Entry 1: Setting Sail

Before we set sail, an odd bunch converged upon the Ironsides Junior. First came a Yuan-ti, name of Sallow, though ‘Sal’ for short. Brooding sort, not much for pleasantries, with a mechanical serpent in tow. Can’t say I’ve seen such a contraption before, but the wasteland is full of wonders and horrors alike.

Sal had company, another automaton, this one named Rusty. A metal giant spouting a phrase like a mantra: “Built for Survival, Built for War.” Its presence alone set Sal’s Geiger counter into a frenzy. Something’s not right there, but it’s a query for another time.

Our crew grew further as a plasmoid stepped aboard, bright as the midday sun and as strange as they come. Zephyr, they called themselves, a miasma expert, and I reckon we’ll need that expertise soon enough. They weren’t alone either, accompanied by an automaton that defied explanation—a blend of nature and machine, with a bird nestled within its metal limbs.

A.ESMERELDA was the construct’s name, or so it rattled off in a flurry too quick to comprehend. I’ll have to circle back on that.

Introductions aside, we stowed our gear and set sail for One Mile Island. What awaits us there, I dare not guess, but the company I keep is proof enough that the unexpected has become the norm.

Esma, curious creature, asked ’bout mine and Gerrat’s history. Strange to recount it. The booze, the chems, the blackout… waking up leagues from where me memory last served, in that blasted pit of the Cistern. Still, the booze I miss, though the days since have felt ever so… hazier.

Gerrat, in his own turn, spun a tale stranger than mine – claiming a mere four years of life, born not of flesh and bone like the rest of us, but from the confines of a test tube. Still, in these lands of mystery and despair, can one really question the improbable?

While the rest began their stories, me attention wavered, lost in the rhythm of the waves and the creaking of the boat. The past is the past, and dwelling on it does no dwarf good.

Sallow, ever industrious, sought to mend the crane, while Esma, with a display of cords and connections, interfaced with the boat itself. Their efforts bore fruit, for the Ironsides Junior pushed forward with renewed vigor. Yet our spirits were tested, as each of us tried our hand at the crane, seeking salvage from the depths.

But as time wore on, the sea’s embrace grew cold. A fog, unnatural and dense, rolled in, casting an eerie pall over our journey. This ain’t natural… not for these waters…

…The fog is thick…

Couldn’t see a hand in front o’ me face, then outta the gloom, this soul beast appears, made of the miasma itself. Three skulls floatin’ ’round it, like some ghastly crown. Thing nearly made a meal outta the boat, and tossed me over like I was a wee stone skippin’ ‘cross water.

But Sal, bless their whippin’ vines, snagged me back to safety, not once but twice. Picked me outta the sea and yanked me from the clutches of that soul-hungry monster. Owed ’em two beers, and I meant to pay up.

As for that fight, was knocked out cold. The others managed to take it down while I took an unwilling nap.

Gerrat had a gander at the skulls. Called it a ‘Soul Elemental’. Miasma’s not just killin’ us slowly, it’s usin’ our souls for something more sinister.

Took a bit of a breather after, but it wasn’t to last. My body… it’s startin’ to act funny. Movin’ on its own, growlin’ like some beast from the depths.

The pip-boy, it’s hard to type. Fingers ain’t cooperatin’. Gerrat’s lookin’ at me funny. I’m trying to hold on, but it’s like the mist’s inside me now.

got to keep control. Got t-

Fingres not workig Whys it dubble vision? Grhhh… trying to keep typing but hands won shakey.

no no no not ferral not me

gerat stay back i cnt stp it

can’t seee screeen wel. typeing is hrd. wrods no come out rite

grrrrrarrrrrrrrr

sahhh gruhhhhhh

…graaahhhhhhhhhhhhh..