No SV, You Are The Eldritch Horror! (Quest)

"Sully? You okay?" The words appear directly within this vessel's mind. It is crowded in here. All of these mortals are linked through magic. You focus on the voice and the words. They sound gruff and more than a little anxious. Genuinely concerned. The mortal continues, "Your vitals are going haywire. C'mon?!"
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ḩ̵̛̛͚͇̝̩̪͆̆͑͌̑̄͡͞ą̨͚͙͕̹̮͔͑͐̏̊̒͐̆͡ͅͅz̧̛̜̝͙̮̫̓͆̎̾̊́̀͢͟͟͟͠ụ̧͙̦̯͚͖̞̅̃̀́͠͠r͚͇͈̞͈̘͙͉̊̀̆̇̒͟ y̼̤͎͉̤̰̜͊̐̔̀͡ͅs̶̡̤̲͈̰̯̜̺̯̉̒̏̎͋͡͠͞u̷̧̯̬̜͖͕͌͆̈́͑̉ f̵̲͔̼͉̞̥̹̄̓̋̒͊̓͑͠ã̵̪̤̫̹̝̪̻͎̀̀̂̃́͠ȓ̵̢̨͙̠͉͙͕̠̫̒̔̀̕͝ͅd̡̧̧͉̰̞̫̜̒̅̉̍̀͢͝͡i̡̥̮̤̰̬̐̽̏̐̃̂̕͢͜ź͙̞̖̜͆̄̊̽̏̈͗̿́͢
̻̬̌̆͌͋͑̓͒̈̇̕
The wave of eldritch intent flows forth without compunction. Absolute and irrevocable silence reigns. And then there's a lot of gibberish and mewling and screaming. Then the Linking spell is lost. You are left quite alone inside Sullivan Keterman's head, though you can sense the other mortals within the dark depths of the sea. All spasm violently. One by one they kill themselves with whatever is at hand. Within seconds only one remains, though you can sense him trembling. Ah, right. Mortals, especially those without a modicum of power or true defense, are not able to hear your word. You clear Sullivan's throat irritably. Feh, you had forgotten. The last mortal is made of sterner stuff. The sense of his magic is chaotic and maddened, but he does not bash his own head in with a rock or slam an enchanted blade through his eye nor does he fill his lungs with water. He falls unconscious, he shakes and shivers, yet he lives.

Alien sadness threads through your host's body. These had been compatriots and acquaintances. The one who survives is more, and Sullivan feels despair when thinking of him. The emotion is a distant and pitiable thing easily quashed. It serves no purpose. George. That's the name of this body's husband, the name of the lone surviving wizard.

Perhaps, drawn to this place by your arrival, a small leviathan, hardly larger than a blue whale, courses towards your location. You can sense the malice and magical power carved into the creature's flesh. No, this was not drawn here by your presence. Sullivan's memories tell you that it was a guard beast employed by his group. Never one for summoning, he'd been not-so secretly terrified of it. Must smell blood in the water. The sea serpent, now free of its magical bonds, moves at speed towards you, the comatose George, and the various corpses. Interacting with these sorts of creatures was always more of the Protector's foray. The loon always went on and on about the sanctity of the natural order and the importance of orderly ecosystems.

You have your own way of dealing with these things. Sadly, Sullivan's magical accumen does not much lend itself to your methods, but in a flash of remembrance, you remember. You hold your hand up. Too long to wholly marshal your power. You weave what the Mortals might call a spell. Takes an instant and a fraction of your power. Once you'd used this to penetrate a moon. This is a mockery of that power. Still, it will have to do. A lance of sharpened and condensed harpoons through the giant sea snake. Close your fist. A hundred smaller lances branch off the main harpoon and skewer the creature over and over again. It dies badly.

Your vessel feels satisfaction. You exult in the emotion for a long moment, but your great purpose, as always, drives you forward.

What do you do?
[] Return with George's inert form to the crew of the ship far above.
[] Return to the ship alone. Excuses can be made. Tales can be woven.
[] Forget the ship. Set out on your own. There is much to do.
[] Write-in