An Unexplored Piece of Our World in 1923 and 850 A.D.

 

May 1, 1923

I have disembarked from the ship and set foot on the shores of what I was assured is an unexplored piece of our world. All signs point to this place being untouched by human presence; the dense foliage and undisturbed animal pathways give credence to that belief. The island, unnamed and unmapped, is ripe for discovery. My excitement is palpable, and I feel the electric buzz of adventure coursing through my veins.

 

 

May 2, 1923

The first day of exploration brought forth a symphony of life. Exotic birds with plumage brighter than a painter’s palette flitted among the treetops while creatures of mysterious calls made their presence known. The island’s air is thick with the scent of blooming flowers and damp earth. Tonight, I shall camp by a stream that winds like a silver ribbon through the jungle.

 

 

May 4, 1923

Strange occurrences have set my mind to wondering. I found a stone structure today—a crude altar with ancient carvings, moss-ridden and partly buried in the earth. It seems impossible that such a thing should exist here if the island is truly untouched. My rational mind argues erosion and natural formation, but my instincts speak of something far different. The markings are old, perhaps centuries.

 

 

May 7, 1923

Further inland, I stumbled upon what I can only describe as a village, yet there is no sign of recent habitation. The huts, constructed from entwined vines and thatch, are small and encased in a shroud of silence. No footprints mar the ground, no trinkets or tools suggest the flow of daily life. An oppressive stillness weighs on me, permeating even the air that I breathe. What stories do these empty homes tell?

 

 

May 10, 1923

The deeper I journey, the more convinced I become that this island was home to something—or someone. Today, I unearthed a chest carved from the darkest ebony, filled with objects of fascinating craftsmanship. Amulets, painted stones, and wooden idols depicting strange beings I have never heard tell of from any ancient culture. The carvings are intricate, as if the creators had immense skill. Why would they leave such treasures behind?

 

 

May 12, 1923

Last night, my slumber was broken by visions—dreams that felt more real than reality itself. Figures cloaked in shadows danced around me, chanting in a language foreign and melodious. When I awoke, I found in my hand a small totem, carved from bone and unlike any I had previously encountered. I have no memory of placing it there, and a cold dread seeps into my bones.

 

 

May 14, 1923

I am not alone. This realization strikes me with the weight of a thunderclap. I have seen them, fleeting glimpses at the edge of my vision—figures darting behind trees, whispers carried on the wind. They are watching. My observations suggest intelligence and patience beyond what I anticipated. I feel no immediate threat, only the profound sense that I am an intruder in a place where man’s presence is unwelcome.

 

 

May 18, 1923

The true nature of the island’s inhabitants has revealed itself in the most horrifying manner. They emerged from the shadows as dusk settled, their forms ephemeral and eyes glowing with an unnatural light. These are no mere humans, but entities tied to an ancient past, protectors of what I now understand to be sacred land. They spoke in tones that resonated deep within my soul, their message clear: I must leave.

 

 

May 20, 1923

Packing my belongings, I hasten to depart, the weight of ancient eyes upon me with every step. The island, which once felt like a frontier of discovery, now seems a threshold to another realm—a place mankind was never meant to tread. The entities have left an indelible mark upon my psyche. I will recount my tale with caution, perhaps as a warning to those who might follow in my footsteps.

 

 

May 25, 1923

The ship’s deck feels like solid ground beneath my feet as we sail away, yet my thoughts remain tethered to that cursed isle. The untouched land was a façade; beneath it lay secrets long preserved and guardians ever vigilant. My notes and artifacts will find a place in history, but I doubt whether anyone will truly grasp the gravity of what I encountered. To the outside world, it may remain an untouched location, but to me, it is a place where the mundane and the mystical coexist, forever hidden in the mists of time.

 

Jumping back in time to the year 850 a.d

 

 

June 14, 850 A.D.

