There are corners o’ this world that curl away from curious eyes
Lands veiled in mist and misery, shunnin’ the unworthy
Alastair… poor, proud Alastair.
Laughed out o’ Pelcroft’s halls, branded a dream-drunk fool for chasin’ talk of a hidden continent
But he’d seen the truth scribbled between the lines of the Yerivin manuscript…
Ink that whispered deep inside his head.
Figures that shouldn’t exist began to dance in the trees
Tombstones spoke soft secrets
And when the seas themselves began to shift
The fools who’d doubted him could no longer deny what he had always known
With his unrelenting will as his guide, Alastair boarded a clockwork steamer
A brass and iron beast groaning to life beneath him
As the gears churned and pistons pounded, he felt it – a presence pressing against the hull, and into his skull
The kind of dread that seeps deep into the marrow…
Once they reached that blighted shore, sleep had slipped from him entirely
Wakin’ dreams were haunted by the voice of a dark presence, lurin’ him to the black heart of the jungle
Poisoned madness had taken root, or perhaps it was simply the truth revealing itself
They speak of him as a shadow with the face of a crow. A mark of death, scavenging the living.
They call it doom… he calls it destiny