The Wailing Lord

His cries sound, deep beneath the surface. He is behemoth; leviathan, perhaps more accurately. To the untutored observer, he seems a planet entire; his flukes the size of continents; his pulse beating like thunder, thump, thump, thump. He is vast, unstoppable. And he sorrows.

Oh, how he sorrows.

Once, there were more of his kind. Never many - not that, no - but enough. They soared, far beneath the waves, in packs, communicating in strange and eerie ways, a sight of unforgettable beauty and terror. Their young leapt above the waves, far more plentiful, good luck to any who caught sight of them while voyaging. They were a people, though alien to us, and the scholars - those who knew of them - acknowledged them as a great wonder of the world.

But time passed, and things changed, as they always do. The world darkened; the young ceased to leap above the waves. Even the titans beneath the surface, impervious to any attack, grew old at last and drifted endlessly, no longer possessed of that magnificent life they so closely held. And in the end, only one of their kind was left; crying out endlessly, fruitlessly, far beneath the surface. And for his magnificence, and his terrible, tragic nature, they named him Wailord: the Wailing Lord. And thus did the end of days fall, with only that creature to trumpet its coming, wailing without end. They say, those who dare venture so deep, that he wails still.