An old woman tells a story about soldiers with ragged robes, on a journey to find a handful of black stones, cut to resemble crustaceans.
The children tinker with an old map and an ocarina.
An elder awakes from a vision, but refuses to speak of it.
A ritual; honeycombs for the water, glue for the clouds.
Ore-rich cliffs are carved with pictures of seasnakes.
A biting wind. Towering over us, an impenetrable settlement, now deserted, carved into the wall.
Midnight. Lights below. Perhaps some sunken city.
Some of us take down the sail as the winds rise, and the boat is tossed about.
A stealthy contraption decorated with ragged banners drifts past.
The children play a game using parchment and charcoal.
Moss-riddled cliffs dotted with cursed moonstones.
The churning seas shimmer. We chase watermoths from our jars of fish.
The sacred water. Worn ruins loom over our makeshift boat.
Lightning illuminates the night sky. A prayer to the raging heavens.
A doleful song about old alliances with soldiers.
Something screeching in the dark. A prayer to the malevolent heavens.
The swaying of the deck. Lights below. Green and gold.
Icy rain, and the raging sea denies us its shellfish.
We hope for edible fungi. The raft rocks. A hidden plateau among the structures.