Wandersail Retelling

[Through The Living Ash he/him]

I was on a bus a few days ago and I was just randomly struck by inspiration to retell the story of the Wandersail in my own style, but make it much darker (because stories are always better that way). I couldn't get the thought out of my head and well... here we are. Lemme know what you think! 

(spoilered for size)

Spoiler

This is the story of the Wandersail. 

There was once a man named Derethil. Derethil was one of the greatest sailors of his time, and he was widely renowned and respected for his position. But Derethil had a dream, one many thought impossible. He wanted to sail across the waters of the Sea of Storms and seek the lands beyond. 

Now, the Sea of Storms was aptly named, for every nine days, a massive storm passed through its waters, and had been doing so since as long as any remembered. Many had tried to cross the Sea, but all succumbed to the might of this terrible, raging storm. 

But Derethil was determined. He put together a crew of a hundred of the most skilled, the strongest, the most practised sailors in the land, and with them he built a ship. 

The Wandersail. 

It was the greatest of all ships, far greater than any that had come before and greater yet than any that came after. There was not one that could be compared to its majesty, the Wandersail, the most wonderful of all ships to ever be on water. 

And so came the day that Derethil took his crew of men and boarded the Wandersail, spirits high, determined to do that which none could and defeat the Sea of Storms. For eight days, they sailed forth, swiftly passing over the foamy waves with eyes set on the horizon. 

But on the ninth day, the storm came. It rushed the Wandersail faster than any could hope to outrun, its dark clouds filling the sky and its bolts cracking down on the Sea like the whip of a horse-master. Its winds, they howled and shrieked, buffeting the men onboard as they hurried below decks. Its waves, they surged, rolling the ship nearly on its side, before they came crashing down over it, spraying its deck and its boards, spraying the majestic ship that was the Wandersail with the force of a thousand hammers. 

But the Wandersail, that greatest of all ships, it held in spite of the storm’s efforts. Even as the winds raged and the waves crashed and the thunder cracked, even through the worst of the storm, the Wandersail did not go down. 

But it was at great cost. The ship had been blown far off course, battered and damaged, barely able to sail, so that when the storm finally, finally relented, and when Derethil and his men ascended the deck of the Wandersail, and when they looked out and saw there on the horizon a cluster of islands, all were agreed to sail there immediately. The endeavor took Derethil and his men all of their skill, but they managed to get the Wandersail over to the islands and there drop anchor. 

They were in a ring, the islands, and in the center of that ring stood a swirling whirlpool, a massive vortex that yawned open, its turning waters spiraling into a hole in the center that led downwards. And it was said that even if you were to go up right to the edge of that hole, you could look down and down and down and never see the end, for this whirlpool led straight to the very bottom of the Sea of Storms. 

And on the largest of these islands, that which Derethil and his crew landed on, lived the people of Uvara. And so it was that when Derethil took his beleaguered, weary men onto the shore, they were greeted graciously and offered refuge and sustenance. 

The Uvara, Derethil quickly came to learn, were a simple, idyllic people. They lived in a village on the largest island, sheltering in stone buildings when the storm, which they called the Bringer of Fate in their tongue, passed overhead. For the whirlpool, they had too a name, and it they knew as Judgement. During the day, the children were always outside playing; the men and women working in the fields or the shops or the forges or the homes, and at night they would come in, have supper, and rest. And they were always smiling. Not in a way such as to be disturbing, but a friendly, welcoming way, the kind of smile that invites one in and warms them up. The children, they smiled as they played, the men, they smiled as they worked, and the women, they smiled as they helped Derethil and his crew. 

And so, the Uvara extended their hospitality, and the Captain Derethil led his mates to start the repairs of the Wandersail, and this they did all day, and at night they ceased, and the Uvara, ever considerate, allowed them to sleep in their homes and feast upon their food, and all was well. 

