Veilwater Basin

New day, new me!
My expedition into the Albaneve Summits is starting well! The air on this side of the mountains is refreshing, and I can travel without burdens after leaving my band and lute behind. I even found this abandoned watch tower and got my hands on some old armor and warm undergarments! These will prepare me well for the journey ahead... and the armor makes me look just like a northling!

I'll act like a lost soldier if a patrol catches me. That way, maybe my blood won't be spilled, and I'll live another day! Inspiring stuff... maybe I'll take up a pen and write that down... I'm no longer a songwriter, but old habits die hard!

I ran into a patrol, just as I feared! However, luck was on my side once more. I convinced the troop that I was from the lumber department by showing them the calluses I have on my hands from years of playing the lute. They bought it!
"Recruit Loft", they call me. I didn't bother giving a fake name. I figured they wouldn't know me for my musical past, anyhow. Is music even allowed in the far reaches of the North? Who knows.

I've been tasked to repair the tower, but I snuck away from work to find this beautiful view. When I yell "echo!", the mountains reflect my call with soft reverberation. It's truly awe-inspiring. I simply must see more of the mountains. Perhaps I'll ask my superior to station me elsewhere.

Ah, it feels proper to plant my boots back on solid ground! Masquerading as a soldier was an interesting intermission, but dancing with the winds as a glider connoisseur was most thrilling, I believe!

Still, deep down, I remain a humble minstrel — a slave to the melody that bleeds from my aching heart! Yes, I declare: T'was the urge to create that brought me back — so says my newly discovered fear of vultures. They haunt not only the heights 'round my former outpost, but my dreams, as well... no matter!

I've returned to the love of my life: music! And thus, my mistress demands I try my luck at the Lord’s court! I hear the fellow’s got good taste and a sharp tongue for those who offend it. I may either join his banquet, or range of hunting trophies — but worry does not suit me. Besides, danger to a daring bastard is like a raindrop on a rose.
It simply sweetens the eve.
- "Lucky" Chester Loft

It's the first day of yearfall, 502 D.A. and I've finally reached the castle, and whilst preparing for my little soliloquy, I could not help but let my mind wander!

How shall I ever memorize my lines whilst dreaming beneath such magnificent architecture? I thought the statues of our Lord that line the town entrance fed my hungry eyes, but it seems they were merely an appetizer! The stonework here holds space for scenery, I say:

These columns reach toward the dome like prayers on a rainy night, coating the citadel in an awe-inspiring serenity. Imagine a gray chapel atop a cliff, moss creeping through the century-old brick. Thunder and lightning haunt not only the sanctuary, but the rivulet choking its precipice.
Stone arcs spring from side to side, frogs leaping across the rippling stream. They span 'round the pilasters like the skeleton of an umbrella, sheltering us sheep from the howling winds.

I must not forget myself! My audience is drawing near — I hope the Lord will savor my voice! If not, I might hang from one such arc soon enough... Focus, Chester! Grim thoughts ought not to be in a blond and pretty head like yours!

— "Lucky" Chester Loft

I'm out and about to cast my net — on the prowl for a really big catch, ya see! You'll savor the taste of a legendary haul come evening glow!

Should there be an emergency — sudden inferno, drunkards fightin', runnin' out of ale, drunkards fightin' amidst flames 'cause we've run out of ale (we've been there!) — you know where to find little ol' me:

I'll be just across the lake, by the dragon's skeleton at Ol' Captain's Rest.

Grilled fish with coconut rice or baked taro wedges (12 gold coins)
Tomato Fish Soup, rich and creamy (9 gold coins)

Note: We got a lotta fish, just ask me to catch it and I'll make it for ya!

For the leaf munchers:
Algae Salad (8 gold coins)
Plain vegetable taro curry with rice (10 gold coins)

...then come to the Ol' Salt 'N Pepper!

We got it all — self-caught fish, ale golden as the sun or deep as amber, and many a tale for weary travellers!

Our prices are fair — and so are the barmaids!

Find us on 44 Clearwater Street, just down the road! We'll be happy to 'ave ya!

Mother once told me the ol' captain always has a story to tell... for a price.
Last night, I shuffled along the shore, dead tired from work. As I strolled by the water, I caught a scent in the breeze — and when I looked up, I found myself right beside the Ol' Salt's doors.

I remembered my mother's words, and drawn in by the tavern's promise of ale and a good time, I stepped inside. The old mariner was polishing a glass as I walked in. I told him I was out of coins, but I tossed him a pearl from Orville. He prepared a beer and a tale right away.

