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