Sea breeze was a joy and the light vessel flew across the waves as if pushed by an invisible hand. Yannik felt a pang of fear as he looked back to find the island disappearing in the mist. It has been a while since he was on the open sea. The refreshing sprinkle of seawater was a constant on his rudder hand, and the breeze would sometimes splash some of it straight into his face. It was not unwelcome as the day was a clear, bright affair, with the sun beating down hard since the early morning. A school of fleather-fish followed his boat for a little while, jumping out of the water, effortlessly gliding through the air, before disappearing just below the surface, where their silvery bodies could be clearly seen. Yannik expected to feel sad this morning, leaving the island he thought of as home for little less than a year. To his surprise, he felt like whistling.
He surveyed the first possessions of his young life. Old master's silver sword, carefully hidden, wrapped in cloth. A wooden chest, with old man's leather armor and boots, too large for Yannik, too valuable to leave behind. There were some bottles in the chest as well, with potions he was told nothing about save that they could kill him right away. A small set of bombs that he knew not the name nor purpose of had little leather pouches of their own. He closed the lid. The fleur de lie pendant hung around his neck. There was a small image of a beautiful, regal looking woman inside it, with silvery hair lifted on top of her head, with plumes of various color. Was that Raquell du Moppaissant? Should he be looking for her? Where would he even begin? Yannik carefully examined the pendant and apart from the intricate the only thing visible was a small inscription that said "Kahn, Novigrad".
His attention turned to the book he found among the weird elf's possessions. Who was he anyway? The diary turned out to be written half in weird markings that Yannik could not read, the other half in Temerian glagolitsa, of which he knew some. There was no name, but there were two initials inscribed on the inside of the cover, D. H. The other legible parts regarded bits and pieces - names of places and people that lead him to other places and people. And he seemed to have been searching for something called Oghoghorno. Apparently, an ancient deity worshipped by the sea-faring people of the western seas, the Wayfinders. Traditionally sea-bound, Wayfinders found their way accross the sea without using any kind of tools or maps. Some people said they followed currents, others swore by the sun, the moon and the stars, but everyone grudgingly agreed that they had no real explanation. Wayfinders "felt" their way by way of some instict that may have become lost among the Northern Realms and elsewhere. And most of them worshipped Oghoghorno, the God of Many Fins, the diary stated.
The last location stated in the diary was the Farwest Atoll and the last person mentioned was Magdala, who seem to have furnished the info to D.H. that he should attempt to reach the lonely island Yannik and the old man inhabited by chance. Alas, the diary also claimed that D.H. stole one of the trinkets from Magdala, the very one he tried to shake at the wraiths just before he was dismembered. Yannik had to wrangle the little totem-like piece of bronze out of the dead man's hand. It was really just the hand, separated from the torso by one of the wraiths earlier that night. The rigor of the dead had long set in, since Yannik first had to bury the old man. He had to take it to the altar and bash it against the stone until dead fingers were broken and less firm in their grasp.
Burying the witcher took a while, as he had to get through the unpleasant process of taking off the old man's clothes. The specially prepared and reinforced leather was almost a second skin for the old master, which was all well in battle, but it did not help the smell. Once done, Yannik did a healthy dose of throwing up and then started working on digging the grave. At the edge of the forest there was enough moist earth, however, he had little tools but his hands and the old man's small skinning knife. When he finished, the sun was already well on its way west and Yannik realized he would have to spend the night there, guarding the old man's grave. Body of the weird elf lay strewn around the broken stone circle and it was bound to attract nocturnal animals. In turn, those animals might get a whiff of the old man's meat as well, and the old man did not deserve that. Yannik took D.H.'s body parts and flung them over the cliff, hearing a splash that was much quieter than the one made by the monstrosity he fought earlier. The arm went last, right after the bronze totem was procured from among its broken fingers. He could swear he heard something dining on the remains down by the water, crunch of bones chillingly clear in the evening air.
In daylight, out in the open sea, Yannik found himself turning the totem in his hand. It looked suspiciosly like the creature they fought. Was it Oghoghorno? Has he met a deity face to face, hell, even shot arrows at it? Killed it? The old man had doubts whether the thing was actually dead, and he had been a seasoned monster-fighter, so perhaps not killed it outright, but sent it running? Yannik shuddered at the memory of its shivering mass of a body sliding over the edge of the cliff. He spent a sleepless night by a huge fire, hearing sighs and cries of pain in the forest. Dreading some more terrible creatures appearing, he remembered old witcher's occasional stories about the dead-eaters that abounded at times of war, feasting on the flesh of corpses and attacking the living if the chance arose. Come the morning, he realized what was causing the ruccus - it was the young boar he shot that morning. It stumbled around in the night, weak from the loss of blood, feverish. Yannik found its carcass with the shaft of the arrow still protruding from the wound. He cleaned it and roasted the best cuts to take with him on the voyage he was about to undertake.
Judging by the dead man's notebook, Farwest Atoll was relatively close. The island Yannik just left, apparently known to the Atoll inhabitants simply as Horn Island, was outside any lines of trade, being south from the direct path from Atoll to Skellige Isles, while at a good hundred miles or so from the Atoll itself. Farwest Atoll was the last known island before the great ocean that lied between it and the island nations of the Wayfinders, Naknaritikki and Okkonamamau. As such, Atoll was a no man's land, a port that was open to everyone, from the richest merchant to the most notorious pirate. It was there that two sides of the world met, and occasionally, did a bit of business.
And Yannik was now bound for it. Not like he had better things to do. Currently, Farwest was the closest and probably the only place he could reach in the small vessel he had commandeered. If D.H. and his notebook were to be believed, the island where the old man and himself were stranded was straight due southeast from the Atoll. If he bore northwest he should be able to reach it in a day or two, depending on the wind. He spent most of his childhood on ships, yet this was the first time he actually was behind the helm, or in this case, the rudder. It felt brilliant and terrifying at the same time. At any moment anything could go wrong with this boat and he most likely wouldn't have the first clue as to how to fix it. And as far s the compass was concerned, if he lost it, he would probably be as good as dead.
On the other hand, if D.H. made a mistake in his notes, he would be just as lost. Yannik burst into sudden laughter, realizing he entrusted his life to the notes of a man who though it would be a good idea to summon four wraiths on purpose. Nothing was certain and everything could happen. Yet he was healthy, his stomach was full, and he was bound further west than he has ever been. Even at fifteen, it was something to feel content about.
Early in the morning of the next day, after a night spent between nervously checking the compass and the position of the stars, Yannik saw the waning night-lights of the Atoll. The lighthouse was rising slowly on the edge of the horizon, with the steeple of the church of Eternal Fire appearing after it. A few hours later Yannik's boat entered the long, sheltered harbor, hosting dozens of ships of all shapes and sizes, from strong, thick Skellige vessels to Okkonamamau katamarans, sleek and swift in the sun. The screech of gulls and shouts of traders were there to greet him, along with an overwhelming smell of fish and human bodies, sweating in the heat of work. All along the pier people were loading and unloading crates, muscular, shirtless, tattoed people of the Great Ocean working in tandem with the people of the Northern Realms, an occasional Naizerian among them.
Yannik waved at the boy standing on the pier and the kid caught the rope and placed it around a bollard. The few coppers he received in return were enough of a reason for him to show all the missing teeth in a beaming smile. Yannik dropped the little anchor, just as the church bell struck. It was noon. He has arrived.
