It whispers and mutters like an old woman.
The sailor begins to feel cold on the stone floor, on which the wind spreads itself like water; he tosses about, folds his legs under himself, draws his head into his shoulders, gropes for his imaginary clothes, but is unable to wake up--his intoxication produced by a two days' spree is heavy and severe.

But now the wind whines more powerfully than before; something heaves a deep groan.

Perhaps a part of a destroyed wall has sunk into the sea.

The quivering yellow spots commence to toss about upon the crooked wall more desperately, and Khorre awakes.
He sits up on his mattress, looks around, but is unable to understand anything.
The wind is hissing like a robber summoning other robbers, and filling the night with disquieting phantoms.

It seems as if the sea were full of sinking vessels, of people who are drowning and desperately struggling with death.