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...

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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...