | Tymphal | Crozhen | Haknian | The Sequence | Pisaethces | mother | Kezef | The Endless Frost | Dendar | Cackles | Atropus | Tharizdun | Mak Thuum Ngatha | Yeenoghu | The Drowning Man

Aliases:	Mad-eye Marlowe, Ever Drowning
Gender:	Male
Demonym:	Tormented
Power Level:	Planar Power
Symbol:	An eye dripping water
Alignment:	Neutral Evil
Portfolio:	Vengeance, Ambition, Betrayal, Ocean depths
Worshipers:	Victims of betrayal or violence at sea, vengeful sailors
Domains:	Ocean, Vengeance, Hatred
Arelith worshippers' alignments:	LE, NE,CE
Aspects:	Trickery and Deceit, War and Destruction

Her eyes burned.

In the darkness, she did not see the next wave until it crashed over her, shoving her head beneath the water. She fought her way back up to the surface and coughed up as much water as she could, choking and gasping as it burned her throat. Just a little longer. A little longer and someone might approach! Squinting through stinging eyes, she strained for any glimpse of light, any silhouette of sails. Perhaps even a fin cutting through the water to put her out of her misery.

“It ain’t something to brag about,” the old sailor said, looking up from the sail he mended; his gnarled fingers moved without his needing to guide them, yanking the thick twine through canvas. “Knowin’ how to swim. You know why?”

She hadn’t, of course. It had been a stroke of luck, being taken on by the crew despite having never touched anything larger than a dinghy.

“When the next storm hits,” he continued, pausing to spit off to the side, “and you’re thrown overboard, you won’t waste time splashing about before the Sea Bitch takes you.” She laughed. He did not.

And now, paddling in place, struggling to keep afloat, she couldn’t help but think back to that conversation, back to the weight of his eyes on her and the fathomless conviction of his words. It seemed so ridiculous, then. Why wouldn’t you want to swim? Why wouldn’t you want to stay alive until someone could come rescue you? That was the mistake. Assuming someone would come for her. She couldn’t even blame a storm for her tumble into the waves--she didn’t know who to blame. Only the night’s patrol, gazing over the railing, and then the feeling of two hands at her back, giving a swift vicious shove she had no chance of resisting. Then, a moment of flight! And crashing into the water, clawing her way back up and twisting about to look up at the ship, only to see it gliding further and further away, a mocking silhouette standing at the rail.

Her arms ached.

Someone had to come. They would notice her absence soon enough. Or another ship; how big was the ocean anyway?! Of course no one would come for her. She was delusional. If not for another wave slapping her across the face, she would have started to cry. Or perhaps she was already crying.

Just let go.

It’s hopeless.

No one is coming.

Let the sea take you.

Even if she wanted to resist the despairing thoughts, she couldn’t continue to fight the waves through her own exhaustion. Stretching her face up towards the starlit sky for one last glimpse of the night… she let go and sank into the depths.

Wake up.

Her eyelids wouldn’t open.

She was alive. Not warm. Not dry. Not comfortable, but alive. The rushing of water sounded distantly, and her skin felt unpleasantly clammy. When she tried to swallow, her throat burned from the traces of salt she just couldn’t escape. Her limbs were intact, however, and she lifted a hand to rub at her eyes, gingerly flaking away the dried salt caked in her lashes until she could open them.

A bloated dead face filled her vision.

Choking on a scream, she scrabbled backwards, feeling a sting of pain as her hands and arms scraped across the ground; stone or coral or something else ripped at her skin. The man crouching before her, his elbows resting on his knees and head cocked at an angle, did not move to follow.

His hair and beard would have rivaled the mane of any lion--at least one drenched and long-dead. And though his face held a deathlike pallor, his eyes moved to follow her retreat. His clothing was little more than rags. A strand of kelp flopped over one shoulder and greenish tufts of algae sprouted from the side of his face. Water seeped from his mouth as his lips parted.

I heard your call, he said, more water pouring out with each word. As his head straightened, to peer down at her, more water, like tears, dripped from his eyes. Welcome.

Confusion broke through her horror at the sight of this man. “Wh-what call? Who are you?” She glanced up and around, seeing only the interior of a barnacle-crusted cave lit with a wavery blue-green light that sent a ripple of nausea through her stomach. “Where am I?”

Despair was your call. The man stood up, the movement causing a torrent of water to gush from every pore and puddle around his feet. Slow anguish. Betrayal. Giving in. All of these reach my ears and so I answer. He gave her a watery gap-toothed smile; combined with his wide eyes, the expression gave him a slightly crazed look. Marlowe was my name once. But to many, I am known as the one always drowning, drowning, drowning… As he repeated the word, more water gushed forth from his mouth.

She gulped. “What do you want from me?”

What do you want? He countered, spreading his hands wide. You were betrayed by your crew, as was I, once. Betrayal calls for vengeance. Unless… The man’s voice turned mocking. Unless you are too cowardly for this chance at life again.

A chance for life? A chance for revenge? Her hands clenched to fists at her sides. “What do I do?”

He smiled again and held out his hand to her. Come with me.

Mad-eye Marlowe was a pirate once, so the stories say, until his crew mutinied and tossed him overboard. But hate is a power in of itself, and he clawed his way back out of the depths, consuming the ship that had betrayed him with a horde of spirits and the corpses of other drowned sailors. With his revenge complete, he sank back into the ocean, smiling as the bodies sank alongside him.

It is said he is cursed to a half-life, always drowning but never drowned.

The Drowning Man is drawn to overwhelming despair, offering his hand to those who are alone and near death, whether from drowning, marooned, shipwrecked, or any other way. Notably, he does not offer a second chance to those who lost their life in honorable battle or to storms. And perhaps those who catch his eye are as mad as he is, as one can only stare at a looming death for so long before it changes them…

In return for this second chance, the Drowning Man has two commands.

  1. Seek your vengeance. Cast their corpses into the ocean.
  2. What the ocean gave back, so it must consume. Do not stray too far or too long from the water, for when your second life gives out, the water must retake you.

It is rumored that one can detect those pacted to the Drowning Man, for the longer they go without breathing sea air or touching ocean water or sailing on a ship, the closer they begin to resemble a drowned corpse until they drop dead one day.