Captain's Journal: Discovery of the Isle

From the journal of an unnamed captain

Three weeks ago I set out from Specularem on a mission of grave importance: to bear the dying Prince Davin to the Thanegioth Archipeligo, where it was said an enchantress dwelt with the power to break that foul warlock’s curse. Aye, this sounds like something out of a children's tale. Believe me, it has only become more so since. Suffice it to say, my mission is not what it once was. Now it is to survive and see that this message is delivered so others will know the dangers of this place.

I will begin again: A great storm—the likes of which I'd never known—plagued my voyage. When the gale finally ended we found ourselves blown south, and countless days off course, floating adrift in warm equatorial waters. Our destination remained the same, but I knew my ship would never survive the crossing or the return, not without re-provisioning and modest repairs. We made east by southeast, hoping that dry land would not be far.

On the third day, by Avandra's grace, our prayers were answered. A chain of islands unmarked on any chart appeared in the horizon to the west—the same direction we'd been sailing from. Perhaps these were the pirate isles of which I had been warned, but their sudden appearance unnerved me. We made sail for the closest isle and within a small bay we encountered a modest village of thatched huts.

The natives were friendly and primitive, and certainly wary of us. After some persuasion, they were willing to trade food and supplies for weapons and tools of steel. Unfortunately, lumber to repair my ship was not to be found. With the aid of my mage's ritual of Tongues, we inquired about the surrounding islands, but the village chieftain—chieftainess?—seemed determined to warn me off their exploration.

We bade our host farewell and we explored the other islands and their settlements, spying strange sights and crumbling fortifications and statues long abandoned. Some villages were friendly, but others were hostile and the natives attacked on sight. I daresay we found plentiful evidence of cannibalism among the latter and I lost good men to their attacks. We skirted the coastlines of several islands, sailing north by west until we reached a vast isle that spanned the horizon, crowned by a central plateau shrouded in fog and surrounded by a lush jungle that ran to steep cliffs in all directions. Our approach was from the southeast, where a lowland peninsula reached out to divide the nearby waters. We skipped the smaller islands nearby and made straight for it. The peninsula was cut off from the main island by a neck of land and as we sailed nearer, I was shocked to discover the latter was warded off from the former by a massive wall of stone.

I personally led the shore party, so excited was I by this hint of civilization. We went well armed and prepared for anything. After we hiked the distance to the edifice, we discovered that the near side of the great wall sheltered yet another village of primitive natives. I studied the wall, which was indeed man-made and quite impressive—undoubtedly the work of hundreds, if not thousands of men. These natives were especially friendly. They told us their settlement was called Tanaroa. However, the name they gave to the vast island that was their home intrigued me more—the 'Isle of Dread.'

As we spent time with the Tanaroans that day, we learned that the massive wall that separated their peninsula from the rest of the island was built by ancients whom they called "the gods." According to the villages, these gods built a city atop the island's central plateau. The pervasive fogs surrounding those highlands prevented my spyglass from confirming this claim; only a direct inspection would suffice. But as I learned more about their culture and traditions, I began to increasingly suspect that these "gods" of which they spoke were their ancestors, a people who possessed a more advanced culture than anything in evidence now. The Tanaroans—and, it seemed, all the peaceful natives we’ve encountered—seem to be divided up into four distinct clans: Ape Clan, Tiger Clan, Boar Clan, and Sea Turtle Clan.

On the second day, a ferocious roar awoke us. My men and I ran to the wall, attempting to see what made the sound. At this, the Tanaroan moved to stop us from getting close, their hysterical jabbering included talk of great beasts that could devour a man whole. They spoke of a curse upon the ruins and the jungle beyond the wall, placed there by the gods—their wall held back the worst of it.

They warned that only a large and well-armed party should ever go beyond the great wall, where the villagers venture from time to time for supplies and food. While dubious, I could not doubt the ferocity of the creature that made that cry, or the sheer size of the beast we glimpsed from afar. If these were not dragons, they must surely be their wingless cousins. Given the poor state of my men, I could not in good conscience risk their lives by venturing beyond.

