Memoirs of an Unknown Sailor
By: Gnaash Posted on: September 27, 2007
...tattered pages, stained with brine, set adrift by hapless chance. Splattered ink on soiled sheets of parchment o'er the seaswells dance, scattered by the fickle winds: a tale of fateful happenstance... ---------- Ship's Log: 8 Ero, 461 AF The shifting sands hide horrors. Our backs to the angry sea, we could do nothing but stare at the harbingers of our fate as they emerged from beneath the golden sand. Two of the crew were taken, dragged across the beach by their crippled legs; their tanned, bare chests were covered with blood and bile. I should have heeded the advice of my sponsors and provided every ship-hand with an immunity elixir. They say hindsight is often crystal clear. The native water-gatherers have learned how to survive this curse. Or adapt to it. If only we could be so lucky. The hunters, with their thickly padded armour and their keen eye-sight say they spoke warnings to our scouts about the scorpions. It is a shame the scouts never returned to the village to unburden themselves of that knowledge. And now, with the green ocean all around us, we are trapped here until dawn brings the low tide. Trapped like the foreign vermin that gnaw the lines above the quarterdeck. Ship's Log: 5 Ero, 461 AF Scouts have been sent to seek out the bridge on the island's furthest shore to the north. From the protective comforts of the native village, the crew and I will set watch for their return. Although it pains me to translate these simpletons' dialect, it has become clear that the natives must have had contact with the outside world. The chapel and altar prove that speculation. If they will not freely yield to me their history, perhaps it may be cajoled out of them. The ship steward has declared our provisions are adequate for three weeks. Ship's Log: 3 Ero, 461 AF One of the indigenous fishermen led the first mate and myself to a small village today, tucked beneath the steep sides of a rocky gorge. This location is well-suited to keep the village protected from the nearly constant winds that buffet the island. The villagers are slow-minded but kind folk. Their lives revolve around the need for fresh water, though fish are plentiful. The skin of these people is surprisingly tough and leathery, perhaps an adaptation to the harsh environment. It is difficult to tell. The carefree nature of the children is marvellous! With arms spread wide, they pretend to soar on the breeze like small, featherless birds; or they wile away the hours building fantastic castles out of sand, only to move further down the beach on a whim, leaving their monuments behind them. But there is something more. Something I can't quite place my finger on about the children's hardiness and appearance. Ship's Log: 7 Ero, 461 AF We will cross the bridge. No manner of threat or bribe has elicited an ounce of wisdom from these savages. Having exhausted our investigation of the southern island, we must press forward. Many of the men have become laggards, sleeping in the shade by day. I will take this journal and few scant possessions with me. I am loathe to risk the delicate instruments to the ravages of the wind-whipped sand and the baking sun. The first mate has spoken his mind, but I will not wait another day for the scouts to return. Having located the bridge, there is but one choice: to cross it. The stone is solid and deeply set, though somewhat eroded. I have no doubt of its stability. Ship's Log: 9 Ero, 461 AF Dying. Slowly. Soon, we must face the scorpions that block the way to the bridge. Or else starvation will be our grim master. Starvation or... change. I feel weak and hot. Must find a cool place to rest. Low tide has come and gone, and yet here we remain, cowering behind these unforgiving rocks. No sign of the water-gatherers since yesterday. Must fight the urge to give in... to despair. Ship's Log: 6 Ero, 461 AF Nothing to report. Ship's Log: Ero, 461 AF The Holy Codex of the Church! Here? A small chapel with a crude wooden altar was discovered near the southeastern shore of the island. Upon the altar sat an aged copy of the Holy Codex. By Mithraea's shining brow I swear it! It is my estimation that this island was at one time host to missionaries from Shallam. The gentle natives speak jarbled Achaean. Perhaps it was taught to them by a traveling priest? I shall attempt to decipher the nature of these people and the origins of this chapel. Rattlesnakes thrive in this arid environment, and already we have treated several of our oarsmen for bites. What lured them away from the village, I may never know! But rumours of the virtues of the island's fairer sex are beginning to spread amongst the men. Ship's Log: 24 Scarlatan, 461 AF We set sail today, fully provisioned, from the Isle of New Hope below the Peshwar Delta! And such is the joyous nature of our hearts, we are filled with Hope ever radiant and stirring, for the success of our journey! Our course lies south and east from where the waters of the Zaphar and Pachacacha Rivers mingle with the salty sea. We number twenty-three, all told: oarsmen, hale and strong, the first mate, the ship steward and I. Our generous sponsors have provided us the best of Shallam's rations, navigational instruments, and three barrels of fine Amalyan wine. Ah, to feel the brisk wind blowing over the rail of the quarterdeck and hear the sails snap taut behind its force! I shall plot our progress and record our fate in these crisp, white pages. Ship's Log: 10 Ero, 461 AF Only two remain. Must prepare to fight. First mate is strong. Will take more than a few hits. Perhaps he will draw the beasts away. I will run. Run to the bridge. He suspects. The hunger makes enemies of all men. This is it. They are comi...