Sikuri's Journal

[Sikuri Snowsong]

This well-worn, water-stained journal bears the writings of some sort of Taldera native, with all the content written in the Vani language. The writing itself is poor, dated and signed in the exact same manner on each individual page. Fathoming a guess, each entry is done by a lone individual, though it would take someone fluent in the language of the Vantha to successfully decipher it and decode the details therein; assuming they can comprehend the shoddy penmanship upon the sheep-stomach pages therein.

The entry on the first page begins as such, as read by a master of the Vani tongue:

I am not entirely sure on how to write in one of these, but I thought it might be a genuinely good idea to chronicle my experiences in the event of something horrible befalling me, so that someone somewhere might have the good fortune of finding this journal and return it to someone who knew me.
This is awkward, but I suppose I should start from the beginning. My name is Sikuri of Snowsong Hold, from the northern shores of Taldera near Desperation Bay. As you read this, I have just purchased this journal from Avanthal, the capital of Taldera and city-throne to the Ice Queen Morwen. I have left my home with nary a word, and so I can only hope that my endeavors prove fruitful.

My story is not tragic in nature, as it may seem. Rather, I have taken it upon myself to make this journey alone for no one other than myself. I am not a Man of the Aurora, pure in blood as my ancestors before me; and while my mother refuses to inform me of the specifics of my lineage, it is plain to all that I am of mixed blood. This is the reason I left: not as a pariah, but as someone who is unsure of who he is or where he is going. I am not ungrateful for all my people have done for me, and I am unashamed by my heritage. I simply do not know if this is the life I wish to live; bound in wedlock and as a farmer, only ever knowing half of who I am in this world as I till' fields that are not truly my own.

Perhaps I am a wanderer by definition, but that does not seem correct, for I know where I am going. Instead, I suppose it would be more accurate to say that I am a selfish pilgrim searching for both himself and of himself, if that makes any sense at all. Regardless, I feel as if I do not seize this opportunity now, I may never have another chance to pursue it or myself again and be left on the outskirts of a horizon I cannot look beyond ever again.

It had taken nearly two seasons of planning and careful management, but I successfully convinced my dearest and nearest friend and confidant, Haquaqa, to arrange passage for me aboard "The Winter’s Scorn" here in Avanthal as a deckhand after losing their last crew member after a collision with a glacier. I cannot say that I look forward to my time at sea, given both the prospect of how dangerous it is as well as the length of time we’ll be away from land, let alone whether I am capable of living up to the agreement struck on my behalf.

The captain assures me that we shall be setting sail from port within a fortnight after all of the provisions have been brought aboard and accounted for, if not sooner. We are to begin outfitting the saique with the essentials come first thing in the morning, and it is likely to be take up the majority of my free time.

I pray that I have made the right decision. Morwen preserve me.

Sikuri

9th Day of Fall, 509 AV

[Sikuri Snowsong]

It has been some time since I last had the opportunity to write anything down upon these pages, far too exhausted to even conjure and compose thoughts into words to spread about the pages with ink. We set sail almost thirteen days ago from Avanthal, and each day has been a test of my meek mettle. The snow, even now as we sit anchored atop a glacier, continues to fall relentlessly upon the decks of the saique we had so diligently spent salting and scraping to prevent the surface from coating over with ice. Morwen must be starting upon her seasonal duties early, for it has been some time since I've seen so much of her blessed snow touched upon me in so short an amount of time. It amazes me that the helmsman, Altamatas, can see where he is going at all with the thick blanket of white in front of him. Each time we skirt by a massive glacier, I fear it may hit us as we pass; an idea that fills me with dread.

The crew do not seem at all pleased that I have taken the place of their deceased friend. They have taken to calling me many things, the most notable of which is Greenhorn -- a calf yet to have fully grown into the role granted to him in life, likely to meet a terrible fate if he does not wise up to the trials in front of him, which I find to be fitting despite the other insults flung my way due to lack of experience. The captain in particular seems to have it out for me, pushing me harder than his other men. I have since come to realize that knot-tying is not my forte', whereas the other men aboard "The Winter's Scorn" can do so with startling aplomb. I must confess that I'm slightly jealous of their dexterous finger-play.

It feels as though all of us at least share common ground in that we all dislike the food served from the galley below deck. At first I found the meals adequate, disregarding the groans and moans of my seaborne companions as we were iron rations daily. But as the days droned on, I began to understand why they loathed their food so. And who can blame them when it is salmon for breakfast, seal fat for lunch, and brine-cured reindeer meat for dinner for ninety-one days? I can only imagine the horrors inflicted upon these men who have done nothing but sail the rime-caked shoreline their entire lives by these meals alone, but I suspect after a few seasons, I too shall come to be sickened by the mere mention of the words "Iron Ration."

This may be my last entry for some time, as if I do not get some sleep soon then I feel I shall regret it come the morn. Morwen only knows what gruelling, languishing tasks I shall have to deal with...

Sikuri

36th Day of Fall, 509 AV