In a hushed voice, he reminisced about the week he'd spent inside the maw of a beached sea dragon while stranded far away, his voice rough as the water outside the window. He said he hid between its pearly teeth and slept under its tongue, making a pyre atop its skull to signal rescuers.

Then, he abruptly stopped. I asked him how the story ended, and he quietly held out his hand for another payment. I'll return soon to hear the rest!

Back in the day, I was a rowdy lad. I'd spent each school day by the beach instead of on the classroom bench, kicking strangers' sand castles and skipping rocks on the water.

Once, I spotted a small boat in the distance, with a shadowy figure balancing on it. As I focused my attention there, their shapes toppled and morphed into one, disturbing the water around. Did someone slip into the lake? I waited to see the person resurface, but no one emerged.

Moments later, a creature made from seaweed and saltwater rose from beneath the rippling waves by the shore. It was much closer than the boat had been, and as it neared, I began to spot a graying face below the heap of algae. It was the captain.

I asked him how he was able to cross the waters between the sinking ship and the beach so quickly. He smiled, and said: "A mermaid's kiss gave me fins, dear boy!" and trotted off.

Only later did I notice that his feet had left a strange imprint in the sand. Could his story have been true?

Back in my school days, I was taught that Captain Melville liked to tell stories. Tall ones. The kind of tales that smell more like old boots than truth. As a working man, I’ve always known his tavern, "Ol’ Salt ’N Pepper", was named not just for his sea-worn beard, but because you’re supposed to take everything he says with a pinch, nay, a load of salt.

And yet, people lap it up.

They crowd around him like he’s some sea-born prophet, hanging on every crooked word. Why? The man’s a liar. A fossil. He hasn’t been out past the bay in years. Why trust a word he says — even worse, why buy his fish? Especially when we sell better catch, cheaper, and without the song and dance!

Just last week, he burst into the square, hair all tangled, shouting, "The Drak! I saw 'em, they're back!" Theatrics. Always theatrics with him.

It’s just another one of his tales, spun for coin and glory. And yet, folks eat it up.
Fools, the lot of 'em.

Once, as a seamstress, I had quite the popular customer — the old Captain himself!

I will never forget the dawn at which he stumbled through my open doors, beard not nearly as ashen as it is today, little more than a stained shirt on his body.
"Morn', young lass!" He cawed with a hoarse voice, "I'd like a new coat! Deep blue as the sea, with gold and glamor, I'd say — hick!"

While taking his measurements, I observed him closely. He smelled of wine and was missing not only his coat, but one shoe... When I asked him about it, he said:
"Nay, the wine is half the story — See, as I was out late on the canal, an old devil born from the frothing blue called to me from below! He said he'd trade me a bottle of his finest for one button of my coat! A bottle for a button? I thought: Why not? But as I reached down to receive the wine, the impish creature pulled me in by my cufflinks and turned back seafoam! Hick! I went overboard, mayday, mayday! They had to fish me and my boat out — and my coat, it was gone with the waves! Hick!"

I had his new jacket ready within three days, but I always wondered how his old clothes didn't wash ashore. Did they turn into seafoam, too?

Reports were right
The "Drak" are near
I've never seen something like this
They're waiting in the thicket, salivating

Joshua and Powell are gathering the divers and some of the younglings who can hold their breath
Only way out is through the water
No air stops possible — they might spot us

We hide out in the shipwrecks by the shore
Powell is taking the Mining Sieve
Sharp enough in case of an emergency
Ancients keep us safe

- Rolf

It has come to our attention that some individuals have attempted to manually clear blockages in the grinder while the machinery is still in operation. We must emphasize that this practice is strictly prohibited due to the severe safety risks involved, including the potential for loss of limbs, or worse, loss of employment.

Under no circumstances should any part of the body be placed near or within moving equipment.
If access to the millstone is absolutely necessary, all water flow must be completely stopped prior to any intervention. To stop water flow, close the water gates in the waterwheel's basin.This will ensure the external water wheel ceases operation and that all related machinery is fully disabled.

Please treat this matter with the utmost seriousness. Your safety is our highest priority.

Sincerely,
Timberwolf Logging & Co.
Safety & Operations Team

Ever since the company ramped up production, I’ve noticed something off about the water.
There's a strange motion in the current. An unnatural one — heavier, slower. A purple haze dances at the edge of my vision whenever I focus my eyes on the stream.

I used to drink from it without a second thought. We all did.

Now, we’ve been strongly discouraged from drinking the river water. Management says it’s “a precaution,” but Timberwolf Logging & Co. started offering bottled water themselves — for a price. Not up front, of course. They just dock it from our pay. Quietly, automatically. Like it’s part of the cost of doing business.

