Among the drowned decks and rusted holds of the Abyssal fleets, the Heretic Abyssal Priests preach their unholy liturgies. Clad in tattered vestments soaked with salt and oil, they call upon the depths as others call upon Heaven. Their prayers rise not to the sky but sink below the waves — into the endless dark where their patrons dwell.
Their sermons are storms: words spoken in forbidden tongues that churn the sea and drive men mad. From the mouths of these priests pour curses and Goetic invocations, summoning horrors of barnacle and bone to drag the living into the depths. Their faith is an anchor, rusted yet unbreakable, that binds the fleets of the damned together.
In battle, they march at the heart of the infernal armadas, chanting from their Profane Gospels, each verse a ripple of dread that rolls across the tide. When they raise their rusted croziers, the waters themselves respond — boiling, writhing, birthing shapes that should never have seen the light.
