Thirty nautical miles from the port of Minas Tirith, the deep sea lay pitch-black.
Five warriors of the Many-Armed Folk swam slowly through the water, their bodies blending into the darkness.
Their arms pushed through the seawater, stirring faint currents.
"Tuck, expand your watch perimeter a little farther."
Captain Kolsh's voice traveled through the water to his companions.
Tuck, the youngest, nodded and extended his eight arms, sensing the vibrations around him.
The symbiotic sensory sac on his back pulsed, monitoring every movement within a hundred-meter radius.
Nearby, the warrior Uru caught a deep-sea fish with a tentacle, tore open its belly, and gulped down its flesh.
Blue-green blood spread through the water.
"Uru, this isn't the time to eat." Kolsh's tone carried displeasure.
"Captain, we've been fighting for four days straight." Uru stopped eating and turned to Kolsh. "If I don't replenish my meat intake, my fighting strength will drop."
"Those land-dwelling soft worms are harder to deal with than we expected," another warrior, Grum, said. One of his arms was still wrapped in bandages. "Especially the one who shoots plants."
Kolsh swam to the front of the squad and studied the distant surface.
Moonlight filtered through the seawater, forming faint patches of light above them.
Uru tossed the fish bones aside and wiped the blood from his tentacles. "Captain, I think we should step up our attacks. Strike their port directly."
"No." Kolsh refused at once. "General Glash's orders were clear. We're only to harass them. We mustn't reveal our true strength."
"But at this rate, when will we ever finish our mission?" Uru grumbled.
"We're returning to camp," Kolsh ordered. "We'll report to General Glash."
The five warriors changed course and swam toward deeper waters.
After roughly three hours of swimming, Kolsh detected the camp's biological signals.