Recollections of the gentle animals abandoned on that beach.

Our raft rocks.

The air is warm and heavy.

Vultures circle. The smell of a cooking shrimp brings back memories of old building methods.

Something stirs beneath.

The crew help row the craft through maze of abandoned boats.

A tiny, lush island. We are ushered away by three pilgrims with red eyes.

Huddled together as the storm tosses the raft and we lose three sacks overboard.

Our raft perseveres. Massive spires.

A gentle wind.

Several skyfiends circle our makeshift raft.

A cooling breeze against the cliffs. The makeshift raft is still.

Coral spires dot the horizon.

The sky fades to orange.

The rain beats down on the vessel. We huddle for safety. Foreboding cliffs.

Our vessel pushes on. The children play a game using pebbles and counters.

Saltwater swamp. The makeshift boat pushes on as we gather strangely colored nuts.

The cold blue. One of our number skillfully cooks fish with nuts.

The sea. We sharpen spears. These armored shrimp will make for good trading.

Night falls. Lights below. Green and gold.

Recollections of how this all began.

Cold wind from the north. The raft is tossed about by the waves. The children sharpen spears. These colorful seasnakes will make for good trading.

The moons sing. The craft perseveres.

The elders carefully wrap chunks of ground squid in bladderwrack.

The sea is no longer calm, and the ill-tempered sea denies us its sharks.

Our craft is still. A song and an offering; lichen for the water.

Our makeshift raft pushes on. The elders weave baskets.

Drifting through the shallows. Brooding pillars. Rocks tumble and splash.

A few shrimp dart amid a maze of streams through jagged walls.

One of the children shivers.

The children listen as the elders recount our reasons for leaving.

Lonely rockfaces.

Storm clouds some way off.

A solitary plateau among the ruins.

Intimidating walls fade into view.

Some of our number gently boil pepperweed parcels filled with honeycombs.

Our skiff is tossed about by the seas.

Orange dusk. A song and an offering; grubs for the ocean.

A doleful song about lost loves.

A starless night. The children tinker with tiny beads and candles.

A shimmering orb passes, blown by the calm breeze.

Towering over us, some sort of airship.

An imperial undersphere surfaces nearby. The soldiers raise their rifles as we pass.

We take stock of our supplies and hope these eels will last us.

A storm is upon us, and the boat is tossed about.

We row through dull brown reef, strewn with shipwrecks.

The sacred blue. Intimidating walls dot the horizon.

In hushed voices, we speak of mother weaving.

Again, we help row the raft through a maze of streams through jagged cliffs.

The calm sea. One of our number skillfully cooks squid with grubs.