I ordered them back to the ship and we bade farewell to the Tanaroans, granting their matriarch such gifts as I could spare to win her future good will. Next time I shall return with an expedition worthy of the endeavor of exploring this land. Before departing, however, I was determined to sail around the Isle and its rocky coastline, making as detailed markings of its features as I could. The work was painstaking, made more difficult by a suddenly rising fog that seemed to pour from the plateau into the surrounding jungle at dusk.

Our task nearly complete, we sailed past a cove on the north side of the island, where I confess I was shocked to spy the wreck of a sailing ship of foreign design in the shoals. From its broken hull emerged a prow carved in the likeness of a snarling wyvern. I noted that the dilapidated rigging was decades out of date. My curiosity got the best of me and I ordered the men to lower anchor and, despite their misgivings, I told the crew we were staying the night. In the morning we would attempt to salvage the wreck.

I wish I had never ordered the stay, as the events of the next few hours haunt me still. The ragged creature we found lurking inside the wreck must have been an elf once, but bore little resemblance to the fair folk of Alfheim that I have known. He was a tortured soul, and when he spoke my name—as if he knew who I was—it chilled me to the core.

Episodes #5 and #6: Sarcophagi

Diary of Gregorius Half-Orc the Cenobite

Continuation of the First Day on the Isle

The passage was cold. The old shaman in the death’s head mask—the one who called himself "Uja Zem"—led us down into the earth; I was struck for a moment by the sensation that we trespassed upon a tomb. It was then we heard a thunderous crash from the jungle outside. I wheeled about to ask my companions if they’d heard what I had. The looks Ecaris and Edrathior gave me said they had. We slowly made our way back outside. None of us could yet see just what was tearing its way through the jungle. The tribesmen outside, standing guard over their kinsmen’s graves, readied their weapons. We might have taken shelter in the cave, but our would-be friends stood ready to fight. Had we left them to face whatever rough beast slouched forth alone, they wouldn’t be our friends for long. So we waited.

It’s been said the period of waiting before battle separates the bold from the craven. After all, even a coward may become brave if he be taken unawares and not have the time to contort himself with fear. I took those few moments to survey our impromptu order of battle: Ecaris and I in the first rank, Edrathior in the rear, the tribesmen on the right flank shouldering their macuahuitls (a name later given to these obsidian-toothed weapons). I saw that Bartholomew was not with us, and realized we had left him alone with the old shaman. There was no time to worry though, for then the behemoth broke through the trees.

It was a massive beast, bucking like a bronco, bearing the shell of a tortoise, spines of a dragon, and legs of a rhinoceros. (Translator’s Note: The diarist here uses the archaism rhinoceros, being an imaginary beast with a horn growing from its snout, clearly inspired by travellers’ distorted accounts of the unicorn.) It bellowed, in its eyes neither the intellect of man, nor the hunger of beast, but only blind, insensate rage. We stood our ground. It charged straight at me. Mere yards away, it flung itself about, with an agility belying its great bulk, and swung its tail. I bobbed just beneath it, and slid in to punch the behemoth’s underbelly. Ecaris took a similar course, and we were both overturned and dropped on our heads for our efforts.

Upon regaining our feet, we tried to divert the galloping brute from our more fragile companions and from the burial grounds of our new allies. Bucking and flailing as it did, the behemoth was able to hold his ground against assault from all sides. Finally as the poor beast collapsed under the weight of blood loss and spent rage, one of the tribesmen sprung forward and struck it with his macuahuitl.

With the beast slain, we inspected the corpse. The beast had obviously been ill or poisoned; black effluvia issued from its eyes and its snout. On its neck was a wound, inflicted by some type of spear or arrow. We suspected this to be the source of whatever had driven the behemoth mad.

