Description[edit | edit source]
|3 Inauton, 2827 AI
I have found this water-stained notebook at the bottom of my satchel, and now, having no use for it, I must record my thoughts, or I fear I will go mad in the solitary confinement of my own head.
Months have passed, and still we are stranded on this cursed island. What few supplies we had with us at the time of our calamity have dwindled away to little more than dust and crumbs. When it became clear that we would be trapped on this island for some time, we began to ration our food. It was half-rations at first, but as the days wore on and help became ever less a possibility and ever more a dream, we took only one meal a day, then one meal every two days.
Fresh water, at least, is plentiful. It bubbles up from a crack in the stone near the ruins. No doubt it is pushed to the surface by some unseen force of vulcanism. I should have liked to have had my instruments on hand to record its rate of flow and volume, but those are long since gone, likely resting at the bottom of the sea.
Our numbers shrink day by cursed day. Always now my clothes smell of rancid meat, of sweat and smoke. The jerky we made from Caral's thigh has gone off. We had thought he might survive the amputation, but he passed away in the night two days ago from a fever in his blood.
We have better learned how to cure our meat, but our blades have gone dull, and we have only sea water with which to cleanse them. None have survived an amputation since Caral's tragic passing, so we no longer bother with the practice. More's the pity - I was becoming an old hand at it.
Elewys was lost to us today. It pains me to write the words, though her passing comes as no surprise. She drew the shortest reed.
Her necklace I intended to keep, but it has gone missing since her death. I'd always thought it suited her, that the stone matched the light in her eyes. I wanted to remember that light.
Perhaps someone is hiding it, though I do not know why they would do me such an unkindness. I was meant to have it. She never said as much, but I know. I will perform a search of the others' belongings when next I have the midnight watch. Woe betide the thief.
A chill wind has found us. It blows ceaselessly across the isle, whipping our shelters into disarray and peppering our meals with sand. We take shelter in the nearby ruins, though I am loath to do it. Always that place has seemed to me befouled by some unfriendly spirit, for I hear whispers when the wind blows. They cry for mercy, for salvation.
Another of the crew has disappeared this morning. Some suspect he tied stones to his wrists and walked himself into the sea. But they are wrong. I saw him walk while he was dreaming, with jerky movements not his own. He wandered deep into the ruins and did not return.
So few of us remain. I envy them, the departed - their souls are returned to the Wheel and free to find new lives to lead. We unlucky few receive no such boon. And that is what we have given them - a gift. We suffer so that they might be free.
Arlendr says we might fashion a raft large enough to escape this place. He is mad. We belong to this isle now, as it belongs to us.
Location[edit | edit source]
- Temple of Tangaloa ruins: Found on the table.