The town of Brynmouth stood cloaked in mist, its weathered stone buildings crouched low against the ceaseless roar of the sea. Long abandoned by prosperity, it clung to existence like barnacles to a ship's hull. It was a place where the air itself seemed damp with secrets, where the waves whispered tales of things better left unsaid.  

I came to Brynmouth as a skeptic. I was an academic, a collector of folklore and maritime superstition, driven more by the need to debunk than to believe. Stories of the "Tides of Y’quaril," a phenomenon locals refused to describe outright, had reached my ears through fragmented whispers and cryptic journals. They spoke of a peculiar alignment of the moon and sea that happened but once every 70 years—a night when the ocean retreated impossibly far, leaving behind more than sand and shells.  

The villagers avoided me as I pried into their myths. Even the barkeep, who was more willing than most to indulge my questions, stiffened when I mentioned Y’quaril. "It's not the tide, sir," he muttered one night, eyes darting to the darkened window. "It's what comes with it."  

I dismissed his words as the mutterings of a man too close to his ale. That night, my room at the inn felt colder than usual, the damp seeping into my dreams.  

### The Night of the Tides

On the appointed night, I ventured to the cliffs overlooking the sea, armed with a lantern and a notebook. The moon hung bloated and alien in the sky, its pale light casting jagged shadows across the wet rocks below. The tide had indeed receded far beyond natural expectation, exposing a desolate expanse of black sand and gleaming, sharp rocks.  

There, amidst the glistening desolation, rose structures unlike anything I had seen. They were angular yet curved, shimmering with an oily sheen that made my eyes ache to focus on them. Columns twisted into impossible angles, forming what seemed to be an open gate, its threshold pulsating with faint light.  

Compelled by a mix of curiosity and the kind of dread that grips one in a nightmare, I descended the slippery path to the exposed shore. As I drew nearer, I felt a vibration—not in the air but in the marrow of my bones. The structures seemed alive, their surfaces writhing as though the very stone recoiled from the moonlight.  

Then I saw them.  

Shadows moved among the ruins—figures tall and slender, their forms glistening with the same unnatural sheen as the structures. Their limbs were too many, bending in ways that defied anatomy, their faces a void where expressions should be. They moved with an eerie grace, as though swimming through the thickened air.  

I crouched behind a jagged rock, my breath shallow and my lantern extinguished. The figures paid no heed to me; their attention was focused on the gate. One by one, they stepped through, vanishing into the pulsating light.  

It was then I understood the villagers' fear. These were not spirits nor beasts, but beings from a realm that should not intersect with ours. The tide was not merely an ebb of water but a thinning of the barriers between worlds.  

The Revelation  

In my terror, I stumbled back, my boot dislodging a stone. The sound, sharp and foreign, echoed across the unnatural silence. The nearest figure turned its faceless head toward me, and though it had no eyes, I felt its gaze pierce through me.  

A sound erupted, not from the creature but from the very air around it—a deep, resonant vibration that seemed to speak directly to my thoughts. Images flooded my mind: cyclopean cities beneath the waves, where the geometry of the universe unraveled; a spiral of stars collapsing into a yawning black void; and a name, burned into my consciousness like a brand. Y’quaril.  

My body froze as the figure began to approach, each step leaving no mark on the wet sand. My sanity frayed like old rope, strands snapping one by one. In that moment, I understood that the gate was not merely a passage but an invitation—an invitation for them to return, and perhaps for us to follow.  

With the last shred of my will, I turned and fled, not daring to look back.  

The Aftermath  

I left Brynmouth at first light, though the villagers would not meet my gaze. The town had grown quieter, as though holding its breath. Whatever I had seen, they had always known.  

I have tried to write my account for others to read, but words falter in the face of such truths. Each night, I dream of the gate and the name that writhes in my mind like a living thing. Y’quaril. The tides will come again, and when they do, I fear the world will not be ready.