Compass n Current

Before the tides claimed our sanity, the quartermaster filed the formal records of those bound to the ship. This cursed parchment outlines the traits of the damned soul steering our current path.

The freshwater casks have spoiled overnight, smelling intensely of brimstone and wet earth. Rations are rotting within hours of exposure to the night air. More concerning is the noise rising from the bilge—a low, wet breathing that mimics the rhythm of our own sleeping crew.

I have double-locked the iron grates to the lower decks. Whatever we pulled up with the anchor yesterday evening is still wet, still shifting, and desperately trying to speak.

A thick white shroud has swallowed the horizon whole. There is no wind, yet the sails stretch tight as if straining against a gale. The lookout vanished from the crow's nest at midnight, leaving behind only his brass spyglass, melted and twisted like warm wax.

The current has us completely now. God save whatever remains of my wretched soul, for the sea demands its tribute.