But stretching high, higher, even, than the tallest of the Horneater Peaks, looming over the Uvara village was a great black tower. The blackness was such deep, pure blackness as to make one think that there really was no tower at all, that it was instead an endless rip, completely devoid of all life or light. Yet at the same time, the tower was not all the same tone, but varied, impossible as it seems to have variation in such a pure form of darkness, so as to complement or contrast the shape of the tower. And that shape was this: twisted, unnatural, with points jutting out at uneven angles, such that it looked more like a broken stone than anything manmade; and as to that point, there were some who whispered that the tower was not made by any man, but was a relic from a long-ago age when unspeakable monstrosities ruled the land. But, manmade or not, there the tower sat above the idyllic and peaceful people of Uvara, casting its shadow down across them. 

Now, Derethil had noticed this tower, but was too frightened of the malevolence that was cast in an aura about it to inquire of the Uvara as to why it was there and what purpose it served. And so he mostly ignored it, busying himself with the repairs of the Wandersail and with the regular duties of a captain and with admiring the way in which the people of Uvara lived. But every so often, he would look up and see the monolith, with its sharp points and irregular shape, and feel a sense of disconcert as he gazed upon it. Nevertheless, he determined not to pay heed to its terrifying depths, and he would once again busy himself with the Wandersail and with the crew, and so it was that in a few days time he rarely glanced at the tower at all. But whenever he did, he was again overcome by a malignant feeling, that knowledge that it was simply off, that it should not be there. And it was in this way that Derethil and his crew continued. 

And they continued it thus, until the ninth night after the arrival of the Wandersail. 

It was on this night that the storm raged overhead, and outside the window of the home where Derethil was sheltering - eating his hot curry and conversing with the Uvara that lived there, a family of four - outside of that window, the winds whipped the water and the thunder thudded against the thatching of the roofs and the lightning lit up the land beyond. And as Derethil sat, sheltering, eating, conversing, a serving girl came to bring in a pitcher of water. Outside the window, a bolt of light snapped down from the sky with all the haste and fury of the divine, briefly illuminating the great black tower and its crooked, unnatural shape. And it was at this moment that the serving girl tripped, spilling the glass and breaking the pitcher. Immediately, the Uvara leapt up and beat the girl to death. Even the children of the family partook in this horrid and bloody affair. 

So shocked and terrified at this dreadful act by the peaceful people of Uvara, Derethil sat in silence for some minutes, during which the family resumed matters as if nothing had ever been otherwise. Finally recovering, Captain Derethil asked in shaking voice why the family would do such a thing. They answered that it was the law of the land. And, still trembling, when he asked who made the laws of Uvara, they told him how the Emperor did. Too frightened by this occurrence was Derethil that he asked of them no more and went to sleep, and when he woke up, everything was peaceful and bright, and he wondered if he had imagined it all. But then he saw the crags of that deep black tower out of the corner of his eye, and knew that the terror had all been as real as he himself was. 

When he first told his men of the event, they laughed at him and called him for trying to frighten them. But as the days passed, more incidents occurred, some right in the open, any time an Uvara made a mistake. And these murders frightened Derethil and his men something dreadful, but they had no choice but to continue relying on the hospitality of the Uvara until the Wandersail was fit to once again take on the Sea of Storms. And always the crew inquired as to why the Uvara would do such a thing, would murder one of their own for a simple misstep, and always they responded that it was law, and the law was decreed by the Emperor. 

Months passed in this way, and soon the preparations for the Wandersail were nearly complete. Derethil, unendingly disturbed, began to listen to the Uvara, question them, try to figure out more about this Emperor. And what he learned was this: the Emperor ruled from the top of his great, black tower. He was a wicked man, if he could be called as such, and feared by all the Uvara. None had ever seen him, for they whispered that any who did so would be cursed for all eternity. Only the bravest of them ventured to the tower, and only then up to the door; never had any entered. 

And so it was that, on the final day before the Wandersail would set off yet again, Derethil and his crew devised to approach this Emperor, if only to see how one could be so evil as to force the Uvara into such heinous acts. 

The storm raged again on that night, the lightning flashing, and so none of the Uvara noticed as Derethil and his crew crept out underneath the cover of the storm and approached the tower. And as they came up to it, gazing up at its blackened, twisting shape, its monstrous height, feeling the malignance of the tower of the Emperor of Uvara, some of the men turned to flee. But they were brought back, and Derethil opened the massive, heavy, black gate set into the base of the tower. 