I keep thinking: if I can’t drink from the land I work, if I have to buy water from the same people possibly spoiling it, what kind of freedom is that? What kind of future?

Location: Submerged Temple Ruins – Coordinates Confirmed
Estimated Dive Time: 008 Hours, surfacing possible

Pre-Dive Briefing

Time: Before dusk. Docking went smoothly despite dense growths and scattered debris below.
Place: Abandoned, half-swallowed by the lake. Ideal for exploration!

Observing the parameters of the ruin confirms earlier reports. Multiple moss-ridden stairwells lay upwards, toward the gaping mouth of the temple. Structural integrity is questionable. Best we make good time and beat our own record!

I'm sure we'll find the first chamber as described by the previous team: waterlogged, more seaweed than stone, sealing the flooded pathways beyond. A mechanism or puzzle kept them from breaching the tunnels. That’s where we come in!

The team’s solid. Spirits are high. I’ve got confidence in Edd Exley — he’s sharp, steady, and knows how to handle tight spaces.

Timing’s crucial. We’ll begin the descent at first light. With luck, the sun will be high enough to pierce through the grates and mark the resurfacing zones.

We won't skip breakfast prep, though. Caught a few fish en route; they’ll be fine once roasted!

Location: You know where!!
Estimated Dive Time: Too damn long

Post Dive Findings

Time: It's dark out. No light.
Place: No sign of Edd.

Last seen: He hit the first checkpoint, the metal grates by the overgrown terrace, behind time. Seemed winded, but steady. I thought about pulling him out. I should've stopped the mission then. Pried open the bars. Lifted him up and out of those treacherous waters.

I didn't.

The sun has set, which means Edd will have trouble finding his scheduled resurfacing spots.
Estimated dive time has been exceeded.

I think he has air for... maybe thirty more minutes, if he doesn't panic. It won't last for the way back.

We're running from grate to grate, lighting torches, yelling his name, trying to signal a safe spot to surface. But below, everything is pitch black. The deep swallows both sound and light.

I wonder if he can even still tell up from down. I wonder if he's scared. Alone. Cold. I wonder if he knows he'll die... I wonder if he'll still try to make it to the end.

For Crew & Loaders

INCOMING / OUTGOING CARGO:

Princess Sue (ETA: Tuesday)
- Load 12 crates (nails & lumber) from Left-Hand Storage Room

Dainty Beluga (Arriving Today – Short Layover)
- Transfer grain sacks directly upon arrival

Oceanwasp (ETA: Unknown)
- Small vessel. Special Order: 1x Handpan – Currently on elevator platform (Note: Platform stuck again – maintenance needed ASAP)

Gormander's Seascaper (Awaiting arrival – date TBD)
- Needs, and I quote: "As many coffee beans as the damn thing will hold – I have a kingdom to run here!"
- Additional materials to be stored until arrival. Right-Hand Storage Room.
- Dave & Darrel assigned to storage handling

NOTE:
Anyone seen Dave or Darrel lately? They’re supposed to be managing storage, but haven’t been spotted on the dock in days. If found, send ‘em our way.

– Dock Office

Can't meet ya today
Dock office posted a notice about us. Did ya see it?

Don't worry
I'll be active on the docks, loud and sweaty — lookin' hard and hard at work — gonna cover us for a week or so.

In the meantime, nab some coffee from the Seascaper shipment before we load 'er up! I got a coffee grinder somewhere at home. Some coffee is bound to make our little breaks much sweeter!

DAVE

The text is scribbled in pencil, with faint grease smudges on the edges.

Water’s gettin’ murkier by the day. Not just dirty — wrong. Smells like metal and rot had a baby.

Last order from up top was to “reduce leakage” from the fluorescent goop into the basin. Doesn’t sound like a plan so much as a prayer... and once that's over, we're done here for good. No lift, no jobs, no pay. Just silence and the smell of rot.

Until then, we’re setting up grates and stacking grain sacks. Feels like we’re emptying half the silo just to plug a hole. It’s all makeshift. Temporary. And deep down, I don’t think anyone believes it’ll hold.

I know a farmer in Driftwood Wake. Far enough away from this mess. Water there is still clean... for now. I'll try my luck there. Maybe being in nature will help with this nasty cough I got.

—J

Lush'Kyss:
I beg thee, Sir Lancehart, avert thine eyes! As my form lies bare before thee under the moonlight's embrace, thine gaze fills me with shame!

Sir Lancehart:
Not shame, but desire swells in thee, my little Lush! Thine flushed strawberry cheeks betray thee!

