The Mists of World’s End: The Diary of Shelly Gwynne

Day Eleven, The Island:


I have never been so tired in me whole damn life as I am right now.  Even scribing these words into the book I’ve found in the supplies wot just keep appearing out of the ocean, as if the god of the ocean finds me to be of some great import. I cannot say what it may be, but it feels as though something is coming, some portent, some wyrd I cannot make heads nor tails of… and I feel as though I should be frightened, but strangely, I find meself excited—

A thunderclap jolted me, and I looked out the makeshift tent I’d erected between three tall trees just up the beach, having strung up a net in hammock form between the two biggest. Tucking the book and quill in my vest, I grimaced as I walked over to the palm tree leaves that made an awning of sorts over the opening, watching the lightning striking the ocean not two miles away from the shore. Taking a thick stick and stirring the coals, I added a bit of kindling, ill-prepared for the tremors I felt shuddering beneath my feet. Seconds later, everything shook and I wrapped my arms around the trunk of the palm closest to me, grabbing the rope that held the hammock bed and tugging it loose. I shimmied up the palm until I could grasp the leaves and I tied myself to its top just as enormous waves crashed below me, taking out the makeshift home I’d made and leaving me with nothing once more. I leaned my forehead to the tree, holding on tight as the storm raged, hoping to the gods that I’d survive the night.

I’ve survived worse or ain’t that apparent? I thought I’d drowned—I still ain’t certain I didn’t. I was stabbed by the woman I thought I loved, and the beasts of the deep should have come after me, but I washed up on a foreign shore. Nary a soul in sight, nothin’ but this isle and this shore.

A long blue-white bolt strikes the ground not three feet from me and I can’t help but cry out, hiding my face as I shiver in the rain, the ferocity of the storm now centered on the island as the metallic scent of lightning fills my nose. I prayed then, to God, to Davy Jones, to Poseidon—anything and anyone I could remember that might calm the ocean’s wrath and allow me to live.

Please… I beg ye! I have a purpose… a fate! I can see the threads o’ me tapestry and they don’t end here! Please… calm the wind and rain and let me down from me perch. I’ll fill it. I promise ye!

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