And inside was nothing but more of the blackness of the outside, so absorbingly black as such that the sailors of the Wandersail could see naught but the light slipping in through the crack in the gate. And as the gate fell shut, all sight was gone, and the men cried out into the utter blackness that engulfed them. 

But Derethil stood strong, and he and his men felt about them and discovered a set of stairs, spiraling upwards, and at once endeavored to climb them. And so it was that, in the complete and suppressing blackness, the crew of the Wandersail ascended the stairs. Unable to see, they climbed hundreds of stairs without any indication of change. Time passed, and still they climbed on, and many wondered if they were making any real progress at all, or if they would walk on for all eternity, climbing upwards towards an unreachable top. An hour went by, and some began to imagine that they saw things, daemonaical forms, reaching out to them from within the walls, so trapped were they in their own minds by the stifling darkness as they climbed on in silence. Others wondered if the unending darkness, perhaps, was the curse said to be cast upon those who saw the Emperor. And still they continued. 

But Derethil pressed on, and as they were reaching the edge of their despair, one glimpsed a light above and shouted, and suddenly all were rushing up the stairs, clamoring over each other to reach that glorious, flickering light. And so it was that the crew of the Wandersail at last stood on a landing, with windows set into the deep black stone letting in flashes of light coming from the storm still raging overhead. 

Before them stood a pair of doors, made of ebony, but the darkest, blackest ebony that had ever been known, such that the doors were only one tone lighter than the immutable blackness of the stone that they were set in. And the doors had each of them a handle of brass, and it was these that Derethil’s hands clasped as he made to open the doors. 

If Derethil or any of the crew had been able to read the language of the Uvara, they would have seen, inscribed on the doors, words. And these words would denote the room beyond as the chambers of the Emperor of Uvara, and would warn that entering would be followed by certain death. But as it was, none could read their scripture, and thus Derethil pushed open the doors and entered the room beyond. 

In that room, directly opposing the doors, there sat a throne. The throne was made of the same stone of impenetrable blackness as the tower and held the same unnatural, twisted shape as the tower. But the throne was also gilded with gold, little lines running down the back and the arms and swirling, forming etchings and symbols in the sides of the throne. 

And there was none who sat upon it. 

It was this that Derethil took a moment to realise, so entranced was he by the beautiful yet demented object that was the throne. And when he realised the fact, his mates did too, all at the same moment, and the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled and there stood they yet, in a stupor. 

There was no Emperor of Uvara. 

Not now, and if there ever had been one, they had been dead for centuries at least. This was the truth that was illuminated to Derethil and his men as they stood there at the top of the great, black, twisted tower and as the anger of the storm continued outside, bent on destruction. 

Nothing else for it. The crew of the Wandersail set down the stairs of the tower, opened the great black gate, and awakened the Uvara. 

They did not believe Derethil, of course they did not. They called him liar and traitor, accusing him of all these names while in their hearts, they knew. 

The bravest of Uvara, the one who had before approached the foot of the tower, they were led up the endless black stairs to the chamber at the top of the tower, and there they too saw truth and fled back down, decreeing it to all the Uvara. 

And all Uvara wept, for no longer could they hide behind the lies they had told themselves, the lies that let them continue the murder of innocents to preserve their utopia. There was no law they were following, no Emperor to obey any longer, just their own deeds. And as they were finally forced to accept responsibility for the countless deaths and suffering they had caused, their grief and guilt deepened, and chaos spread. Some began fighting each other, some hid, some were angered and set about burning it down, burning it all down, all of the village of Uvara. And as the flames roared and the people fought and wept and hid and the wind and rain battered at the flames to no avail, some went up to the top of that tower, went to destroy the throne. And though they hit it and struck it and shoved it over, the throne would not break. Finally, they threw the demented object out the window of that great black tower, and it fell, twisting and tumbling, before striking the ground and shattering into splinters of deep black stone. 

But through all their weeping and hiding and fighting and destruction, through even the shattering of the throne, they could find no relief from the overwhelming guilt that they succumbed to, for despite all their protections, their lies had been uncovered, and they were forced to admit it thus. 

