The first glimpse anyone is likely to get of Saragoss is the apparition of a ship sailing along the fog-enshrouded seas. It glides past the ship on which they currently sail. The ves¬ sel's glimmering running lights burn weakly through the mist that seemed to presage its coming, The craft does not answer to any hails, nor does it change its course or siow its speed.
If pursued, the ship will maintain a constant distance between itself and its pursuers, no matter how fast or by whatever means they follow.
After the ghostly craft passes, the low, thin fog that traveled with it remains. Little do the crew and passengers of the sighting ship realize that the eerie vessel has sealed their doom, and that they have set their course for Ravenloft. They are physically and magically unable to turn back now.
Soon night falls. Even if the sun had risen for the ship just before the fog, twilight draws near as it peeks from the mist. The stars begin to twinkle from the dome of the sky and a cool breeze carries the clean smell of salt water to the nostrils of the seafarers. A few small clouds slide by the moon, accentuating the beauty of a nearly cloudless night. The wind entangles itself in the hair of all above decks, sighing somewhat mournfully past the portholes of those who are not.
Throughout the night, the winds continue to mount and begin to tear at the sails of the craft, flinging cloaks about like angry ghosts. The cords on the mast snap against the taut canvas, cracking like whips. Clouds slide across the sky, obscuring the moon and the stars. The once-beautiful night rapidly deteriorates into chaos, and all aboard the ship are in danger of losing their lives. Changing the direction the ship travels becomes impossible, as if an unseen force guides the vessel.
Suddenly the whole craft shivers, throwing those aboard to the hard wooden deck. The wind dies immediately as the ship grinds to a halt. The first fingers of dawn spread over the horizon, shedding light across the ocean.
It swiftly becomes apparent that the ship is not on any charted isle, nor near any charted land. As far as the eye can see, there is a shimmering expanse of muck and vegetation spreading across the ocean. Dozens of ships litter the stretch of filthy seaweed—some intact, some broken, and some rotting.
From tip to tip, this circular domain measures about five miles across. This realm is composed entirely of the accumulated flotsam and jetsam of the ocean. Wood from shipwrecks, huge chunks of sargasso seaweed, corpses, and anything else that the currents have ever swept out to sea are all integral parts of Saragoss.
The surface of the realm is notoriously unsafe. In some places, the seaweed and junk are thick and spongy, nearly dry, while in other places it is soupy and thin. Most of the time, it is exceedingly difficult to tell the two condi¬ tions apart. Occasionally, small pools of water accumulate over the thin patches, but more often than not, the two conditions appear almost identical under anything less than intense scrutiny, it is impossible to keep track of these spots, for they change almost daily as the algae floats from one point to another.
The seaweed is home to a myriad of beasts. Some are relatively small and harmless, like the insects which buzz happily over its surface. The majority are not. It is often better to find some sort of dinghy or other means of propulsion to navigate the treacherous slime. Some of the more mechanically inclined natives have created small skiffs they call "slime shoes,” which operate on the same principle as snowshoes. They may also use systems of ropes to connect one ship to another.
The weather in Saragoss is of three distinct varieties. The first and most common is simply searing hot and cloudless by day, and Freezing by night. The second weather type is days of low clouds and high fog, where the dismal sun shines through only weakly, imparting no heat. These days are cold and wretched, with dew and mists that cling to clothing, quickly soaking mist sinking into the wood of the vessels and warping it, making it rot faster than it would ordinarily.
Finally, there are the stormy times. When black clouds gather on the horizon, all the intelligent creatures of Saragoss batten down their hatches and prepare for the worst. These times are by far the worst for the inhabitants, for the tempests have destroyed many a ship that could not stand the strain of the gales rocking the realm to and fro. When the wood weakens, no one can tell how it will react to the forces of nature.
The storms are by far the fiercest storms any sea has ever witnessed. Waves tower high above the ships and smash down upon them, and the squalling winds nearly capsize the boats. The lightning and rain crash down with equal intern sity, each seeming to compete with the other. The weather eventually becomes nearly freezing and the rain turns to sleet. It brutally drives across the exposed surfaces of the ships and creates a slick slush on their decks.
When at last it passes, several ships across the land often have been utterly smashed, leaving behind remnants of themselves. The holes in the “seaweed ground" have widened, leaving little hint of their presence—pitfalls for the unwary or overconfident. Eventually, as the storm lessens its fury t the creatures of Saragoss emerge from their hiding places. They immediately begin their old habits of raiding, bickering, and hunting.
The underside of Saragoss is nearly as varied as the upper. The water here is somewhat shaU low. approximately 100 feet deep at the deepest point, immediately under the center of the floating mass. Here lie sunken ships of all descriptions, rotting under the ocean waters. They all seem to have some sort of hole punched through their sides, or they are missing vital planks in the underside. Kelp and other plant life drape across the masts and extremities of the ships, carpeting the decks in soft green growths.