All around, white fog permeates the air with a dense thickness. Huge unseen waves crash and break against towering black rocks shrouded by the fog's thick veil. Its white density is imposing, making an illusion that the walls of mist cannot be penetrated even by the strongest and sharpest of swords. Its presence is near frightening, dulling everything, hiding the craggy peaks of the Shadow Isles from the naked eye. Beneath the hanging mist, the enraged ocean continues to churn violently, its oscillations unheard and unseen, the fog acting as a dampener.
It is through this impermeable mist that a galleon emerges, its dark shape incongruous among the white vastness. At a first glance, the ship cuts through the waters and the fog with an almost majestic manner, its mast valiantly slicing through white walls without any hesitation. But upon closer inspection, one would see the emaciated condition of the ship's deck, thin, malnourished men shivering upon the wooden boards with fear very present in their eyes.
Atop the galleon's stem castle a captain stands upright, his appearance as gaunt as his crew. But rather than fear, his eyes watch his helmsman steer the ship with an intrepid glare. His skipper stands beside him, eyes flickering about with fear and anxiety. It is obvious that the ship is lost.
The trader and his crew had left the seaport of Bilgewater a fortnight ago, confident that they would return with spoils from Demacia and Piltover aboard their galleon. It was planned to be a simple voyage that would skirt outside the shores of Valoran, involving nothing complex or intricate. But what had begun as a calm journey escalated into cold, wet hell, a sudden storm engulfing the ship within its tight grasp. Several days pass this manner, the crew struggling desperately to keep the galleon afloat.
Finally on the sixth day, the crew unknowing where the storm had led them with its violent jostling, the seas calmed in the blink of an eye. Dazed and confused, the men had frozen in place amongst their positions on the rigging, looking around them with eyes wide with wonder. The eerie stillness of the seas around the galleon was blinding, its utter silence deafening. The ocean beneath their ship was black, contrasting a perfectly white sky.
Then came the fog, devouring them silently as their ship helplessly sailed into its grasp. Not knowing where else to go, their food supply dwindling by the eighth day, the captain decided to sail onwards into the fog. It was common knowledge among sailors that where fog hung above the sea, land was not far behind it.
But the fact that they were lost was not what frightened the sailors, whitening their already bleached pallor to a sickly white. No. For in fact, every man on that doomed ship knew where they were headed. There was only one location on Runeterra that brought ships into its grasp as a hunter pulls upon a trap with its prey clamped between its steely teeth. Many a tale had circulated among the men of the sea about this cursed soil. Tales filled with horrific descriptions of men's lives being taken by the hands of mysterious specters. Or worse.
Nobody in all of Runeterra knew what really lay upon the chain of islands the galleon is headed towards. But there is something everyone knows: whoever dared to venture into the area of the Shadow Isles never returned.
These thoughts plague the men on the ship as the vessel creaked and groaned softly, pushing onwards into the dense fog with no knowledge of the unknown terrors that lay within it. Beneath the main deck, several members of the crew huddle together in the galley around a lit candle, the dim light casting quivering shadows upon the wooden walls around them.
Silence permeates the air; the ship's incessant moaning the only conversation occupying the men's ears. Their eyes are completely fogged over with a glaze of anxiety, most of their fingers twiddling nervously as they feel an overwhelming feeling of disaster.
Suddenly a sailor speaks up, his face rimmed with stubble illuminated by the orange candlelight.
"I know a bit 'bout his infernal isle we be headin' to. Knew a man by the name o' Briggs. He came sailin' 'round this 'ere waters," the middle-aged sailor shakes his head solemnly as he pauses, his brow furrowed as he recalls the terrible memories his mind holds. "He ne'er came back. Before he laughed 'bout it all, sayin' ain't nothin' big enough on these waters to scare 'im. Terrible fate he met."
The sailor once again shakes his head, concluding the curt interjection, his comment impressing itself into his comrade's psyches, further enlarging their assumptions for the destination ahead. Silence consumes the group of huddled men once more.