Lush'Kyss:
Don't step closer! My waters run so deep and warm, they may swallow thee so and lock thee away until the golden glow of morn!

Sir Lancehart:
So locked away I must be! Sweep me under thine waves, for my heart yearns for naught more than to be held firm beneath thee, to gaze up at the crescent and the supple bosom it illuminates!

Lush'Kyss:
Oh, to join me in this river's dance wild and free, Sir Lancehart, thine spirit must truly be unchained — but must thee prod me so below with thine appetite?

Sir Lancehart:
Dearest Lush, what thee feels beneath is my lance's tip, to keep us safe whilst we drown in pleasure. I never set forth without protection!

Lush'Kyss:
Oh, how considerate! One should always bring such wards!

Sir Lancehart:
Dearest Lush, this disguise will serve thee well. The human garb hides thine emerald scales — with this, all shall see thee as a common milkmaid! Only I will know the truth of thine pure heart and exotic curves!

Lush'Kyss:
You wish to leave the cover of the canopy together, and live unbound from hate and prejudice... but this cloth is woven of lies! None shall accept me as I hide my deepest desires!

Sir Lancehart:
Do not discard your disguise, Lush'Kyss! We've strayed too far from the thicket! Say, how will thee suffer when a stranger's gaze finds thine flower?

Lush'Kyss:
Then they may marvel at its divinity! These covers are chains I must break to rid myself of shame! See my claws run across my trembling chest, unabashed! Oh, how would I hide a racing heart such as this, my beloved? Each beat compels me ever forward and into thine embrace! Come, soothe my craving as you did by the silver riverside!

Sir Lancehart:
Thine garden has blossomed, dear! Oh, fire overtakes me! I must wet my lips with thine nectar to quench the thirst!

Lush'Kyss:
Plant your seed, my beloved! You have my explicit and verbal consent!

Sir Lancehart:
...And I'd never lay a hand on thee with ambiguity overshadowing our bond, as I hold thee in too high a regard!

I despised working at the Cargo Lift. Turns out, I loathe being a farmhand even more.

I still remember when we got shut down as the Shroud-infected water spread to our upper canals. Dragging sandbags around and building makeshift barricades to "ensure water purity" downstream, all while enduring this rotting stench.

Then, poof: No lift, no work, and I was stuck with a scratchy throat. My new life on the farm is lonesome as hell. The cough and birds around were my only company... 'til yesterday.

While tilling, I saw something shuffle through the trees. The thing was so crooked, I thought it was some sort of beast. Then, bang! Thunder! Lightning! A strange bird's coo! I was distracted by the ruckus above, and when I looked back at the thing, it had moved closer.

No longer hiding behind a tree line, it revealed itself as a hunched-over hag, cawing: "Your cough is bad, my boy — but you're in luck! I'm an herbalist. Come by my hut, and let my healing tinctures soothe you."
As if on cue, a flight of birds near me took off and soared past. Had to shield my face and all, so close were they! Moments later, the birds and crone were gone.

I'll go see her tomorrow. Got nothing left to lose.
—J

Once upon a time, there lived a little princess with rosy cheeks and ashen hair, who loved nothing more than playing by the castle pond with her golden ball.

One day, the ball slipped from her hands and sank beneath the water. Distraught, the princess wept until a voice croaked from the reeds:
"Do not cry, little princess. I shall fetch your golden ball — for a kiss from your cherry lips!"

The girl looked up to see a lumpy frog upon a lily pad. Though repulsed, she nodded, yearning for her treasure back. The creature dove in and returned with the ball — but once the princess reclaimed her toy, she fled into the castle without so much as a thank-you.

That night, the frog came knocking on the gates. The king, upon hearing his daughter's promise, insisted she honor her word. But the princess proved reluctant evermore, and overcome by desperation, she threw the pest against a wall.
As the pale green frog splattered against the bricks, the curse that bound him was broken, and he was freed from the shackles of his cold-blooded form. Born anew, he revealed himself to be a prince.

And so, as is custom, the underage princess was wed to a grown stranger who had tricked her into a kiss — but he was quite handsome, so all was well.

My cousin Rolf is missing!
He went to Orville to work as a pearl diver but never returned.

Rolf may have been a daredevil, but he'd always send word whenever he'd run off!

To anyone who's seen him: let me know where he is or bring him back home!

- Willy

People 'round 'ere are worried. First, t'was Stillwater Bay, then Goldrock Saddle. We've lost sight of our settlements one by one, and those who make the journey North-West wash ashore like dead fish.
The lads from the ol' lumber mill 'ave family n' friends workin' as divers down in Orville, but none 'ave seen 'em as of late. They've sent neither word nor pearls. They're already gone, I say!