And so it was that, as the storm still crackled on overhead, the people of Uvara went to the edge of that largest island, a cliff face dropping down, sheer, straight into the everlasting churning of the whirlpool. And, underneath the overbearing shadow of the tower, they, all of them, jumped into the spiraling vortex and were sucked to the deepest abyss that lay at the bottom of the whirlpool. Until only the bravest of Uvara, the one who had seen the gilded throne, remained. Tears silently streaming down their face, they approached the edge as all before them had, but stopped, as if waiting for a cue. But, with none to bear witness but the storm and the rain and the cold black tower, a harsh wind rose up, suddenly blasting against their back, and they too leaped from the edge, and a bolt from the sky came and the thunder roared as the merciless whirling maw consumed them too, as it had with all the Uvara. 

In the midst of all this chaos, the Wandersail set off, and all agreed to no longer attempt to traverse the Sea of Storms in light of the events they had witnessed. They made a swift journey back, unhindered by the storm, and when they made port, they were greeted as heroes, and those to whom they told their story would shake their heads and wonder at the imagination of the sailors. 

Their village burned, their people gone, no sign remained that there had ever been a people living on the largest island about the whirlpool in the Sea of Storms. Except, that is, for the great black tower, its twisted shape still standing, even as the storm continues to rage, every nine days, against its sleek but jagged edges. 

And it is said that if you were to sail there, to that largest island, you would still see, today, the black tower, its tip touching the sky, the sole reminder of the tragedy of Uvara. The ruins would all be washed away, the cliff face eroded, but it would stand, still, still casting about it the aura of malevolence. Until, one day, the winds and the rains of the storm will beat back the cliff, and the tower, though it may grasp the island and try to remain, will fall, slowly, but still fall, into the great whirlpool. Only then will the last remnant of the Uvara and the legacy of the Wandersail truly be gone. 

I took some artistic liberties that strayed from the actual Roshar & story in making this, but I think it turned out a little better that way. 

[Kansas Stormcursed he/him]

6 hours ago, Ashkaloda said:

I was on a bus a few days ago and I was just randomly struck by inspiration to retell the story of the Wandersail in my own style, but make it much darker (because stories are always better that way). I couldn't get the thought out of my head and well... here we are. Lemme know what you think! 

(spoilered for size)

  Hide contents

This is the story of the Wandersail. 

There was once a man named Derethil. Derethil was one of the greatest sailors of his time, and he was widely renowned and respected for his position. But Derethil had a dream, one many thought impossible. He wanted to sail across the waters of the Sea of Storms and seek the lands beyond. 

Now, the Sea of Storms was aptly named, for every nine days, a massive storm passed through its waters, and had been doing so since as long as any remembered. Many had tried to cross the Sea, but all succumbed to the might of this terrible, raging storm. 

But Derethil was determined. He put together a crew of a hundred of the most skilled, the strongest, the most practised sailors in the land, and with them he built a ship. 

The Wandersail. 

It was the greatest of all ships, far greater than any that had come before and greater yet than any that came after. There was not one that could be compared to its majesty, the Wandersail, the most wonderful of all ships to ever be on water. 

And so came the day that Derethil took his crew of men and boarded the Wandersail, spirits high, determined to do that which none could and defeat the Sea of Storms. For eight days, they sailed forth, swiftly passing over the foamy waves with eyes set on the horizon. 

But on the ninth day, the storm came. It rushed the Wandersail faster than any could hope to outrun, its dark clouds filling the sky and its bolts cracking down on the Sea like the whip of a horse-master. Its winds, they howled and shrieked, buffeting the men onboard as they hurried below decks. Its waves, they surged, rolling the ship nearly on its side, before they came crashing down over it, spraying its deck and its boards, spraying the majestic ship that was the Wandersail with the force of a thousand hammers. 

But the Wandersail, that greatest of all ships, it held in spite of the storm’s efforts. Even as the winds raged and the waves crashed and the thunder cracked, even through the worst of the storm, the Wandersail did not go down. 