In the meanwhile atop the main deck the captain bends over a table, consulting an opened map with vigor. The man is stubborn. He, just like every other sailor on the ship, knows that what lay ahead is the stuff of legend. But even so, his mind refuses to give in, to surrender to whatever lay ahead, to whatever the wind is leading them to. So instead, he furiously scribbles and graphs, trying to find a possible solution to the dilemma.
The captain suddenly feels a light tapping on his shoulder. Turning round his eyes meet with the frantic pupils of his skipper, who looks up at his superior with a look a lost child might give to an authoritative adult.
"C-Captain. Sir. A-Are you sure we should continue to sail in this direction?"
The captain scoffs, giving the skipper a glare that sends a spark of fear down his spine.
"It's either we make land for food, or we perish aboard this galleon as nothing but skin hanging on bones."
"I-I know sir but the men-"
"I don't care what the men think," the captain interjects, his comment intentionally spat out loudly enough so that the crew on the main deck could hear every word. He turns towards the crew, his burning eyes contrasting fiercely to his crew's eyes filled with mourning and defeat.
"I know we are headed towards the Shadow Isles. I know we are headed towards certain death. But if you cowards are too afraid to set foot on these islands to satiate the nourishment your bodies are screaming for, you are worth nothing now when you are living than you are worth when your corpses are thrown overboard to be fed to the depths of the sea."
At the close of his small monologue, the captain's crew merely responds with stoic and unmoved looks. Unsatisfied with this reaction, the captain turns round with a loud tsk.
He gives one look at his skipper and the helmsman, who also wear the same looks of despair. At this the captain knew that he was alone.
A day slowly passes by as the galleon glides past the sharp rocks of the isles jutting out of the water, the atmosphere surrounding the ship unchanging and static. The captain continues to pore over his maps, giving orders to the helmsman, who complies to his requests with rigid movements devoid of any life or energy. Already men are dropping dead on the ship, most of the corpses having a knife lodged inside their chests. This enrages the captain, forcing him to patrol the ship to ensure that nobody else on his crew does the same.
The captain is beneath the main deck when a whisper is spread amongst his ghostly crew, the words spreading from man to man with miniscule mutters. Finally the two words reach the captain's ears: Land ho.
Quickly making his way to the main deck, the captain leans on the edge of his ship's railing, squinting to catch a view of the sought after shores. Sure enough, deep within the mist, the grey slopes of a gravel-covered beach makes itself visible to his eyes. A triumphant grin breaks out onto the captain's face, and without hesitation he runs about the deck, energetically throwing out orders to lower the rowboats hanging on the side of the galleon into the water below after they make anchor, finally halting the ship's slow flight across the stagnant waters.
The captain is so completely enraptured in his small victory that he does not notice his sluggish crew only prepare one dingy, their bony hands lowering it into the water along with a ladder. It is only a matter of time before he takes notice of this however, and he gives his idle men a bemused look.
"Well don't just stand there you lot of blooming bullock-peddlers. Lower the boats!"
His crew merely stares at him with dead eyes, not one of them even batting an eye.
The captain looks back at them with an enraged glare, his countenance completely red from anger. Once again, the revelation comes upon him that he is alone. He stands on the deck of his precious galleon, hands on his hips, completely and utterly confused.
Finally, he stomps across the deck, making his way to the lone dingy with determined steps. Pushing aside his crew roughly, he lowers himself down the ladder of the galleon, concealing himself inside the white fog that still shrouds everything around the ship in a white veil.
Muttering curses under his breath, the determined captain begins to row towards the shore, glaring furiously at the crew leaning over the rails of the ship, unaware that this was the last time he would ever see them.
The small wooden vessel grinds to a halt on the gravelly surface of the desolate beach, the captain wading out of the waters with the entire bottom half of his body drenched with seawater. Paying no mind to the cold assaulting his wet legs, the captain binds the dingy to the shore, before taking one last look at his ship and advancing up the sloping beach.