The old man and the turtle woman led us back into the cavern. At the end of the tunnel, they pointed to a square opening in the floor. A rope ran down into the dark. The turtle woman pointed down the shaft, indicating we were to descend. I looked down the shaft; the floor was some twenty feet below. I could leap back up if things went awry, so I slid down first. I found myself in a cavern. To the west was a rope-and-wood-plank bridge over a natural cleft. I could hear the tide moving in and out of that cleft. I could see the details of the cavern plain as day in the faint light available, though the humans might have trouble. I called up to my companions and they descended.

The rope bridge was in a state of some disrepair, though it held up as we crossed one by one. On the other side of the cleft, we found another chamber of worked stone. Nearest us was a chest pressed against the wall. Inside the chamber three stone sarcophagi stood upright against the walls. My companions and I discussed the best course of action. Bartholomew made a beeline for the chest. Looking over my shoulder, I saw the turtle woman had descended the rope, and stood across the bridge, looking at us expectantly. We beckoned her to join us on the other side. She did with some reluctance—though with apprehension or reverence for this place, I could not say.

By this time, Edrathior had told us there was powerful magic radiating from the farthest sarcophagus; Bartholomew had extracted whatever wealth the chest had held. Of interest was a scroll case. The scroll inside appeared, at a glance, to be a record of some kind. I tucked the case into my sash, resolving to read it later. Concerned we might be ambushed by more of the undead, we decided it would be prudent to crack open the sarcophagi and check inside.

The first sarcophagus contained the remains of a one-legged dwarf, wearing mail of Rockhome make. Those more schooled in arms and armor than I stated the suit bore the designs of 50 years previous. The turtle woman gazed at the mummy inquisitively. I decided this was the time to try and communicate. I pointed to the unfortunate in the sarcophagus, and said “Rockhome,” repeated “Rockhome” and waved my hand in the direction of the sea. She appeared to understand, and intoned “Mora” indicating herself.

The second contained the corpse of a human knight of Thyatis, apparently of the same order as Ecaris, though my companion claimed no knowledge of any Thyatian expedition to this place—wherever this place was. Ecaris took one of the unfortunate knight’s gauntlets to return to his family.

The three of us again took up position before the last sarcophagus. Upon opening it, we found naught but the mummy of an elvish woman, draped in rich silks. She had a ring upon one wizened finger; Edrathior said this was the source of the magic he’d sensed, and not the deceased herself.

It was then I elected to open the scroll case; inside were a map and what appeared to be a journal entry or memorandum. The map depicted a large island surrounds by several smaller ones. A few dots, likely towns or villages, were labeled. One was “Mora,” whence the Turtle Woman indicated she had come. The journal indicated the writer had set out from Specularum, three weeks prior to the writing, to bear one Prince Davin to the Thanegioth Archipelago. He, like us, was blown off course by a great storm. He and his crew put ashore on the first isle they came to, trading with the natives for food and supplies. He wrote that the village’s chieftain or “chieftainess?” tried to warn him off exploring the other isles. This would not surprise me, though I am puzzled by the writer’s puzzlement.

They found several villages—including Mora and Tanaroa—all on the same southeastern peninsula. Just north of Tanaroa, a great wall separated the inhabited peninsula from the rest of the island. The Tanaroans allegedly referred the this isle, upon which they dwelt as “the Isle of Dread.” After departing Tanaroa, the writer decided he would navigate around the north end of the island. There he and his men found a wrecked sailing ship, bearing a figurehead in the shape of a wyvern. His curiosity having gotten the better of him, he dropped anchor and set about exploring the wreck. Aboard the derelict they found some creature, the author writing only: it “must have once been an elf,” and it spoke his name, as if it knew who he was. The account ended abruptly. I wondered if the thing he’d encountered were kin to the one I had fought on the beach.

At any rate, with a map of the Isle in hand, and some better idea of just what we had stumbled into, we stepped outside and shared a meal of fruits and coconuts with our new companions. After this meal, we are to plan our next moves.