In a quiet coastal town, a mysterious journal is found, tucked between the pages of a random book. It belongs to an explorer who vanished a century ago while searching for a mythical island believed to grant immortality. The journal, filled with cry...
We finally found land. A harbor. A dock. Our ship is headed that way right now. According to the maps in this journal, the ones I found tucked inside you, we might just be hitting the main, and most troublesome part of the journey. The rest has bee troublesome enough. I do not fear of my men abandoning me upon shore. They are being paid well. Oh, how good it'll feel when I have a bottle of whiskey and a hot bath at last! Pray that I turn out wrong about you, my dear.
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SERAPHINA JUST SEEMED TO REALIZE HOW FOOLISH THEIR ACTIONS REALLY WERE.
Standing here, in the grass that tickled their feet as it swayed to the hymn of the wind, an invisible chorus, while the sun stood custodian over them, shining brilliantly, a star of glory. Standing here, journal in hand. Seraphina cast a glance over at the sinister notebook. It appeared so much more ornate, despicable, disgusting to her. Before, the book was merely a vintage relic, perhaps a semi-interesting find. Now, it was the subject of her nightmares, the manifestation of all the fears she kept hidden away, locked somewhere seemingly untouchable. Before this. Before it.
Arthur Whitmore stood close by, skimming through the vacant pages of the copy. His black hair, still as neat and combed as ever, ruffled slightly. The breeze was picking up, slowly ruffling the edges of her skirt, lifting it upwards, just a bit. She could see his eyes staring intently at the words, blue and brown contrasting beautifully. Why did he get the right to have such heavenly orbs, and not her? He was not wearing his coat, just that same collared shirt and trousers. He had pushed his sleeves backwards, so she could see his wrists, fair and nondescript. His lips were pursed, and his brow was furrowed. At long last, he sighed and closed the book, looking up at her.
"I'm not lying." she said defensively, crossing her arms across her chest.
He cleared his throat, face flushed.
"Of course. I did not imply that you were. The whole affair's simply a tad bit...extraordinary."
"That's an understatement." she sneered. "You weren't the one plagued with visions of a haunted book, pages fluttering, screaming hysterically."
"I-you never mentioned nightmares."
She stopped her yammering, stuttering for a moment before resolving into silence. This man was impossible. Absolutely impossible. And yet, not for one second did Seraphina mistake the concern in his eyes for anything else. This man was the only one actually bothering to hear her out, and she would do better to cater to his whims.
"Get on with it, Mr. Whitmore. I'm bloody tired of watching you hold that journal like a newborn baby."
Instead of acting insulted, he merely grinned sheepishly, his hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck. He seemed to do that more often than she thought at first. Hm. He put the book down, and reached for the logs of wood placed aside. A rusty bucket filled with water was placed nearby. Seraphina reached for her hair and tugged at the clip holding it together, so her black locks fell around her face. She neatly tucked them all into a bun, and fixed the hairpin back in place.
