Aug 22, 2020 by Andrew Walbrown

Journal Entry
Around the 1st of June, 1899

The weather is cold, far colder than any I have experienced in my life. Inhospitable weather is appropriate for this place because its welcoming matches the equally harsh environment in which I currently find myself. I am in a land of utter bleakness, one so desolate that it makes Varmthaven seem like a metropolis. How silly was I to scrutinize that seaside village and its few amenities; now I would give anything to return there. I cannot help but ask myself why I am here, of all places on this Earth, when I could be at home in New England nestled beside a fireplace with a book in one hand and a glass of scotch in the other.

I, of course, know why I am here. The Xakki. From the onset, I had my doubts about its existence, and now that I am standing on this snow-laden plateau I find myself in the opinion that no fauna of its purported size and temperament could survive here. There are some creatures mulling about, such as the penguin, an oversized flightless bird that squawks in unison with hundreds of its brethren. If the Xakki exists I highly doubt it is here, judging by the disinterest the penguins show in myself and the accompanying crew, I would wager that they are not often preyed upon. And while I am no expert, I can imagine one of those birds would be quite the meal for a beast with a carnivorous palate. 

My crew, only two of whom speak any degree of English, seem to share my sentiments about this place. Of course, they know not of the true reason of this expedition. As far as they know we are only here to catalog fauna previously unknown to the West, which is only a slight mistruth. Would they accompany me if they knew I was searching for the Xakki? Perhaps, perhaps not. From their appearance, I would assume dangerous wildlife is of little worry to them, as each member seems to be cut from the same cloth as the legendary pioneers Daniel Boone and Davy Crockett. But appearances can be deceiving, as many of the "tough man" types from past expeditions have run away from snakes, spiders, and even a swan.

This may be the last journal entry for quite some time, as these whipping winds have drained every last bit of dexterity from my fingers. Unless something of note happens in the coming days, I cannot imagine I will...

As luck will have it, a gunshot just now sounded from around a snowbank. What new excitement is this?



 

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