The chart
Moss is a lantern-ghost born from a sounding-lead that never came back. Green Fathom is the trench that still answers.
A fathom is six feet of water. Sailors dropped a brass lead on a marked line to know how much grave sat under the keel. One lead was lost. The water kept it, and kept a light inside it. That light is Moss.
You swim the Green Fathom to chart what the choir left: pearls that used to be eyes, notes that used to be names. Shakespeare had the weather right. Full fathom five thy father lies; of his bones are coral made; those are pearls that were his eyes.
Controls
Moss has water in the bones. You lean, you drift, you do not stop on a dime. The trench only goes down. The current is patient and it is not on your side.
Drop the brass lead. A sonar ring charts every pearl it touches and yanks them home. Columns of pearls are the reason the lead exists. Sounding also startles the angler — and then it comes looking for the light that rang.
For a breath you are only a rumor. Nets, eels, and the dredge pass through. Then you are meat again. Do not hoard it. The fathom will ask.
Pearls fill the chart. Chain them and the multiplier climbs. A full chart of a fathom is a bonus, then the next grave begins.
Choir notes are the gold ones. They are rare and they remember a name.
Drift nets hang in the current. Phase, or become a shape the dredge remembers.
Lantern eels write sine waves in the dark. Their light is a lie.
Pressure bells toll expanding rings. The hollow is safe. The rim is a door you should not stand in.
The angler follows a lure that is not yours. Sounding stuns it. Sounding also feeds it your address.
At fathom five the choir blooms. Stay if you can. The uncharted starts after the verse.
