Nearly a month had passed since the Southern Expedition Fleet, under the command of Captain Jas Cook, first made peaceful contact with the native people of the river region. Due to the abundance of surface-level gold found throughout the area, the sailors had taken to calling the place the "Golden Coast." The indigenous people, though rich in resources, were technologically undeveloped. A simple glass bead or a strip of colored cloth was enough to secure golden ornants in trade.
As Captain Cook oversaw the replenishnt of the fleet's fresh water supplies, he also established barter exchanges with the locals—offering cloth, colored glass jewelry, and small tools in return for fruit, foodstuffs, and gold. Though the crew now had ample provisions and filled water barrels, another threat was brewing.
Initially, only subtle symptoms were observed among the scientists and marines sent inland to map the terrain and catalog plant life. These n returned with flushed skin, aching joints, and eyes heavy with fatigue. Then ca the tremors—gentle at first, but soon violent enough to disrupt their sleep. Others experienced fever dreams, confusion, and sudden blackouts. So slept for days and could not be roused, while others began to shake uncontrollably or vomit dark fluids. Skin turned yellow, eyes reddened, and breathing beca labored. The symptoms varied—so n fell into silent stupors, others wept or raved in unknown tongues. A creeping dread took hold.
None in the fleet had seen illness like this before. As the number of cases grew, tension and fear spread like wildfire. Whispers of curses, poisoned air, or jungle spirits stirred within the ranks. Captain Cook, now deeply concerned, convened an ergency council in the large command tent of the coastal camp. Around a wide wooden table sat senior scientists and ranking officers of the fleet.
Dr. rrow, head of the dical staff, leaned forward. "We've identified one of the diseases—it resembles malaria. But I've never seen malaria strike this hard or kill this fast. It's sothing far more vicious here."
He rubbed his brow and pointed toward a ledger filled with symptoms. "So patients fall into a death-like sleep, limbs frozen, eyes half open. They stay like that for days. Others suffer fever so intense it drives them to madness. Their skin turns yellow, they vomit blood. I don't know these diseases. They're beyond anything I've studied."
He took a breath. "We've evacuated the worst cases back to the ships, but the source remains unknown. The sickness only affects those who went ashore. That gives us a clue—it's not airborne or spread through human contact. It's likely environntal. Mosquitoes, perhaps. The swarms here are unlike anything we've seen."
Cook turned to the chief geologist, Alex Ward. "What's the status of the inland mapping?"
Ward nodded grimly and began to elaborate. "We've halted all interior surveys. Too many of the n we sent fell ill. But before the operations were suspended, our botanists made a significant discovery. They ca across several stands of dense, towering hardwood trees—so with deep black bark and finely veined interiors, others with reddish, straight-grained wood known for its durability and resistance to decay. These specins bear a striking resemblance to the luxury timbers long imported from Indoria—specifically those used in high-end cabinetry, ship interiors, and musical instrunts. Given their density, texture, and appearance, it's plausible these trees are either the sa species or closely related. Our team suspects they may be endemic Velmoran variants of those known Indorian hardwoods, adapted to the climate and soils of this continent. If proven correct, this would mark a major botanical discovery. We've collected core samples and foliage to bring back for classification and further study." So among the botanists believe these trees may not be exact matches to their Indorian counterparts, but rather endemic Velmoran subspecies—natural variants shaped by this continent's distinct climate and soils. If confird, this would suggest that Velmora harbors its own unique lineages of globally valued hardwoods, previously unknown to Pendralan science. Their potential value in furniture, instrunt-making, and ship interiors could be imnse."
He paused, then added, "In addition, we confird extensive gold veins close to the surface. The inland regions are rich beyond expectation."
Cook stood and looked around the table. "Our mission is to chart Velmoran's western coastline. As valuable as those gold deposits may be, we're risking lives now. With morale collapsing and losses rising, we can't continue like this. We have enough food and water. I say we break camp and move south."
The table murmured in agreent. No one objected. Orders were dispatched. The next morning, word spread among the fleet: they were finally leaving the cursed jungle. A wave of relief swept through the ranks. In the weeks that had passed, n had begun to feel death's breath on their necks. Each new funeral deepened their dread. Now, escape seed possible.
As the fleet hoisted anchor and turned southward, none among them knew that the na "Golden Coast" would one day be forgotten. In its place, traders and explorers of the future would speak of the "White Man's Grave." In ti, this na would reflect not gold, but death.
The sick n brought aboard the ships did not recover. One by one, they died. Captain Cook, following Pendralis Navy tradition, ordered sea burials for the dead. A funeral ceremony was held aboard the fleet's flagship.
