IntoTheMouthOfRavness

I think it goes without saying that we were all considerably relieved when our naval transport pushed off, leaving behind the cursed isle of the Golum of Flesh and it’s sinister conceiver. As it is often with accommodations that are made through a third party, the sturdy yacht we were promised turned out to be nothing more than a pitiful moss-covered fisherman’s barge with barely a sail to its credit. The pilot, a sexagenarian conaisseur of the seas named Blain on the other hand did much to raise the vessel’s profile with his acute navigation and preternatural instinct. He showed a remarkable knowledge of the ever-present and enigmatic mists, and seemed to possess some keen insight into their mysterious effects on travel. Given more of an opportunity, I would have liked to interview Blain on his affinity for negotiating these wisps of white, and perhaps discover how I had managed to elude my native Paridon. To be perfectly honest, my interest in the mist pathways extends only so far as to acquiring the necessary awareness to prevent me from ever accidently going back home. I’m having entirely too much fun as things are now to undertake its study. Perhaps some other time.

Blain, it seems was not quite the master I first made him out to be. Or perhaps it was a simple twist of Fate that landed us, quite literally, on the jagged shores of another blasted island. We weren’t certain at first that we had been diverted from our intended course, but upon closer inspection, we discovered that we had indeed happened upon another discarded slug of earth, and more. Securing our transportation with Blain by asking him to wait ashore for a day, we set off into the chilled woods to get a better perspective of our location. I cringed at the notion of stumbling upon another throng of hapless villagers, collecting berries or chopping wood innocently until the sight of me would send them scurrying for their pitchforks while their wenches wailed like lame jackals in heat. Fortunately we found only one resident in a strangely erected lighthouse at the apex of the isle. I did not see him myself as the ladder leading to his chambers above barely supported Ephraim’s healthy frame, let alone my gargantuan proportions. By the contemptuous look on Constance’s face, he was probably no gentleman, this lighthouse keeper. I was later informed that the attendant had “invited’ our party to seek the accommodations of a ghastly manor that lay a hundred-and-fifty paces south of his outpost. Surprising everyone, our Fearless Leader Symeon put his sandaled foot straight down and forbid us from inspecting its interior; he would not say why. All for the best I suppose.

Speaking of our resident pilgrim ascetic, I have begun to become suspicious of Symeon of the Pillar, but not in the way that one would traditionally. I have found no reason to question his sincerity in terms of his motivations and sensitivity to the suffering of the unwashed masses. Instead I am beginning to question his physical nature and perhaps his spiritual one as well. There is some near-tangible aura around him, something mystical that lies not within the souls of average men. I have yet to witness him consuming and entire meal, or drinking to his thirst. It is as if he had no longer an appetite for earthly things; as if he now hungered for altogether something more. His lack of concern for the daily essentials are only part of the reason I am convinced that he is deserving of close observation. I must be vigilant in a way that he does not notice. A difficult task by any measure.

Ephraim is another enigma, always smiling and bowing like a pauper, while his outward appearance suggests a much different profile; a brash and powerful man-at-arms, prepared for battle at any given moment; a man kings would give their fortune to have at their command. Yet he sits in silent contemplation, softly whispering prayers to himself as he counts those strange knots on his rope belt. When in strange company he offers pleasantries in a soft voice, almost as if he had just wandered out of one of Wei Lung’s opium dens; never a forceful word or outburst of rage from that man. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was a man tempered in steel, but soaking in regret or shame over some past failure. Birds of a feather, they say.

Of Constance I have yet to form a preliminary report. She guards herself like a chastised armadillo, sneering and grumbling like a locomotive. A little firecracker that one; with a fuse that’s fast reaching its end. I’ll make sure to take cover when some oaf says the wrong thing and sets the whole damn business off. If Symeon does not step in soon to sooth her inner-fires with his priestly wisdom, I may be given into the unenviable task of her education. She could benefit from a good spanking and some manners if you ask me; but then again, that could be my father talking.

I digress…

It was decided finally that we should make haste post-hence from the island back toward our original destination. We were fortunate to find that Blain had honored his contract and had waited diligently on the shore for our return. We set out once again in the mists, hopeful, determined. Irony would be our host on this particular voyage, as Blain’s machinations actually ended us in the Bay of Martyrs, the place we had fled from in the first place, following Ephraim’s episode with a local contingent of pawn scum. Left with little choice in the matter, and no desire to retrace our steps, we bid the old navigator farewell and decided to get re-acquainted with this festering nest of villainy that fancied itself a port town. Once there and accommodated at a nearby dive, I managed to regain my bearings and composure by sampling the delights of the neighboring bath house. Damning discretion and vigilance, I walked through their threshold as-you-please, head held high, acting as if I had been from His Majesty’s cabinet on an official business.Where I expected the customary alarms and frantic shrieking, I actually received remarkable service! They even led me to the finest of their private rooms, obscenely decorated of course but a far cry from the latrine that served as our quarters at the Inn. A capital bath and shave later, I was ready to talk about horse races and smoke cheroots until Kingdom Come, but alas the real world would not allow me to dwell in sweet reverie for long, and I was of again to rejoin my compatriots.

There was some strange business about a homeless man-thing that sought us out after we landed in the Bay. Something about bats that turned into men or vice versa. It is all a blur to me as I write this as I’m not entirely certain what it was all about. Perhaps I’ll go into it in more detail once we get to the bottom of it.

Adventure is upon us once more it would seem…