Our journey has commenced—six longships filled with warriors, skalds, and seers. The chieftain spoke of lands unseen by northern eyes, where the skies are strange and the soil untouched by our kind. Many whispered warnings of unknown gods and spirits that reign in such distant places, but our resolve cannot be shaken. Odin guides our voyage, and our yearning for glory propels us onward.

 

 

June 27, 850 A.D.

The sea’s wrathful nature has tested our mettle, but we have sighted land. A great island emerges from the mist, its horizon shrouded in dense forests and forbidding cliffs. Raven banners flutter in the wind as we draw near. The island is vast and eerily quiet, its very air humming with a sense of ancient power.

 

 

July 2, 850 A.D.

We have begun our exploration, carving a path through the thick vegetation. Our scouts found fresh water and brought tales of strange stone markers along the paths. These markers are engraved with symbols foreign to our sagas and runestones. Stark and tall, they serve as silent sentinels, warning those who tread falsely. Tonight, we camp beneath the ghostly oversight of those carvings, wary of both natural and supernatural threats.

 

 

July 5, 850 A.D.

A discovery of monumental significance: a village, long abandoned yet eerily well-preserved. The huts are crafted from materials we do not recognize—woven vines and stones polished as smoothly as mirrors. Our seer, Yrsa, claims she feels a presence upon the wind, a whisper of old spirits displeased by our intrusion. She interprets the silent village as a place sacred to beings not known by the Æsir.

 

 

July 8, 850 A.D.

An unease settles over our camp as we delve deeper into the island’s mysteries. Holthar, our best craftsman, discovered a stone chest buried beneath a gnarled tree. Within were objects of intricate design, amulets and tools fashioned with a skill that rivals the finest works of Midgard. They depict forms and faces that defy our understanding—creatures with eyes like glinting stars and limbs flowing like water. Each touch feels like a breach upon hallowed ground.

 

 

July 10, 850 A.D.

Visions plague our dreams, all of us now. Shadowed figures, their eyes blazing with cold fire, haunt our nights. We awaken with artifacts held tight in our hands, though none can recall picking them up. Yrsa reads these midnight trinkets as warnings, omens of discontent from the island’s ancient denizens. The warriors grow restless, blades keen but spirits dampened by the nightly phantoms.

 

 

July 13, 850 A.D.

Today our chieftain declared we must leave this cursed place. Too many have seen the spectral watchers, those beings that remain ever vigilant. Thorgrim claimed to have seen one up close, its visage shifting and its eyes boring into his very soul. We take these nightly visions as a stern command: this realm is forbidden. The sacred land cannot tolerate mortal trespass.

 

 

July 15, 850 A.D.

As we prepare to depart, the island’s entities make themselves unmistakably known. At dusk, the air shimmers, and the figures materialize fully—tall and ethereal, cloaked in luminosity. Their voices reverberate with the weight of ages, commanding in a tongue we cannot comprehend yet understand instinctively. They countenance no defiance. Yrsa, our seer, falls to her knees, pleading for our swift withdrawal.

 

 

July 18, 850 A.D.

Our longships set sail once more, the distant shorelines of that accursed isle shrinking into the horizon. We leave behind those eldritch beings, carrying with us the heavy burden of their warning. We return to our lands with tales of wonder and dread, marked by truths not easily shared. The island, now a faint memory, stands still, outside the grasp of time and civilization, safeguarded by forces beyond our ken.

 

 

July 30, 850 A.D.

We recount our tale to those who gather by the hearth, the flickering flames casting shadows that dance like the specters of our past. The skalds attempt to immortalize our adventure in song, but words fail to capture the true essence of the island’s mystery. The land lay untouched not by accident, but by a design unfathomable to mortal minds. It is a place where gods and spirits converge, veiled from humanity by a curtain of forgotten antiquity. Our saga will serve as a caution, as well as a reminder of realms beyond our reach, where the cosmic and the earthly intertwine in an eternal dance.

 

About a year later…

 

 

July 15, 851 A.D.

