You are the former warrior, Scan of Ròn. Since your last battle was lost, you have been drifting further and further offshore in a dingy you stole from a fishing village abandoned in the chaos. Your troubled career as a spear-man have left you no recompense but muscle and a stomach for the sight of gore. You have never known the touch of a woman.

It's impossible to say if what lies before you is another empty island, or a peninsula of one of the strangelands that lie across the strait. You pissed the last drops of soldier-herbs into the sea an hour ago, so hunger and sleep will return to you soon. Your spear and falchion are long gone, but your coat is warm enough for a summer night.

An isopod the size of a pig crawls steadily over a waveworn rock, waving its antennae at you as you drag the boat onto the sand. Salt-encrusted cliff trees push out some meagre blossoms above. Black crevices that may be the beginning of caves squint at you from above. Some sort of vapor is rising from the far side of the cracked rock, but you doubt it's human fire, and if it is, they may not be in want of guests.

You have a bad feeling about this place, and the sea is calm- you could paddle to the next islet before the moon sets and leaves you in total darkness until dawn, but it might be even worse.

You are armed with only a knife and an oar. There's blood on your clothes. The sight of you would scare small children. You're thirsty. You're sore. You miss your dog.

Maybe you should just sleep under your boat, and pray it's a dream.

>Explore wildlife
>Explore terrain
>Flee this cursed rock
>Rest