The Visionary[]
Diary,
I’ve finally made it to Bilgewater! I could cry with joy. The heavy stink of death on the tide confirms my dearest dream: the Shadow Isles lie just over the horizon. After decades of questing, the perfect vista approaches!
Since childhood, I’ve longed to set my brush to paint the rarest scenery in the world: the ruins of the Blessed Isles, wreathed with spirits and spectres, ripe with revenants!
I’ve traveled sheer across Valoran and crossed the darkest oceans to be here. My talent will be tested on that melancholy rubble! My brush will master those wraiths! The paintings I create will be contemporary masterpieces, rarer and more precious than a portrait of any Jarvan. Demacian aristocracy will drool to hang them in their sitting-rooms!
And, twirling my brush, I will walk into the halls of history!
Diary,
Passage to the Shadow Isles is proving expensive.
Bilgewater sailors do not willingly approach its shores. Treasure-hunters traveling to the Isles instead pay for passage to supply-stations near the archipelago. They bring their own small skiffs, and use those to navigate through the Black Mist to Isles themselves.
I have been forced to adopt the same process... and to pay treasure-hunter rates! The ship which brought me to the supply station-- the “Daring Darling,” they call it-- cost me more than what I made on my last commission in Demacia!
I’m spending a week docked here at the inn teaching myself to sail a small skiff. It’s gruelling work, and nearly too much for my sheltered frame, heh. But at least it’s offering me some unusual views. Trying to keep my hopes high--all will go well! That’s the attitude to have!
Diary,
I set sail this morning for the Shadow Isles. I’m now a passing hand at sailing, but I suppose my navigation skills leave something to be desired--I’ve become quite lost! The Mist has grown so dark, I haven’t been able to sight the shore of the Isles, nor fix my eye on the sun above.
I’m resting to eat my pack lunch and record my journey. Thanks to this cursed Mist, I can’t see anything to sketch! But I’m hopeful that my destination is close. For the last few minutes I’ve been able to hear a strange moaning--perhaps a wind blowing across a rocky shore? I’ve lowered the sails so I won’t be dashed against the stones. And the moaning is growing louder over time, too, which must be good.
My brush is ready, and my canvases are primed! Shadow Isles, here I come!
