THE LOG OF THE NORTHERN MARINER:
The great serpent-prow of my ship, Wave-Render cleaves the nighted
Waters as we voyage across the dark, icy sea, towards the unknown...
Above, the brigth winter's moon emerges from a veil of cloud to cast
Its lucent rays upon us, and a clinging, supine sea-mist writhers upon
The midnight waves, swirled by the colol, whispering wind which
Catches our great sail, pushing us onwards, vever onwards... And
Beyond the tang of the darkling sea, the scent of nights is as strong
And heady as summer blossom. I know not what awaits us at the elder
Isle of Mists... that grim and mistery-haunted place which beckons me
To it's shadowed embrace, swathed in dark legendry and etwined in the
Mantle of ancient sorceries... and yet I must hearken to it's ethereal
Call... for mayhap the gods have decreed this to be my final voyage...
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