By Unknown, found in the wreckage of a Ra Gada schooner on the shoreline near Hagathe. Retained for posterity by scholar Tjurhane Fyrre and transcribed into this volume.

We sail. I watch as Yokuda sinks beneath the churning sea, as rain clouds swallow it from sight. Years of study sink with it, my life's work. My people, our culture, whole nations, vast cities. My people. Gone.

Those who live sail for life. We follow the path of those who came before. Hoping for better, hoping for more.

I write now to recall my last moments in my homeland before they slip away. We huddled on the docks, cold and hungry. All had suffered loss. But not defeat. We boarded the ships as the seabirds called their trills, their crests brilliant even against that gray sky. A song that always reminded me of my childhood, of mother's stew and watching the waves.

Whatever may happen to us tomorrow, today we have survived. I write this not to ask for pity. No, to prove that knowledge is never lost nor taken. It still lives within me, within my people, for as long as we draw breath and someone remembers.