I told 'em not to take lodgings in the valleys. I did. But none listened. Did they all forget the tales?

Many years ago, 'fore the crown got shattered into three, no, 'fore the kingdom had formed at all, we were ambushed.
Wild beasts, half man, half animal, rushed from the coast to darken their waters with our blood, they did. They were envious of our bond with the Ancients, whom they believed to be messengers of their gods. 'Twas a wonder of human engineering n' strategy that we ever defeated 'em.

Today, most of us moved on — but the Drak never forgot. I believe they've returned, I do, but no one listens to an ol' bag o' bones.

I was always proud of my intuition. Could spot those itching for mutiny before they'd ever stepped onto my boat, sensed a storm brewin' from the cry of the gulls miles away.

But this time, just once, could I be wrong?
When I heard the west winds whistle a new tune, did I mistake its sharpness as sinister?
When I reeled in a hundred fish with torn fins, did I misread their injury as a threat?
When I thought I saw the evil doers of old childhood stories leap from the pages into the water, were my eyes betraying me?

Am I spinning a yarn from my own sanity's thread? I ought to warn the others, lest I unravel fully.
Whether they will trust the word of a tale-teller, I cannot say. Some may claim a fisher ought to stick to fishin'...

Lately, Maynard has made a habit of bathing during his break.

I don't mind so much — I prefer him smelling of rosewater and candlewax to his usual grime and gruff. But he takes HOURS in there, leaving me alone to herd the poor sods in the cells!

He thinks he's such a sly fox, too — as if I don't see the book he hides under his towel whenever he sets off. I don't care what smut he reads, but can't he hurry with it?

Been a lighthouse keeper for ages. Born and raised on these shores, and proud of it, too.

The sea knows me better than my own mother. Over the years, the ripples in the water imprinted on my face, carved longing lines into my skin as I aged. My visage and story are naught but a map of the great, wide blue.
But today, I thought I spotted something... new.

It was a bright evening, clear as can be. The waters were calm under the setting sun, but I knew not to trust them. Dark clouds gathered on the horizon, foretelling a storm... and underneath them, for just a moment in the far distance, I saw something rise from below.
A single shade against the shifting background, reaching up like a periscope, watching the shore. Watching us.
Then, it dove out of sight, disappearing from the view of my binoculars.

It could have been driftwood. Yes, it must've been...

This month, we've lost more ships at sea than we ever did throughout my entire life.

I blame myself, though I know I've always upheld my duty. Every night, I light our fire to signal the safety of our harbor... I stay up, watching the pyre, stoking the flames, choking the smoke to leave only a bright merigold light... but it is not enough, and I'm losing sleep.

Nightmares rip me from bed, force me to find my binoculars and nightgown, and make me stumble to the platform above amid darkness and rain. I thought, if I stared out long enough, I would see it. See what's causing this. Understand it. Beat it.

The storm clouds are drawing closer, and they're hiding something from me.

The storm finally reached us, waves frothing with hatred and lashing at our shores.

Standing on the lighthouse platform, I felt the gusts rip at my beard and coat. I must still have salt embedded in my skin from that night's winds.

The light inside my covered oil lamp flickered, locked in a fearful dance, twisting and shifting in an effort not to be snuffed out... a repetitive plea with no one to listen, an act soaked in vain, not unlike my own.

Light the fire. Stoke the flames. Wipe down the binoculars. Look out. Light the fire again. It was pointless. The storm smothered all light.
I helplessly held on to the railing, gazing out at the night. That's when I saw it.
Rolling hills, not made of water, but made of countless bodies, rising and falling with the storm's rhythm. A wave to end us. A wave to crush us. A wave to dye the ocean red. A wave of Drak.

I dropped my binoculars and picked up my boots. If this were our death sentence, I would not die a lighthousekeeper.

Something has awoken, I fear.

More people go missing each eve... first, t'was only those who ventured past the bay. But now, anyone too close to the canals during a moonless night is lost to the waters.

I feel like something is testing us... biting down to see if we flinch, fight, or flee. But what can we do in the face of a nameless specter that's come with a challenge? There are no guards, no lord left to defend us... They've set off to fight a holy war and left us behind, near dark waters hiding sinister fates.

Some people chose to move further inland. Even the lighthousekeeper has fled, or so I heard. An old man who spent his entire life by this coast... I wonder what he saw last night, during that sunless storm... and how long we have until it reveals itself.

