The Isle of the Blessed

The further in I go, the less I can see beneath me. The water gets blacker as we slice through the surface. Into the wall of charcoal swirls and thunder. I cannot see beneath me, nor ahead. Hidden in the black sea, waiting to pounce, with Her eyes of pearls watching from the great depth. Waiting for us to make a sound, even a breath. She knows all, for all belongs to Her. The goddess of the deep. Queen of the tides. High Priestess of the currents. Ruler of all. You know what She hides, riches beyond belief, but not for your eyes.
An isle, lush and supple like the thick flesh of a mango. White sand, fine as powder, as if waiting to be dusted across the velvet skin of the Queen. The island swollen and ripe with rubies, that drip from the shimmering branches of trees of pure gold. The Isle of the Blessed: of myth and lust and opulence. Accessible only by venturing across her perilous waters. Those who dare to attempt such grandiose feats, go with trepidation. The few who return are showered in fame, their egos bathed in sheep's milk and warm honey. The few. Thousands have attempted the voyage, men and women in search of affluence, or looking to quench their curious minds. Less than a dozen have survived.
Her name is Rán, Goddess of the sea storms and drowned dead. She is an enchantress. Seduces with Her song, Her voice the crashing of waves against the soft sand. The creaks and groans of a grand ghost ship. The sound of swift air and cold water. She lures in the curious, those looking for adventure, or something to pass the time. She lures you into Her beautiful lips, but lean too far and you are treading in Her crisp black locks. You are in Her world now. Her dozen arms creep around your ankles and waist, caressing you as they coil into their deadly noose.