By the flickering flame of the lantern, we charted a course in the dead of night. The stars, they whispered, warned of currents beneath whirling shadows. The dexterous deftness of our helm was tested; the crew tightly wound like the rigging above.
A specter was seen briefly, her hand tracing ancient runes upon the compass rose, guiding us yet leading us astray. The vessels of our fate entwined with twilight's sighs and starlit cries.
Decima, our chart-master, noted with a trembling quill: "Let not the polar spectre seize our bearings."
In the celestial forge, the stars blazed with forgotten fires. Glistening remnants of nebulae scattered like embers across a blackened sea. A night of restlessness. The wind howled tales of old, urging the helm to cut swiftly through the whispers of the void.
Each turn of the wheel, each deft maneuver, invoked shadows of mariners lost to the ether. Their wails swallowed by the unknown, yet understood by the rhythm of our every sweep.
And in a hushed voice, Colas spoke: "The heavens know our sins."
Venture further into our annals: