Almost two centuries have passed since the mysterious tragedy of the Poseidon's Fury left its entire crew slaughtered without a trace of the assailant. Only a single shred of evidence remains - a cursed scroll clutched in the captain's severed hand...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
As the sun came up above the tops of the trees, Chrysomallo opened her map in the warm light. The group started walking east along the edge of the forest, following the winding stream shown on the old papyrus.
They kept a steady but careful pace under the old trees. Chrysomallo often checked the map, noting landmarks that confirmed they were going the right way. When the paths disappeared, she skillfully found the route that had the least impact on the ground.
After a few hours of peaceful travel, they arrived at an old oak tree with twisted roots, just as Chrysomallo had predicted. Its gnarled shape showed where the stream turned north. As they went around this turning point, the others couldn't help but be amazed by her mapping skills.
Deeper into the dense forest, fallen logs and overgrown rocks sometimes blocked their way. But with teamwork and determination, the group kept making progress. Along the way, lively conversations and Themistonoe's songs lifted their spirits.
Mnesarete soon noticed signs of past human presence: discarded tools, broken pieces of carts, and markings on the trees. While these clues suggested that others had travelled this way before, an atmosphere of abandonment now filled the forest.
As the sun rose higher in the morning sky, Chrysomallo stopped to check their position in relation to the growing shadows. To the relief of the travellers, her map confirmed that they were still going the right way. With renewed determination, they pushed forward toward their unseen destination.
Before long, the thickest parts of the forest began to thin out. Chrysomallo rolled up her well-used map with a satisfied smile because, ahead, smoke rose into the sky. "That's where Kalymnos village is," she told her tired but excited companions.
In front of them, there were fields with farms and small properties scattered about. Makeshift pens held goats, sheep, and chickens while grazing lands sloped gently toward a central green area in the middle of the village. A well-used path connected the different homes and pastures.
The air smelled different now, no longer dominated by the smell of pine. The soil was enriched with fresh manure, and the aroma of wood smoke hung low, rising from chimneys alongside the savoury smells of dinner. The sounds of birds in the early morning were replaced by a buzzing chorus of insects coming out of hedges and ditches.
A group of old-fashioned houses came into view, their thatched roofs shining gold against the morning sky. Wattle-and-daub walls leaned at odd angles, showing signs of patching and rebuilding over many years. Small gardens overflowed over crooked fences, bursting with vibrant colours.
On the path, people moved quickly, doing their morning tasks. Two boys herded goats toward a shelter, blending in with the wagging tails and bearded chins of the goats. An older woman bent over piles of late greens, carefully preserving her harvest for the upcoming seasons.
Around a big willow tree by a pond with ducks, small clothes hung damply on lines between its branches. Children played in the shallow water, their voices and splashing filling the air until they were called in for lunch.