But it was at great cost. The ship had been blown far off course, battered and damaged, barely able to sail, so that when the storm finally, finally relented, and when Derethil and his men ascended the deck of the Wandersail, and when they looked out and saw there on the horizon a cluster of islands, all were agreed to sail there immediately. The endeavor took Derethil and his men all of their skill, but they managed to get the Wandersail over to the islands and there drop anchor. 

They were in a ring, the islands, and in the center of that ring stood a swirling whirlpool, a massive vortex that yawned open, its turning waters spiraling into a hole in the center that led downwards. And it was said that even if you were to go up right to the edge of that hole, you could look down and down and down and never see the end, for this whirlpool led straight to the very bottom of the Sea of Storms. 

And on the largest of these islands, that which Derethil and his crew landed on, lived the people of Uvara. And so it was that when Derethil took his beleaguered, weary men onto the shore, they were greeted graciously and offered refuge and sustenance. 

The Uvara, Derethil quickly came to learn, were a simple, idyllic people. They lived in a village on the largest island, sheltering in stone buildings when the storm, which they called the Bringer of Fate in their tongue, passed overhead. For the whirlpool, they had too a name, and it they knew as Judgement. During the day, the children were always outside playing; the men and women working in the fields or the shops or the forges or the homes, and at night they would come in, have supper, and rest. And they were always smiling. Not in a way such as to be disturbing, but a friendly, welcoming way, the kind of smile that invites one in and warms them up. The children, they smiled as they played, the men, they smiled as they worked, and the women, they smiled as they helped Derethil and his crew. 

And so, the Uvara extended their hospitality, and the Captain Derethil led his mates to start the repairs of the Wandersail, and this they did all day, and at night they ceased, and the Uvara, ever considerate, allowed them to sleep in their homes and feast upon their food, and all was well. 

But stretching high, higher, even, than the tallest of the Horneater Peaks, looming over the Uvara village was a great black tower. The blackness was such deep, pure blackness as to make one think that there really was no tower at all, that it was instead an endless rip, completely devoid of all life or light. Yet at the same time, the tower was not all the same tone, but varied, impossible as it seems to have variation in such a pure form of darkness, so as to complement or contrast the shape of the tower. And that shape was this: twisted, unnatural, with points jutting out at uneven angles, such that it looked more like a broken stone than anything manmade; and as to that point, there were some who whispered that the tower was not made by any man, but was a relic from a long-ago age when unspeakable monstrosities ruled the land. But, manmade or not, there the tower sat above the idyllic and peaceful people of Uvara, casting its shadow down across them. 

Now, Derethil had noticed this tower, but was too frightened of the malevolence that was cast in an aura about it to inquire of the Uvara as to why it was there and what purpose it served. And so he mostly ignored it, busying himself with the repairs of the Wandersail and with the regular duties of a captain and with admiring the way in which the people of Uvara lived. But every so often, he would look up and see the monolith, with its sharp points and irregular shape, and feel a sense of disconcert as he gazed upon it. Nevertheless, he determined not to pay heed to its terrifying depths, and he would once again busy himself with the Wandersail and with the crew, and so it was that in a few days time he rarely glanced at the tower at all. But whenever he did, he was again overcome by a malignant feeling, that knowledge that it was simply off, that it should not be there. And it was in this way that Derethil and his crew continued. 

And they continued it thus, until the ninth night after the arrival of the Wandersail. 

It was on this night that the storm raged overhead, and outside the window of the home where Derethil was sheltering - eating his hot curry and conversing with the Uvara that lived there, a family of four - outside of that window, the winds whipped the water and the thunder thudded against the thatching of the roofs and the lightning lit up the land beyond. And as Derethil sat, sheltering, eating, conversing, a serving girl came to bring in a pitcher of water. Outside the window, a bolt of light snapped down from the sky with all the haste and fury of the divine, briefly illuminating the great black tower and its crooked, unnatural shape. And it was at this moment that the serving girl tripped, spilling the glass and breaking the pitcher. Immediately, the Uvara leapt up and beat the girl to death. Even the children of the family partook in this horrid and bloody affair. 