The crown sent word.
We ought to prepare a new vessel for its maiden voyage, but the ship’s to be sent off with cargo none of us are allowed to inspect. Strange business. Crates bear no marks, no writs, no tally for the ledger... and they're sealed shut.

The Lord deems them of such weight that his own men were dispatched to see them stowed. Thought I’d see sharp-eyed veterans, but the lot that stumbled in yesterday looked half-dead, eyes glazed and dragging their boots. They’re fixing cannons to a merchant hull... my hull. Never seen the like.

I know not the purpose of this lading, only that it sits ill with me. Shouldn't I know what shipments come and go like the back of my hand?

I gave in to my suspicion tonight and slipped aboard the vessel. The soldiers had turned their backs, staring off into the distance, fixated on a point beyond the horizon... unmoving. It was the perfect time to strike.

A dockmaster ought to know what passes through his harbor, no matter whose seal it bears, I say! So I snuck into the cargo hold, careful not to let the iron grate cover slip from my trembling hands. The air below smelled rotten. Infested. Could it be rats, or some dead stowaway? I covered my nose and mouth with a handkerchief and pressed on, making my way to the back of the hold where the crates were stacked.

Once there, I broke one's seal and recoiled at the sight that revealed itself before me.
The cases were not filled with grain or powder, but with some choking fog — sealed inside like a thing alive, pressing against its confines, rebelling. No markings, no warning. Just a pale mist festering on a bed of foul mushroom flesh.

Does the Lord seek to spread a sickness to distant shores? My vessels should ship food and clothing, not a new form of warfare crueler than steel!
I am resigning tomorrow... may the next sod bear witness to what comes next.

...We're out of coffee, so if you're looking to come in and relax, the best we can offer is tea.

We may have a spare machine in the attic, but the top levels of the tower need repairs, so it's not safe to ascend. Of course, if anyone out there is willing to risk their life for it, we'll promise free coffee for the foreseeable future.

Best of luck!

One for tough warriors:

Take roasted beans, ground fine as dust,
and mingle them with hot water.
Let the brew be dark and bitter — a strong potion
to rouse the spirit and quicken the mind.

Brew the ground beans in water as is custom,
then soften the brew with milk until the bitterness fades.

The result: a smooth, warm, and pleasant cup
I'd like to call this creation: Latte

A sweet comfort in weary hours:

Grind the beans and steep them in water —
add sugar, that the flavor be full and kind

A Sweet Mokka is prepared.

The swimming pool's draining system has been acting up again. Whenever I try to lower the water levels, it takes ages for the flow to subside... It's like the tunnels below are blocked again.
I told myself I’d call in a technician, but truth be told, I’ve been putting it off. The men cling to that pool like it’s the last scrap of home we’ve got out here. Taking it away, even for repairs, would break morale in half.

And yet… there’s something off. A sound, low and constant, like stones shifting under the waterline. Probably a stone or a dead rat, bumping against the pipes. It's probably nothing. Just grit in the filters, I bet. But every night, when the rumble rouses me awake, I can’t shake the thought that something's down there.

Upon examining these Drak inscriptions, my analysis is as follows:

Tribal Structure:

The Drak hardly consider themselves as a unified species or culture, instead preferring increasingly insular and tribal groupings despite sharing a common language root and build.
Over the course of generations, these divisions have led to distinct scale patterns, color morphologies, dialectical shifts, and unique cultural practices — notably, a preference for different holy idols/ sages/ war heroes that shape their understanding of self, and are titular to their tribal variation.
Tribes lay claim to different domains geographically, locked in an interracial territorial conflict whenever the brood's expansion demands it.

The Drak'Dal, for example, are named for their idol, Dalszul, and currently contest the archipelago offshore alongside the Drak'Mer; followers of Merphisz. This conflict has seemingly begun after the Drak'Dal were driven out of the Veilwater Basin.

Other notable tribes include:
Drak'Ari, followers of Arisztar
Drak'Fyr, followers of Fyraszh

The differences between these creatures are to be contextualized not as natural variance, but as the markings of a common gene pool, split apart into new and isolated strands carried by the tribes.
Said isolation, alongside constant interracial conflict and assumed increased rates of inbreeding, may explain the perceived cognitive and linguistic degeneration of the Drak.

Cultural and linguistic degeneration:
The Drak texts recovered from more recent layers of sediment — often dredged from coastal waters or shipwrecks — tend to exhibit simpler structures, reduced vocabulary, and degraded syntax when compared to earlier samples unearthed in local temples. This suggests a loss of linguistic complexity over time.

