With the free roving teeth from Bag a Legend this reads
From Fallen London Wiki
Spiralling Into Sorrow
The compass on the Finch is singing. Its needles quiver, resonant, with a frequency that makes your Shell vibrate. Your heart throbs in harmony. Your teeth chatter, drawn to the thrilling amber. They would fly from your mouth like magnets if permitted.
Storm must be dreaming. Not just dreams, but nightmares. Swells surge. Your vessel rolls, crew scrambling on the tilted deck. "We're here!" cries the Youthful Naturalist.
