I crawled onto the shore, lungs burning from the coughed-up sea water. My hands were trembling, and my muscles were on fire as I clawed my way forward, leaving a trail of misery in the sand.
That stupid... incompetent... unforgivable, petty, demented, prideful CUNT!
I could not think straight. All the lives. All this time. Everything we'd done and suffered, and for
what
? So that one dickhead can fuck it all up!?
I rolled over and propped myself up on my hands, watching the last remains of the wreckage sinking under the relentless waves.
I told him we shouldn't take shortcuts.
No, he's the captain!
I told him there's a reason no one sails through these waters!
No, he's the captain!!
I told him if he hit the reefs, I would blow his head off while we sank, then beat his bloody ghost until the ocean devoured our souls!
No, he's the fucking captain!!!
I got up to my knees, mustering the last remains of my strength, my throat sore from blood and salt.
"I hope you are happy now on the bottom of the sea, you FUCKING IMBECILE!!!"
I collapsed on the wet ground a soggy, battered mess of a man. I have no idea how long I laid there. Could have been hours, could have been days for all I knew. When I finally got up, the drifting pieces of the ship had vanished, the sea having finally taken them into its embrace. There were scarcely any remains on the shore. No tracks, no marks in the sand. Not a foot had stepped in this place beside my own.
It was a miracle I had made it onto the shore at all. As soon as I remembered to, I voiced a quick thanks to the gods for it. The sea had been my enemy, pulling me back into the open waters with every kick, every stroke of my hands. But I made it. I was the only one... but I made it.
And now I was stranded on The Southern Reaches of the continent.
I began to rethink whether I was the lucky one... or the sailors who had found their peace in the arms of the sea.
I turned away from the ocean and eyed the bushy plains beyond the beach. There was no civilization in the Southern Reaches. No human cities, no dwarven tunnels, no orcish strongholds. Only creatures that could tear me apart with a single bite of their teeth.
It was untamed wilderness.
I scavanged the shore for any useful flotsam I could find. I was on the eastern coast. My best chance was to cross down to the southwest, where a canal separated the two great landmasses. Ships were bound to sail through there. I would signal one to save me from this place.
It was a long trip. I would need to survive months out in the wild.
There wasn't much at the beach. Only pity and sorrow over the lost lives and a good ship. Standing where the sand gave way to tall grass, I spared a last look at the sea and voiced a quick prayer for my fallen comrades.
Then for myself.
Showing my back to the ocean, a sailor had embarked inland, with only the shoes on my feet, the clothes on my back and my frayed dignity to my name, as well as an unbreakable will to go on.
***
Within a week, my dignity was torn apart like the tatters of my clothes and my will was bound to follow. I had walked miles and miles across the plains and forests, following the jagged foothills as my guide.
I couldn't sleep without a shelter, the sounds of the creatures scattering in the dark made me jumpy and paranoid.
I had eaten nothing but berries for days. I had no weapons to hunt and didn't know how to make one. Even if I did, I wasn't a hunter. I was a sailor. I tied knots and worked the deck, not hunted and skinned meat. I found all kinds of fruits, but I didn't recognize most of them and knew I could easily poison myself instead of nourishing myself. So I had foregone eating at all.
I had barely drunk anything the whole day. I found a stream but had no way to carry water along and staying achieved nothing. So, I went.
The sun had just touched the mountaintops when I spotted something that made my heart jump. A smoke trail. It was rising from the foothills of, where soil gave way to rock.
I was beside myself. Smoke meant fire. It wasn't a forest fire, that much was clear. It was a singular, narrow strip of smoke among rocks. A campfire. Campfire meant people.
Someone else had made it out.
I almost ran with excitement at the prospect of seeing another face. Another crewmember. But as I neared the campsite, worry replaced my joy.
What if it's not crew?
I thought.
What if it's someone else? Natives. Some primitive tribe living in the Reaches?
I was too hopeful, and too desperate, to stop. I closed the distance between me and the foothills with speed I had thought myself incapable of.
And found no one.
The smoke came from beneath a rocky overhang in the mountainside. There were remains of a small deer at the lazily built fireside - just a pile of burning sticks and bones - the meat cooked and half eaten, the skin thrown by the entrance.
A group wouldn't leave the place unattended. That meant a lone traveler.
My hope began to rise again.
I squatted by the deer remains, wandering how on earth did they manage to kill it. The bastard probably had a weapon. If only I had had such luck... Surely, whoever it was wouldn't mind if I ate some, would they?
I picked up a meaty rib and bit into it with more gusto than ever before. It felt like the best meal of my life. The meat was still hot and I ate so quickly my stomach ached and I had to take a breather.
As I looked around the shelter, I debated the wisdom of awaiting the traveler's return. It could be one of the crew. Most likely. But it could also not. I decided to wrap some of the meat in a few big leaves and stick it in my pockets. Then I'd wait outside and watch who came back.
I was packing the second strip of meat when I noticed something on the stone wall. A scratch mark. Long, widely spaced lines ran through the rock on one side of the cave. Way,
