Marguerit Maida's Log #3

A fortnight into our voyage I was more or less living inside the creature's ribcage. It meant shelter, and it meant food. The flesh was starting to rot. The stench was unlike anything I'd ever smelled. As we floated, the temperature dropped, and the rotten meat began to stiffen and freeze. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the reaper began to lose buoyancy. We sank a little each day. My sanctuary was becoming my tomb and I was at the mercy of the current and the winds. Until one day, I saw a smattering of penglings in the distance. Swimming birds usually means solid land of some kind. I was lucky. The winds followed their path. Hours later, I saw a blessed sight: an unmoving cloud, sitting upon the water. Land. It renewed my spirit as I watched the land get closer and closer. The reaper slowly sank, but I was no longer worried. When the reaper finally sank below the water, I was close enough to lazily swim my way to shore. I made a note to come back for the reaper skull. I didn't ride the beast for three weeks to have no proof. Land never felt so good, even in this arctic hell.