Seahorse Village was founded over a century ago on these lands, where converging currents deposited layers of rich sand suitable for farming the Sea Weed. Today, the streets show no sign of the happy Sunday morning bustle that's filled these waters with music and bubbly froth for generations; a meeting has been called near the gate, and the attendees argue with dour urgency. Tilling a field on the far Southern border has uncovered the white expanse of a human skull, impossible for even a village of seahorses to remove. Seahorse Elder raises a fin; the crowd falls silent. "Oh fuck, oh shit," Elder begins, "oh FUCK, what the FUCK are we going to do?" Seahorse Tailor nods in agreement. "They have police boats, the cops are gonna find it. The cops are gonna tear this place to fucking pieces, asking questions, looking for anyone to pin this shit on." Seahorse Cobbler clears her throat. "Ahem. It now seems obvious, inevitable that at least one of us will be spending the rest of their life in prison. The question is who." Your corpse, pulled by the current, demolishes the tiny seahorse buildings and rests face-first in the seaweed crops.