It appears that the trajectory of their societal evolution may have stagnated — or even regressed. Additionally, if I interpret correctly, it is to be assumed that they hold a grudge or a somewhat natural aversion to technological advancements and engineering. They perceive most modern human inventions as admissions of weakness rather than solutions. Further research is required.

(The engravings are delicate, and each stroke seems carefully placed. A plaque at the bottom reads: Example of advanced Drak writing, reclaimed from a flooded temple. Presumed age: over 1000 years old)

Hail Vesztah, the great Broodmother.

She, who grew from a single droplet of blood.
She, who rose from the sea of chaos in the eye of the storm.

She, who wove the waves for Merphisz.

She, who ignited the heart of Fyraszh.

She, who bestowed wings onto Arisztar.

She, who gifted Dalszul gold and gallows.

She, who is both mother and maw
The womb and the grave
Giver and Destroyer
The great ruler of Ark Morgo

In her womb, we grow
In her lap, we begin
Under her watch, we suffer or succeed
And in her grasp, we shall end

(The writing is crude, and the signs are written with short, apathetic scratches. A plaque reads: Example for rudimentary Drak writing, found by fishers dredging near the archipelago. Presumed age: Recent.)

Drak'Mer weak. Why breed underwater? Lay eggs in ponds? Waste of time.

Dalszul would never. Would build temples. Adorned in gold. Would force humans, brick by brick.

Young Drak should hatch and stomp their feet! Should stick spears in land that belongs to them! Not splish and splash!
That's why Drak'Dal strong! Big muscles! Lift stone! Spill blood!

Hail Dalszul! Rah Rah!

I’ve been working in the nearby mine every day, but lately, I haven't been able to stop thinking that there might be more to be made from those aquamarine crystals than just hauling them out of the rock. I ground some down with a small grinder and ended up with the finest, most brilliant powder I’ve ever seen.

After mixing it with a few ingredients I had at home, I think I’ve created the perfect pigment. Tomorrow, I’ll prepare a small batch and show it to Casper.

Maybe this is my chance to leave the mine for good. This could be the start of something much bigger.

I am too old now... even tending to the banana plants has become a struggle. I had dreamed of renovating our house, of giving it new life, but my strength is gone.

The building blocks to fix our roof still sit up in the attic, gathering dust. I suppose they will remain there forever, untouched — just like so many of the plans I once had.

And yet... my wife is proud of all that I have already done. That thought brings me comfort. Perhaps it is enough. I am enough.

Dear Supervisor,
I had hoped to write this note respectfully to thank you for the opportunity to work here, but I can’t keep up the pretense anymore. The truth is, this job is breaking me. The labor is too much: day after day of swinging tools until my body gives out, only to collapse into miserable tents that barely shield us. It’s inhuman.

And now, the fog. That damned fog creeps in from the rear shafts. None of us know what it is, but we all feel it. The headaches, the shaking hands, the strange dreams — don't tell me it's nothing because we all know it's not. Some of the men already look like shadows of themselves.

I won't be next. I won't wait until the mine and the fog consume me completely. I quit. Let someone else break their back and lose their mind for you. If the ore is so important to you, you can dig it out yourself.

Our family worked tirelessly to chisel ever-winding shafts into the stone, though all of them are gray and dull. It's hard for me to imagine a different life, lest I gaze at the water nearby and remember my youth.

I remember reading about a mermaid: A lonely maiden whose heart melted into the waves as she turned to seafoam. Years in the mine made me forget, made me grow up. But not all let go of such fairytales.

Once, I met a man with legs that should've been fins. The Siren Seeker, they called him — always caressing the sea as if it were his lover, letting the tide envelop him as he dove for treasures below.
He was collecting sun-bleached seashells by the shore as I asked:
"What do you seek in the water that you can't find on land? Shouldn't you take up proper work and settle down?"

Without looking up, he mumbled through a smile: "I seek the kiss of a mermaid — one who hides her voice in conch shells and words in bottled messages. I'll save her from turning to foam, and me from falling to gray. "

Today, I recall the Seeker's words, retrace the pages of that fairytale book in my mind. I understand now. Our family worked tirelessly to chisel ever-winding shafts into the stone, all of which are gray and dull. I wish I hadn't forgotten the magic from yonder years. I wish I had carved my own path and set sail.

I have been seeking the secret of eternity for decades now. Each spell I craft, I test upon the restless bones that linger in the shadows. Mindless creatures — yet obedient to my will — serve as my apprentices in this quest.

And yet... My promise of everlasting life eludes me. I leave them where they fall, discarded, silent witness to my genius, or at least my attempts.