So shocked and terrified at this dreadful act by the peaceful people of Uvara, Derethil sat in silence for some minutes, during which the family resumed matters as if nothing had ever been otherwise. Finally recovering, Captain Derethil asked in shaking voice why the family would do such a thing. They answered that it was the law of the land. And, still trembling, when he asked who made the laws of Uvara, they told him how the Emperor did. Too frightened by this occurrence was Derethil that he asked of them no more and went to sleep, and when he woke up, everything was peaceful and bright, and he wondered if he had imagined it all. But then he saw the crags of that deep black tower out of the corner of his eye, and knew that the terror had all been as real as he himself was. 

When he first told his men of the event, they laughed at him and called him for trying to frighten them. But as the days passed, more incidents occurred, some right in the open, any time an Uvara made a mistake. And these murders frightened Derethil and his men something dreadful, but they had no choice but to continue relying on the hospitality of the Uvara until the Wandersail was fit to once again take on the Sea of Storms. And always the crew inquired as to why the Uvara would do such a thing, would murder one of their own for a simple misstep, and always they responded that it was law, and the law was decreed by the Emperor. 

Months passed in this way, and soon the preparations for the Wandersail were nearly complete. Derethil, unendingly disturbed, began to listen to the Uvara, question them, try to figure out more about this Emperor. And what he learned was this: the Emperor ruled from the top of his great, black tower. He was a wicked man, if he could be called as such, and feared by all the Uvara. None had ever seen him, for they whispered that any who did so would be cursed for all eternity. Only the bravest of them ventured to the tower, and only then up to the door; never had any entered. 

And so it was that, on the final day before the Wandersail would set off yet again, Derethil and his crew devised to approach this Emperor, if only to see how one could be so evil as to force the Uvara into such heinous acts. 

The storm raged again on that night, the lightning flashing, and so none of the Uvara noticed as Derethil and his crew crept out underneath the cover of the storm and approached the tower. And as they came up to it, gazing up at its blackened, twisting shape, its monstrous height, feeling the malignance of the tower of the Emperor of Uvara, some of the men turned to flee. But they were brought back, and Derethil opened the massive, heavy, black gate set into the base of the tower. 

And inside was nothing but more of the blackness of the outside, so absorbingly black as such that the sailors of the Wandersail could see naught but the light slipping in through the crack in the gate. And as the gate fell shut, all sight was gone, and the men cried out into the utter blackness that engulfed them. 

But Derethil stood strong, and he and his men felt about them and discovered a set of stairs, spiraling upwards, and at once endeavored to climb them. And so it was that, in the complete and suppressing blackness, the crew of the Wandersail ascended the stairs. Unable to see, they climbed hundreds of stairs without any indication of change. Time passed, and still they climbed on, and many wondered if they were making any real progress at all, or if they would walk on for all eternity, climbing upwards towards an unreachable top. An hour went by, and some began to imagine that they saw things, daemonaical forms, reaching out to them from within the walls, so trapped were they in their own minds by the stifling darkness as they climbed on in silence. Others wondered if the unending darkness, perhaps, was the curse said to be cast upon those who saw the Emperor. And still they continued. 

But Derethil pressed on, and as they were reaching the edge of their despair, one glimpsed a light above and shouted, and suddenly all were rushing up the stairs, clamoring over each other to reach that glorious, flickering light. And so it was that the crew of the Wandersail at last stood on a landing, with windows set into the deep black stone letting in flashes of light coming from the storm still raging overhead. 

Before them stood a pair of doors, made of ebony, but the darkest, blackest ebony that had ever been known, such that the doors were only one tone lighter than the immutable blackness of the stone that they were set in. And the doors had each of them a handle of brass, and it was these that Derethil’s hands clasped as he made to open the doors. 

If Derethil or any of the crew had been able to read the language of the Uvara, they would have seen, inscribed on the doors, words. And these words would denote the room beyond as the chambers of the Emperor of Uvara, and would warn that entering would be followed by certain death. But as it was, none could read their scripture, and thus Derethil pushed open the doors and entered the room beyond. 

In that room, directly opposing the doors, there sat a throne. The throne was made of the same stone of impenetrable blackness as the tower and held the same unnatural, twisted shape as the tower. But the throne was also gilded with gold, little lines running down the back and the arms and swirling, forming etchings and symbols in the sides of the throne. 

