(Excerpt from a travel chronicle - By Anton Sokolov)
The men I set out with are good sailors, no doubt half of them cut their teeth on the rascally pirate ships spawned in the Serkonan Archipelago. Or they were, I should say. Half of them died before we sighted the broken red cliffs welcoming those who would visit the Far Continent as it is called. Sickness, in-fighting, poisoned by a school (or would one say flock) of small fish that fly over the waves like birds, landing in the hundreds across the deck, pricking any they touched with toxic quills. Two thrown overboard by gusting demon winds. The quiet Tyvian navigator simply dead in his bunk, wrapped in his white furs, eyes wide with terror. Few have crossed the Ocean and the distance to Pandyssia is greater than most would imagine. More died climbing the cliffs. And now with but a handful I stand looking across the greatest expanse of land that exists. My allies are frightened, for this is beyond them, and now their captain is dead too, stung by something that resembled a prairie mole but reacted with great apoplectic outrage when handled. So it falls on me to lead them.