A stained journal page written in shaky cursive lettering
Frustrations ran high, fanned by anger. Anger at ourselves, against each other, and toward the heavens that determined to tilt us at this trial. My self-vaunted leadership failed me. I allowed, even encouraged delay. For as much as we none of us wish...
The Bells Страница A stained journal page written in shaky cursive lettering - в базе данных New World Guide of Lore
Frustrations ran high, fanned by anger. Anger at ourselves, against each other, and toward the heavens that determined to tilt us at this trial. My self-vaunted leadership failed me. I allowed, even encouraged delay. For as much as we none of us wished to wait for help that would never arrive, we were also afraid to leave this small patch of sand. As a result, we squandered what little “daylight” we had left. Though we knew not the time, we knew the light grew steadily dimmer and shadows more oppressive by the minute. Our remaining energy was spent poorly, as we engaged in equally passionate and circular debates over questions to which we had no answer. What was the identity of our compass-pointing watcher? Was he friend or foe? What was his intention? (We agreed that to our perception of his dress and bearing, it was without doubt a “he” and not a “she” who had invited us deeper into the interior of the island.) Much of our speculation regarded our location. Was it Europe? We were alternately swept away on an accelerated current, or plucked by Angels from the waters of the Mare Brittanicum and transported to the West Indies in a single day. Finally, we debated on which direction to go. Whether we would follow our watcher’s guidance or go the opposite direction if it were a warning. But this debate, which had little contribution from Edward, who I grew increasingly frustrated with for appearing to show no initiative nor even interest in our survival, was abruptly curtailed by the sonorous tolling of a clocktower.