And there was none who sat upon it. 

It was this that Derethil took a moment to realise, so entranced was he by the beautiful yet demented object that was the throne. And when he realised the fact, his mates did too, all at the same moment, and the lightning flashed and the thunder rolled and there stood they yet, in a stupor. 

There was no Emperor of Uvara. 

Not now, and if there ever had been one, they had been dead for centuries at least. This was the truth that was illuminated to Derethil and his men as they stood there at the top of the great, black, twisted tower and as the anger of the storm continued outside, bent on destruction. 

Nothing else for it. The crew of the Wandersail set down the stairs of the tower, opened the great black gate, and awakened the Uvara. 

They did not believe Derethil, of course they did not. They called him liar and traitor, accusing him of all these names while in their hearts, they knew. 

The bravest of Uvara, the one who had before approached the foot of the tower, they were led up the endless black stairs to the chamber at the top of the tower, and there they too saw truth and fled back down, decreeing it to all the Uvara. 

And all Uvara wept, for no longer could they hide behind the lies they had told themselves, the lies that let them continue the murder of innocents to preserve their utopia. There was no law they were following, no Emperor to obey any longer, just their own deeds. And as they were finally forced to accept responsibility for the countless deaths and suffering they had caused, their grief and guilt deepened, and chaos spread. Some began fighting each other, some hid, some were angered and set about burning it down, burning it all down, all of the village of Uvara. And as the flames roared and the people fought and wept and hid and the wind and rain battered at the flames to no avail, some went up to the top of that tower, went to destroy the throne. And though they hit it and struck it and shoved it over, the throne would not break. Finally, they threw the demented object out the window of that great black tower, and it fell, twisting and tumbling, before striking the ground and shattering into splinters of deep black stone. 

But through all their weeping and hiding and fighting and destruction, through even the shattering of the throne, they could find no relief from the overwhelming guilt that they succumbed to, for despite all their protections, their lies had been uncovered, and they were forced to admit it thus. 

And so it was that, as the storm still crackled on overhead, the people of Uvara went to the edge of that largest island, a cliff face dropping down, sheer, straight into the everlasting churning of the whirlpool. And, underneath the overbearing shadow of the tower, they, all of them, jumped into the spiraling vortex and were sucked to the deepest abyss that lay at the bottom of the whirlpool. Until only the bravest of Uvara, the one who had seen the gilded throne, remained. Tears silently streaming down their face, they approached the edge as all before them had, but stopped, as if waiting for a cue. But, with none to bear witness but the storm and the rain and the cold black tower, a harsh wind rose up, suddenly blasting against their back, and they too leaped from the edge, and a bolt from the sky came and the thunder roared as the merciless whirling maw consumed them too, as it had with all the Uvara. 

In the midst of all this chaos, the Wandersail set off, and all agreed to no longer attempt to traverse the Sea of Storms in light of the events they had witnessed. They made a swift journey back, unhindered by the storm, and when they made port, they were greeted as heroes, and those to whom they told their story would shake their heads and wonder at the imagination of the sailors. 

Their village burned, their people gone, no sign remained that there had ever been a people living on the largest island about the whirlpool in the Sea of Storms. Except, that is, for the great black tower, its twisted shape still standing, even as the storm continues to rage, every nine days, against its sleek but jagged edges. 

And it is said that if you were to sail there, to that largest island, you would still see, today, the black tower, its tip touching the sky, the sole reminder of the tragedy of Uvara. The ruins would all be washed away, the cliff face eroded, but it would stand, still, still casting about it the aura of malevolence. Until, one day, the winds and the rains of the storm will beat back the cliff, and the tower, though it may grasp the island and try to remain, will fall, slowly, but still fall, into the great whirlpool. Only then will the last remnant of the Uvara and the legacy of the Wandersail truly be gone. 

I took some artistic liberties that strayed from the actual Roshar & story in making this, but I think it turned out a little better that way. 

That's awesome

I feel like you leaned a little more into the Lottery aspect of it, I like it