It was in the middle of the third season, just past harvest and getting on into the snow, that an awakening from the deep cast its sight upon the shores of Icarsol. Long had it slept, forgotten but by the songs that had turned it only into legend, and long had it been that the snake-like Leviathan was known to men. It caught them by surprise, as does anything that is where it never should have been. They first noticed the way its scales gripped the underside of the icy water, causing shadows on the sea, pressing upon the waves which tried uncertainly to conceal it. They noticed the harbor nets, once easily filled daily, remained empty and hollow where fish ought to be. They noticed, above the refutable evidence of these other things, when ships did not return from the sea.

The men of Icarsol were brave and filled with desire for their land, having protected it passionately in ages past from those seeking its profit. They knew the soil and the roots that would grow there, and above all they knew about making it a home. When the presence of the mighty sea python could no longer be disputed a party was erected to venture forth and kill the beast, lest their land fall as its prey. A trip began that would last many days, and cost many lives, before victory was conceded to the fish.

Time passed, as it does after all great grievances, and with it the snow did not melt to uncover what should have been blossoming notes of new life once again. The ravens and the hawks stayed, perched in bare branches and calling for unseen change. The ice would thaw and then freeze again. And the men, the men who remained, were ashamed.