Everything is silent save for the crunching footsteps of the captain's determined feet. His eyes take in his surroundings, taking note of everything he sees. The beach leads nowhere except to the large mouth of a grotto, the wet cave seeming to whisper strange names into the captain's ears. Unfazed and as stubborn as ever, the resolute sailor advances onward, walking into the darkness. By now, his intent to find food is lost. Something else spurs him onward. A longing, a feeling he cannot explain. All that he knows is that he just needs to trudge onwards to whatever lay ahead.
Within the grotto, the strange whisperings continue to assault his ears, the temperature remaining stagnate and monotone. The captain looks around only to see darkness, but still continues to walk onward, deeper and deeper until the light of the outside world is completely diminished, nothing but black occupying his vision.
His heart begins to beat in an irregular pattern, his emotions conflicting and tumbling over each other in confusion. A cold sweat begins to form on the captain's brow, as the whispers of the wind around him formulate into words. The words strike him deep within his soul, extracting a profound feeling of fear into his psyche. Still, the determination remains, and the captain continues to trudge through the murky darkness of the grotto.
By now the captain finally realizes something terribly amiss is inside this cave. No. Not just the cave. The whole island itself seemed to emanate feelings of fear and anxiety. It is as if the soil, rocks and earth that the isles consisted of are completely ingrained with these emotions.
Suddenly the captain stops in his tracks, his feet ceasing their trudging through the grotto's gravel floor. A sixth sense tells him a blockage lies in his path. Sure enough, as the captain reaches out into the darkness, his hand touches upon wet rock. A dead end.
Dismayed, the captain gropes around in the gloom, fingers acting as eyes for his temporary blindness. Several minutes pass before finally the man surrenders, his hands going limp by his sides. The captain realizes his face is drenched with his sweat. The same fact goes with his entire body, his limbs feeling heavy as perspiration acts as heavy weights on his skin.
The captain shakes his head slowly, disbelieving that this was the end. Whisperings that had been poured into his ear now cease, his own breathing the only sound resonating around the sodden walls of the grotto. Then his feet turn round slowly, legs rigidly moving towards the entrance to the cave as if possessed by an outside force. Crunch, crunch, crunch. His feet returning to their regular, uniform rhythm as he advances towards the light of the outside world.
His eyes blink harshly in the whiteness of the fog, the mist engulfing him once again in its embrace. Disheartened and crushed, the captain groggily wades out into the calm waters of the bay, his small dingy in tow. Jumping inside before the water grew too deep, he began to row with powerful strokes, each one executed with less determination than before.
The captain looks longingly at the gravel shore as it grows further and further away, the mist shrouding it once more. After several strokes, he feels the back of his small boat strike upon something with a dulled clank. Turning his body around, the captain finds the rope ladder he had lowered himself into the boat before. His movements remain to be disconsolate, defeated. Hoisting himself upward, climbing rung by rung, the captain soon finds himself on the main deck of the galleon, expecting to see his crew staring at him with their defeated eyes.
But nobody is there.
Slightly confused, the captain walks around the wooden boards of the galleon, listening intently for signs of life, his ears merely receiving the constant groans of the ship's woodwork. Seeing that none of his men are upon the main deck of his ship, the captain advances downward into the galley, ears still perked.
Nobody.
Now growing a bit more frantic, he calls out, voice echoing inside of the galleon's empty carcass. He runs through the ship, running down more flights of stairs into the bunkroom.
Nobody.
By now the captain is utterly desperate, his vocal chords vibrating with each passing second, his voice frenziedly reaching out to one of his men, anyone, someone. Finally the captain rushes out once more onto the main deck, panting heavily, confusion clouding his psyche.
For the third time on this doomed journey, the captain recognizes that he is utterly, completely alone.
Hope you enjoyed this short little writing exercise I made. Going to get real busy soon. Expect a lot more to come from me in the forthcoming weeks. Also, since it's NaNoWriMo, I just might write a novel. We shall see.
Until next time,
Excelsior!