Under Odin’s watchful eye, our longship has navigated these stormy seas, seeking the fabled isle spoken of by Holthar’s kin. His final, frenzied words were of a place brimming with both wealth and terror, an island where gods whispered through the trees and eyes glowed in the dusk. We dismissed these tales as the delirium of a haunted mind, yet curiosity and the promise of glory drive us onward.

 

 

July 17, 851 A.D.

We have beached our vessel on the very shores that Holthar’s longships must have touched. The island stands untouched by time, as though it has resided in a forgotten pocket of the world. The air is thick with anticipation, an almost palpable energy buzzing through us as we tread paths unseen for a year. Our footsteps feel heavy, like the island is bearing the weight of ancient secrets even as it shrouds itself in oppressive silence.

 

 

July 18, 851 A.D.

To our horror, we discovered the six longships of Holthar’s ill-fated journey anchored in the cove. Their hulls appear pristine, void of algae or rot, as if no time had passed at all. Familiar symbols and carvings adorn them, and inside we find the remnants of supplies—salted meat, mead, and tools—unspoiled. Yet there is no sign of the brave souls who crewed them. This enigma casts a shadow over our hearts, foretelling unspoken doom.

 

 

July 20, 851 A.D.

Venturing inland, we found evidence of campfires long extinguished, weapons left within easy reach, and hastily abandoned belongings. The tension mounts as we uncover no trace of life, only an eerie tableau of instantaneous departure. The forest, dense and silent, seems to breathe around us, whispering malevolence, each crack of a twig setting our nerves alight. How could seasoned warriors disappear without a trace?

 

 

July 22, 851 A.D.

The village stands as Holthar described—ancient and untouched. Yet lying among the huts, bleached by the sun and gnawed by time, we discover bones. Bones bearing the scars of their final moments, twisted in agony, scattered as if they sought a last, futile escape. Some of the skeletons clutch amulets and totems we do not recognize, their hands gnarled in death’s final grasp. These relics feel heavy, imbued with an unmistakable aura of dread.

 

July 23, 851 A.D.

We unearthed, with gut-wrenching dread, a central pit overflowing with remains. It is clear they were not left here peacefully— the bones speak of savagery far beyond mere mortal combat. Broken and sundered skulls hold within their eye sockets the last echoes of terror. The realization dawns upon us like a grim shadow: the island’s ancient entities exacted a terrible toll on intruders.

 

July 25, 851 A.D.

The island’s true inhabitants revealed themselves as the sun dipped below the horizon. They emerged from the forest, beings of light and shadow, their forms ephemeral and their eyes glowing with an unholy, cold intelligence. They hovered around the pit of bones, guardians unseen for a millennium, their presence an unspoken warning. One that echoed through my very marrow: leave or join the fate of those who dared trespass.

 

July 27, 851 A.D.

Our hasty retreat to the ship brought no solace; the island seemed to pulse with a growing anger towards our lingering presence. Our sleep is now punctuated by nightmares more vivid than those shared, our bodies marked by mysterious scratches and bruises upon waking. We are not merely intruders—we are prisoners of witness, kept to relay the tale of those who failed to heed the warning.

 

 

July 28, 851 A.D.

With the dawn, we forsake the island, our longship creaking under the strain of haste and fear. We carry little with us but the memory of bones and the gnawing sense of eyes forever watching. Our departure is shadowed by the certainty that this place, shrouded in mystery and foreboding, is not meant for the realm of man. The island will continue to keep its secrets, lurking beyond the veiled horizon, a sinister whisper in the winds of the sea.

 

 

August 5, 851 A.D.

We have reached home, yet the horrors pursued us in our dreams across the waves. Tales of our ordeal spread, drawing the curious and the foolhardy in equals. We tell our story with trembling lips and wide, fearful eyes. The skalds will immortalize it, the words infused with the dread we cannot shed. This island, draped in darkness and guarded by specters of a forgotten era, will serve as a grim reminder: some frontiers are best left undisturbed, where the mundane and the eldritch converge far beyond human reach.