Words from the endless seas
A letter from Captain Roland Nash to Cornelius, Loremaster of the Tulwood Hunter's Guild, currently floating in a sealed bottle somewhere far from land.
CW: Thalassophobia, Depression.
My Esteemed Friend,
I hope this letter finds you in good health, and that fortune has brought you great success since we last met. I know you walk a dangerous road, my friend, and many forces would see your venture crumble to dust, but if any of us deserve a life of triumph, it is your little band. I can only hope this missive reaches you, for it may well be the last I ever send. When last we met, you warned that I should be wary on my explorations, that some mysteries did not want to be answered, and might seek to settle the score with me. I laughed it off, saying I had survived everything the sea could throw at me. But she is ever a fickle mistress, and this latest trick of hers may well have claimed me. Forgive me, the mind wanders... It has been too long since a good night's sleep. Since night, in general. But I should start at the beginning. We last made port in Surlant, bound for the Southern Passage and the seas beyond. Two months out to sea, a furious tempest came up, and despite our best efforts, we were unable to escape. Some have said the storm seemed to be chasing us, but this is far from my first storm, and I'm honestly not sure I would be able to tell the difference. The storm blew long and hard, tossing us about for two days. Two days of battling the seas, patching holes, pumping out water, and battling to keep the ship facing the waves. Finally, the storm broke around us, stopping with a suddeness as surprising as the storm's ferocity. Looking out across the waves, I realized what had happened: we reached the eye of the storm. That brief moment of calm at the height of a tempest that people on land report, as if the storm drew its breath only to strike again with renewed force. All about us, a wall of storm rose to the heavens, but above, a glimmer of morning sun shone down upon us. We made the most of this boon, setting our smallest sails and steering with the eye. If we could keep our ship within the eye, we might stand a chance of survival when the great storm died down a bit. My crew needed sleep, my ship needed repairs, and we had a sliver of an opportunity to find both. We managed to stay in the eye a whole day, with the fury of the storm seeming to only grow around us. And then, what happened next, I cannot explain. The storm retreated, fading into night. The sea stilled around us, leaving us becalmed. I ordered the crew to rest, taking a solo watch of the becalmed ship. After all, there is little to do - keep watch for any hint of wind, and any islands or reef we might drift up to, and wait for the winds to return. Even charting our position is mostly a matter of formality, one I thought could wait until my crew and I had a chance to sleep. The sun rose shortly into my watch, unveiling an empty sea as far as the eye could see. Discouraging, yes, but not surprising. But the sun kept rising. My crew awoke, and made ready to measure the zenith...but the sun kept rising. It is now the highest noon, for the sun is directly overhead. And it has been noon for two weeks now. I know not what devilry is at work here, but the sea around us is no sea I have ever sailed. It is vaster, deeper, and quieter. It offers up fish as readily as any other sea, but of land we have seen no sign. That is not abnormal, there are many places in the ocean one can drift becalmed for weeks on end without coming within a hundred miles of the tiniest speck of land...but this eternal sun proves it: this is no simple ocean. I feel a hunger, in this place. It wants us here. It brought us here. It has consumed us. And it will not willingly let us leave. My hope in writing this is that it will not care about a simple missive floating in a bottle. That this letter might somehow find the way back, and bring word of my fate to those few who understand. For what little it is worth, for I know not how to fight this thing. But know this, my only regret is that the end was not so quiet. Had the storm brought us down with no survivors, I could face whatever came thereafter having done all I could. Here, though, there is nothing, an endless nothing. Nothing to face down and go down defying, no grand last stand, just a long lingering. We have provisions for months, yet, and my crew is loyal and earnest; I do not fear a mutiny. As addled as a becalmed sailor might get, they know my past; they know they are likelier to survive with me than without. Fare well, my friend.
Roland
I hope this letter finds you in good health, and that fortune has brought you great success since we last met. I know you walk a dangerous road, my friend, and many forces would see your venture crumble to dust, but if any of us deserve a life of triumph, it is your little band. I can only hope this missive reaches you, for it may well be the last I ever send. When last we met, you warned that I should be wary on my explorations, that some mysteries did not want to be answered, and might seek to settle the score with me. I laughed it off, saying I had survived everything the sea could throw at me. But she is ever a fickle mistress, and this latest trick of hers may well have claimed me. Forgive me, the mind wanders... It has been too long since a good night's sleep. Since night, in general. But I should start at the beginning. We last made port in Surlant, bound for the Southern Passage and the seas beyond. Two months out to sea, a furious tempest came up, and despite our best efforts, we were unable to escape. Some have said the storm seemed to be chasing us, but this is far from my first storm, and I'm honestly not sure I would be able to tell the difference. The storm blew long and hard, tossing us about for two days. Two days of battling the seas, patching holes, pumping out water, and battling to keep the ship facing the waves. Finally, the storm broke around us, stopping with a suddeness as surprising as the storm's ferocity. Looking out across the waves, I realized what had happened: we reached the eye of the storm. That brief moment of calm at the height of a tempest that people on land report, as if the storm drew its breath only to strike again with renewed force. All about us, a wall of storm rose to the heavens, but above, a glimmer of morning sun shone down upon us. We made the most of this boon, setting our smallest sails and steering with the eye. If we could keep our ship within the eye, we might stand a chance of survival when the great storm died down a bit. My crew needed sleep, my ship needed repairs, and we had a sliver of an opportunity to find both. We managed to stay in the eye a whole day, with the fury of the storm seeming to only grow around us. And then, what happened next, I cannot explain. The storm retreated, fading into night. The sea stilled around us, leaving us becalmed. I ordered the crew to rest, taking a solo watch of the becalmed ship. After all, there is little to do - keep watch for any hint of wind, and any islands or reef we might drift up to, and wait for the winds to return. Even charting our position is mostly a matter of formality, one I thought could wait until my crew and I had a chance to sleep. The sun rose shortly into my watch, unveiling an empty sea as far as the eye could see. Discouraging, yes, but not surprising. But the sun kept rising. My crew awoke, and made ready to measure the zenith...but the sun kept rising. It is now the highest noon, for the sun is directly overhead. And it has been noon for two weeks now. I know not what devilry is at work here, but the sea around us is no sea I have ever sailed. It is vaster, deeper, and quieter. It offers up fish as readily as any other sea, but of land we have seen no sign. That is not abnormal, there are many places in the ocean one can drift becalmed for weeks on end without coming within a hundred miles of the tiniest speck of land...but this eternal sun proves it: this is no simple ocean. I feel a hunger, in this place. It wants us here. It brought us here. It has consumed us. And it will not willingly let us leave. My hope in writing this is that it will not care about a simple missive floating in a bottle. That this letter might somehow find the way back, and bring word of my fate to those few who understand. For what little it is worth, for I know not how to fight this thing. But know this, my only regret is that the end was not so quiet. Had the storm brought us down with no survivors, I could face whatever came thereafter having done all I could. Here, though, there is nothing, an endless nothing. Nothing to face down and go down defying, no grand last stand, just a long lingering. We have provisions for months, yet, and my crew is loyal and earnest; I do not fear a mutiny. As addled as a becalmed sailor might get, they know my past; they know they are likelier to survive with me than without. Fare well, my friend.
Roland
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