Treasure hunt

The third day of our perilous quest for the Golden Fleece has come and gone, and still, the sea refuses to yield its secrets. The wind howled through the rigging last night, and the waves rose like vengeful spirits seeking to drag us into the abyss. We had anchored near a small, uncharted isle off the coast of Thessaly, where legend tells of an ancient temple dedicated to the gods of old. It was there we hoped to find a clue, some whisper of the sacred relic we seek.

At dawn, I led a small party ashore. The island was eerily silent, save for the rustling of olive trees and the distant cry of unseen birds. The ruins of the temple lay half-buried in the earth, its once-proud columns now broken and worn by time. As we stepped inside, a strange chill filled the air, and my men murmured of curses and restless spirits. I bade them be silent and press forward.

In the heart of the temple, we found an altar, upon which lay a stone tablet covered in inscriptions. I called upon our scholar, Mr. Whitmore, to decipher the markings. As he traced the ancient letters with trembling fingers, the ground beneath us trembled as well. A low, guttural growl echoed through the chamber—whether it was the earth itself or something more sinister, I dared not say.

Whitmore works tirelessly to translate the message, and I can only hope it leads us closer to our prize. Yet, I cannot shake the feeling that we are being watched—by mortal men or something far older, I do not yet know.

Tomorrow, we set sail once more, deeper into the unknown….