The moons sing. The raft requires repairs. The elders teach the children to catch sharks.

Restless. Lights below. Glowing creatures.

We plot our course.

The water. The children draw pictures of elusive fish.

Our raft requires repairs. We drift past an unwelcoming island.

A storm is upon us. We will not sleep tonight.

Cracked cliffs. A moss-covered cave.

A couple of dead boneless creatures drift on the ocean. We drift past an unwelcoming village, now deserted, carved into the rock.

We all patch the sail.

A machine floats impossibly in the sky above.

Stars dwindle into morning.

The air is still. The raft creaks.

The air is still. Glassy spires. A booby-trapped altar.

The moon peeks from cloud. The children ask about forgotten vessels.

The ocean.

Memories of intricate woven fabrics.

The moon wanes.

Something stirs beneath.

Lonely hills.

Stars dwindle into morning. A ritual; medicinal herbs for the sea, sea-glass for the clouds.

Something cries below.

The mysterious sea.

Our craft perseveres. The children imitate firebirds.

The sea is no longer calm. A prayer to the baleful heavens. A staircase among the ridges. The waves are too rough to investigate.

The wind begins to howl, and the cold sea denies us its seasnakes.

The sacred blue. Towering over us, an overcrowded village, now deserted, carved into the rockface.

Smooth structures are carved with pictures of fish.

Something topples overboard; candles. Blackened edifices surround the boat on either side.

We gently boil sea spinach parcels filled with black grubs.

The sun beats down upon the vessel.

The air feels warmer here. The small boat is tossed about by the waves.

Drifting through the shallows. Awoken from dreams of mother weaving.

Tiny sandbar with a few trees. A few rich roots.

A hearty soup of roots.

Slithering things rise and we lose several rations overboard.

We hope to find some fish eggs soon. Wind-blasted temples.

A bizarre boat adorned with chitin and gyrating gears transporting men with longbows.

Something screeching in the dark. We will not sleep tonight.

A jittering machine covered in whirring pistons appears briefly in the distance. Fastenings break from it, splashing into the blue.

The bountiful waves rock the boat. Impossibly high bluffs.

We make repairs using pale bamboo and razor-sharp fishteeth.

Orange dusk.

The elders count our provisions; plenty of spiced fruits but not much else.

Glassy rocks.

The blue.

Slithering things rise. The winds do their best to drown us. Coral cliffs tower over the raft.

The children sleep.

Electricity is in the air. We fasten our belongings to the deck.

The elders teach the children to catch eels.

Restless dreamers. Lights below. Green and gold.