The bodies were shrouded in white canvas, stitched shut with lead weights at the feet. The deck crew stood in solemn ranks, heads bowed. A chaplain muttered final rites over the bodies. Then, as drums rolled and the sea breeze fluttered the flags, three volleys of rifle fire cracked across the water—a final salute. One by one, the weighted shrouds were slid from the plank and vanished beneath the waves. Silence followed. The ocean claid its dead.
A subdued mood settled over the fleet, but mourning did not last long. In this world—unlike modern societies—death was a constant companion. Disease, hunger, and war had claid loved ones since childhood. Loss was painful, but familiarity bred endurance. The fleet pressed on.
As the ships sailed further south, the coast changed slowly, subtly. The choking jungle gave way to open woodland and tall grasses that swayed under highland winds. The air was drier now, cooler—no longer heavy with rot but crisp and sharp, with hints of salt and earth. On brief landing parties, the sailors began to note new sights: tall beasts with twisting horns standing alert in the grass, lean predators with golden hides slinking through the brush, and herds of grazing animals that bolted at the sound of a snapped twig.
On the sea, schools of large, smooth-skinned creatures followed the ships. Birds with vast wingspans wheeled above, calling in deep voices, their shadows skimming the water like drifting clouds. At dawn, the surface sotis broke with the backs of enormous, slow-moving shapes—sea beasts that exhaled towers of mist and vanished again into the deep.
The coastline bent gently, then sharply. Cliff faces began to rise—black rock sheering into the surf. The temperature dropped steadily. Nights beca longer and colder. The stars shifted in familiar but altered patterns.
On the deck of the flagship, navigators made calculations with sextants, recording the sun's noon height and comparing the stars by night. Using a precision marine chronoter from Pendralis, they compared the local noon—when the sun was at its highest point in the sky—to the exact ti back in the capital. This difference allowed them to calculate their longitudinal position with remarkable accuracy. Every hour of ti difference equated to fifteen degrees of longitude. For latitude, they asured the sun's angle above the horizon at local noon each day, taking into account the gradual changes in its height over ti—an effect they understood to be part of the sun's yearly motion across the sky. Over several days, they noticed that the sun no longer moved further north or south in the sky, suggesting they had reached the solar turning point—indicative of the southernmost navigable latitude of the continent. With both latitude and longitude confird, and no visible landmass extending further south along the coast or out to sea, the crew concluded that they had reached the farthest known edge of Velmora. With no land visible to the south and celestial asurents aligned, they marked the site on their charts as the southernmost point of Velmora.
The fleet soon discovered a natural harbor carved into the jagged coastline—a narrow bay nestled between two rocky promontories, where the sea broke into gentle swells and washed up over black-pebbled shores. Towering cliffs lood above, their weathered faces streaked with ochre and deep iron hues, while mist rolled down from the uplands in slow, curling tendrils. As the longboats approached the beach, the n could hear the cry of distant seabirds wheeling overhead, their shadows sweeping over the deck like passing spirits.
The landing party stepped ashore onto slick stones and coarse sand. The air was bracing—cold and laced with salt, carrying with it the faint scent of crushed leaves and iron-rich soil. Inland, the terrain rose in uneven terraces, draped in a hardy carpet of silver-green brush and dotted with squat, wind-twisted trees that clung to the earth like stubborn sentinels. Higher still, pale cliffs cut sharp lines against the sky, and beyond them, distant mountains rose with snow-speckled crowns.
There was life here, but it was elusive and cautious. The n glimpsed long-legged grazers moving like ghosts through the low shrubs, their slender bodies almost indistinguishable from the grass. At twilight, golden-eyed predators watched from the rocks, lting away before anyone could raise a gun. Along the shoreline, slick-backed marine beasts lay draped across sun-ward stones, their deep bellows echoing against the cliffs before they slipped silently back into the sea.
Streams of clear, cold water trickled down from the uplands, pooling briefly in mossy basins before running out to et the tide. These natural springs were quickly found and tested—clean and sweet, untouched by the corruption that had plagued the rivers of the jungle north.
The crew worked quickly and efficiently. Tents were raised above the tide line, fires lit with driftwood and resinous brush. Scientific instrunts were unpacked and placed under canvas awnings. The sextants ca out again, and with careful asurents of the noonday sun and known celestial positions, the officers confird their conclusion: this was the southernmost edge of Velmoran. The compass, once stable, now wavered subtly at rest—one last confirmation of their position near the planet's magnetic boundary.
This place was barren by comparison to the lush lands behind them, but there was a strange, austere beauty to it. The wind was strong and clear. The stars blazed at night in unfamiliar configurations. And for the first ti in weeks, no one coughed blood in the night or sweated through fevered dreams.
Here, far from the death-ridden north, the Southern Expedition would make its final camp and begin to mark the very edge of the Velmoran continent—scarred, weary, but unbroken.
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