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