[The Log of the Northern Mariner:]
The great serpent-prow of my ship, Wave-Render, cleaves the nighted
waters as we voyage across this dark, icy sea, towards the unknown... Above,
the bright winter's moon emerges a veil of cloud to cast its lucent rays upon
us, and a clinging, supine sea- mist writhes upon the midnight waves, swirled
by the cool, whispering wind which catches our great sail, pushing us onwards,
ever nwards... And beyond the tang of the darkling sea, the scent of night is
as strong and heady as a summer blossom. I know no t what awaits us at the
elder Isle of Mists... that grim and mystery-haunted place which beckons e to
its shadowed embrace, swathed in dark legendry and entwined in the mantle of
ancient sorceries... and yet I must hearken to its ethereal call... for ma
yhap the gods decreed this to be my final voyage...