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I write this journal with a heavy heart and a weary mind, for the terrors I've seen are ones of despair to any other seafarer.

In the continent men speak of beasts under the sea, of monsters humongous and of pure evil that roam the waters distant of land, awaiting any who dare to adventure the winds outside the aura of earth. Those are but fantasies, created by cowardly fishermen and trembling sailors. The true horrors of the sea are just above it, who wear the skin of men and women, but have souls of demons.

Me and my crew were unfortunate enough to be found by those devils.

We were sailing from Eldanari, on the southern kingdom of the Ëlknarai, to Ezarai, the protectorate in the eastmost of Azakai, the controlled region of Ëlknarai, containing Malahi and other islands. Our boat was filled with fine wine to trade with the responsible landlord, and a few Darkkin slaves to serve for hard labour.

We were hit by a storm at the dead of night, miles away from shore or civilization. I was confident we would survive the night, albeit we would soak even our bones in trying to keep the boat stable, it wasn't the worst storm I saw. Or at least, so I though.

I sailed many seas in my long years. We, the K'torai, are blessed by Vee'a with long years of strength and virility, followed by a handful of quiet peaceful years as our will wiens and our muscles weaken, until we are met by T'rka for our final rest. But that night, as I saw the black sails in the dark sky, lighted once in a while by a thunderous lightning, I feared my death would come much sooner and much more swift than I imagined. When I first heard them, I knew then and there that the true storm began.

Their screams were audible even through the heavy sound of the tempest that whipped the sails and froze our souls, even through the frequent thunder, at each lightning a glimpse of the faces. Grinning and laughing and howling into the chaotic night, the men aboard the enemy ship were showing all of their brutality even before they even started to cut the throats of my tripulation.

It felt like they overwhelmed us by the hundreds, but they couldn't have more men than us; it was their violence that was too much to bear. However, there was even more to those savages. In between the chaos, as I stayed firm on the deck, fighting against the marauders on all fronts, I saw a terrible beauty. The Jurkll wore tight clothes that accentuated her luscious curves, swinging her blade with deadly precision on the tempest as if cutting even the rain as she cut the throat of the crew. A daemonic grin crossed her face, all in all, not much different from the rest of her marauders, but her image and aura gave away quite the grandeur, it was clear she was their captain, and just as brutal as all of the other pirates, if not more. She marched forward, killing any one sailor that dared to draw weapons to fight, until I was at her mercy.

I still remember her voice, just as terrifying as the rest of her figure. "Are you the captain of this fine ship?" She asked in a playfully cruel tone. I muttered but a word, unable to say anything, locked by my fear, and, shamefully, distracted by her curves. "Good! So then I give you two choices" She began, screaming so her voice could pierce the rumble of the sea around us. "Either you surrender, we give you a small boat so you can - if you're lucky that is - float back home, no rows, but at least you won't be beheaded" Her grin was the cruelest, clearly enjoying every second of my enquiring.

"And what's the second?" I asked, bringing forth all the courage and concentration I could muster. "Oh?" She uttered, with a ironic surprise "Are you that retarded? We boarded your ship, killed your men, what do you think the second option is?" She asked, her grin still wide on her face, standing tall and royally, even if she was clearly smaller than me. I did not answer.

Since you are reading this, I assume you are not as idiotic as me, and figured which one of those I picked. They hastily threw me into a safe-boat and flung me into the ocean. By some miracle, the violent waves of the storm spared my life, even if they did not spare my stomach.

I floated for about two days. Only nearly dead was when I finally felt earth hitting against the casket of the boat. I did not see land, as I was laying on the floor of my would be wooden coffin, listening to the tranquil sound of shore waves as I waited patiently for my death. I was not the sanest then, as I was starving and dry, and so the terrible vision my finders had probably gave chills on their spine, at the terrible vision of a stranger eating poisonous berries.

I couldn't indulge on my rescuers or my surroundings much as I was taken to a comfy village far from the shore; you probably understand, as I was retching and spewing bile like a broken faucet. For a few days I feared death once again, already weakened and starved, it was a - what I assume the third - miracle that kept me alive for long enough for me to see this day. As I write this letter, there was not one single day that I didn't thank Vee'a for blessing me with extreme luck. Either that or the gods had a kick of seeing me stumble my way closer to death than to life. But nonetheless.

The locals here are rather interesting, they speak the language of the seas, the weird hybrid of two disparate languages of the seafarers, K'tor and Ëlknar, and seemed to have ties from the continent. Apparently colonized some years back, the only civilized men I found were colonists themselves, who had shelter and food to share with me. All houses are above ground, even the governor's, and all are made of palm wood, in rare cases driftwood that washes up on the shores, no doubt from other sunken ships. Certainly not the most luxurious of homes, but still much better than stranded on the middle of the sea. The governor - an old but gentle Otr'k - is also a delightful chap, a K'tornian just as myself, he asked me about every detail of my misfortunes.

The island is exceedingly small, and there are no ships that can sail the seas either, the people here live by the cattle and fruits and fishing, nothing fancy or time consuming. It gives you a lot of leeway and freedom, but also comes with a good spoonful of absolute boredom. It is of my luck that the governor has quite the library, not as big as the libraries on the cities I visited on my sailing years, but still had many books of tales and also history of the continent. When I am not out fishing or helping the locals on their tasks, I still stop by his home and spent hours delving into the rich lore and adventures the whimsical pages bring.

I have been here for almost a month, as of me writing this. No ship has crossed us yet and I expect not to have any coming at least this year. News are a rarity here, and the only way of sharing my story to the world right now, is to pray that this bottle - in which you most likely found this message - reaches civilized shores and is not taken by beast or dubious hands. I am writing this journal to tell my tale, as a warning for others, of the horrors I beheld. Beware, all sailors, for the tempest is but a warning, and the true demons sail boats of darkwood, the black sails are harbingers of death.

• 14th of De'kramor, 1315 A.N

Former Capt. Jak'Latai H'kner