It doesn't matter, there are more tombs to explore. With each chamber I edge closer to perfection. The failures are merely stepping stones. I will not cease, for eternity the ruin of all else is worth.

For my next experiment, I’ve heard whispers of a tomb hidden among thick groves of banana plants. From the water, I shall cross Gateway Outpost "Darkwater" and venture into the jungle to seek it out.

The Undying Flame... I thought I was onto something here, but all it does is reduce creatures to ash and bones. Eternity in the afterlife, perhaps, but hardly what I intended.

Adjacent to the large lake with the tower lies Goldrock Saddle, just east of which another tomb should be hidden, the earth arching over it.

I can't believe it! I have created a healing spell — finally! But... it heals others?! Can you believe it? What am I supposed to do with this? What good is it to me if others live longer? .. but at least I am on the right track. The next tomb awaits. I've heard stories of young folk daring to race through it, braving its challenges. Whoever makes it to the other side… well, they live. Its supposed to be close to the Mining Rift towards the Blackmire.

Uff… this one put up a fight. Fast as lightning, we raced through the catacombs. To honor him, I set up a grave right where he drew his last breath…
And now… a Lightning Spell?! I thought I was close. I’m growing tired of this. I believe there is only one last tomb left, near Stillwater Bay towards the foot of the hills...

Hmm… maybe if I cast this spell on myself long enough, I can shock-freeze my body — and then thaw whenever I wish. That way, I could extend my life… right? Right?!
I’ve done it! I made it!

- Till the fields
- Clean up (get rid of cobwebs!)
- Buy new candles -> grab coins from silver chest?
- Need to fix the basement ladder
- Move wine barrels back into place

Whenever a storm is brewing, I feel the clouds linger atop that nearby Drak'Dal ruin... a strange phenomenon. It's as if the rain and thunder were pulled there, by magnetism or magic.

I always thought lightning never strikes twice, but perhaps I was wrong.

Lightning strikes the olden pillars yonder more frequently, it seems. Does that overgrown hovel bear any artifacts worth uncovering? Or does it simply lie amidst a valley, most curious? Who knows, who knows...

An odd customer came in today.

Rugged man, tall and morose. A knight of sorts, or mercenary, though I've never seen his insignia here before. Clearly, he had one too many sips of wine already — or grog, I suspect.
He had no gold, so I tried to send 'em away, but it was in vain. Kept slurring his words, eyes wide and bloodshot, pointing at the rum on the topmost shelf with his gloved hand, almost too heavy to hold up straight.

His arms kept sinking to the counter mid-motion, veering about as if his body couldn't keep pace with his demands, or as if his limbs were made from wet sacks of grain.
Aggravated by his own limpness and lack of liquor, he tore off his gauntlets and tossed them across the room, growling.
I ducked underneath the bar. When I saw his bare hand reach across the counter from below and grip the edge, I feared he might lunge toward me... but instead, he scrambled across, tumbled to the floor, and shuffled to the liquor rack.
He had put the bottle to his lips before crossing the doorstep and shambling back outside.

His gauntlets are the only trace he left. They seem valuable. I've stored them in the attic for now, should he return with a clearer head and fuller pockets.

There's not much time. Forgive my candor, brother.

1. Gormander poses no threat
His capital is nearly defenseless. No signs of "Ancient weapons" or a conspiracy. The Elixir merely made his ilk plump and greedy, not bloodthirsty... though they've grown paranoid, like most.

2. We've been lied to
That wanderer poisons the mind of our Lord. We cannot trust a word from his forked tongue.

3. Leave with me
Abandon your post. Join me on my route down south. Turn your back on the war, the Shroud, the death. Wash your hands clean in more peaceful waters.

4. Discard this letter
...Lest you want your sister's blood spilled.

— Athalan

I always had a knack for magic, but I abandoned its path many years ago.
When I was young, I'd often linger near the Lacemaker Pond in the Northeast. The bitter cold didn't bother me, for I was much too focused on the spectacle that unfolded whenever the sorcerers came to train.
With a flick of the wrist, they stitched ice crystals into the air and embroidered the frozen lake with a web of delicate fissures.

One such eve, an adept I didn't recognize leaned too fervently into his cast, clumsily tipping the floe below. A novice, I reckon — weaving northern lights across the sky in one moment and slipping beneath water the next.
I stood at the edge of the pond, waiting for him to resurface, but his soaked spellcasting equipment dragged him from the aurora and into the deep. Had the cold night not pulled me away, I'd be waiting still.

That's how I came to choose a quiet life, engulfed by the warmth of a fire instead of a freezing lake's depths.