Tethered to the boat by a few thick ropes. The unhinged mast bobbed up and down beside the turned boat. Gliding over the waves as it knocked the hull at every rhythmic interval producing a soft crack, port side.

The body now laid overboard, torso flailing about in the wind and waves that reached at the crest, like a flag beating on a summit. Held together by what was left of flesh to bone, the arms and head repelled the forces of gravity and hung to their joins with finesse.

With a swagger he approached in the distance picking up pace. Loosened by the grip that held it moments ago, it hit the soft sand with a thump. Twenty was now a prey to nature but it would be fair to say that he would satisfy no appetite. Without a hitch, the man quested towards the wreckage at full throttle. At long last he thought to himself. Too long in fact that he had forgotten when Twenty-six had first arrived previously.

Flushed with the intensity that was hope he scurried on with fervour.

Excusing the sharp pricks and nips of broken shells and washed up weeds he made no attempts to slow his stride onwards. Brimmed to the cheeks with a smile and cackles he furthered with no heed of caution and head to the wind.

Dead or alive but preferable the latter. It was clear to him that this would be Twenty-seven and a tingle of hope for Twenty-eight or nine trailed.

Only once before did his dreams come true with an arrival of life and soul. Three was a companion he missed dearly. Although his stay was short, Three was a partner he could recall as if it were like he was here just yesterday. Unlike the unfortunates that found this shore in despair and death, Three came with thrill and excite, purposed with finding this lone ranger, which he did, unbeknownst to him.

But past were the days that Three gave gifts and now it was that of Twenty-seven to do the same if he were in luck. Though life as it were was not so forgiving on those that anchored here. He arrived with no time to spare but turned to a limber with a near glance. Long dead was Twenty-seven and no traces of Twenty-eight or so on were left to be found.

Although saddened by the fate of Twenty-seven and his boat, he did bare with him gifts. A new garment to add to his collection certainly changed the atmosphere. Especially because it was a style so different to the previous, but that was a given that came with time.

He undid the knotted rope that looped around the waist and yanked Twenty-seven from the edge. He hauled the body by the torso back to the safety of the sands. It resembled an eaten apple in the dirt, having been picked away as food.

Greyed from hood to shoes was the garb and accessories worn with distinct fashion, and at the chest bore an igsignia to most likely represent their loyalties.

The peircing of beaks left the clothing in ruins but nevertheless new in his eyes. He did away the dagger at its side along with the belt and plucked the shoes from the feet.

He stripped Twenty-seven most delicately so as to not tear the already torn until it was mere flesh, flashing at the hungry.

As barbaric as he was, this one could not theive a proper burial from those that made it to land. He dug with the assistance of a snapped log by the edges of a beach tree until a pit formed under. He towed Twenty-seven in with a heave and packed sand on top to level.

"May we meet again in one hundred years when you are of a better state." He mumbled as if they were prayers.

By this time the tides had calm and the sun peaked bright birds eye. He returned to the boat with reservation. It was not the first time a boat had arrived and many had, in better shapes than this before. He pat the timber skirts with a certain calm and ran his hand down to the stern. The low tides tended to the dry of his new shoes as he moved along.

Without a mast and sail to fly, sailing with only oars would prove a difficult voyage. He had attempted many times before but as the same with every other, he would always arrive at where he left in a much dire state.

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Stranded would be a generous description in his case. No help had ever been assured save for Three who had most undoubtedly came to regret his passion for searching him out.

Three had scoured for half his life through books and scrolls in the hopes that hidden clues would lead him to the One or simply One in texts too old to dissect completely, and so when it did, the consequences of his actions paid him swiftly.

His research had lead him to the Nomans sea deep beyond the southern borders. Having had sailed for weeks he came upon an island unmarked on his map or any map he could recall. Hearing the plights of a stranger stranded, Three found it to be his duty to grant him freedom from this island. As quick as he discovered, they left, together. Fogged by the discovery of a new island and the sentimental urges to aid, his thoughts did not seem to link the two, that this was the One. Deceiving as One was, Three would soon found himself in the depths.

Guided by the dominant stars in the evening and the all so trust worthy way-wisps during the day, Three put magic to the sails ensuring delays were impossible, but days and weeks passed before he came to grasp the conundrum that befell him and his passenger, always returning to shore, the same shore. It baffled him to say the least.

One knew all too well the dealings this invisible prison dealt. And secrets were held for they could prove fatal to the mind had Three known.

Escape was impossible. Endings that were unbecoming haunted those that found out and as such would encounter harrowing experiences so underserving.

The purpose of this island was specific, it harboured life of all but humans and the likes. Peoples or persons held to themselves a certain inkling deep in their hearts, one that granted them power over the lesser, magic. This prison was like no other, layered from the outside with seals and wards, it trapped and drained all magic from its inhabitants, until their hearts could pump no more.

As the weeks passed, Three grew with desperation and unease, he could feel his magic dwindling away without replenish, but like many of his questions, they came without answers.

One had valued Three's presence far to high to tell him so, but like all secrets, they tend to slip in the unlikeliest of situations. In that moment of enlightenment did Three burst with anger, frustration and sadness. His mind had split into two then four then eight, and at the height of his madness he dove overboard and into the eternal despair that was the crushing depths below.

Truly a tragedy, One thought back. With his focus returned on reality, he eyed the boat and pondered the age old question of whether or not to sail and attempt the benign. But what would he do with all this spare time if not attempt to muse himself with an escape when an opportunity presented itself.

He changed into the new garments completely forgetting all commitments he had to Thirteen, and returned to camp skipping all purposes of attending to the shore for something to eat.

He lashed rope fashioned from vine over his shoulder and picked out his dried meats saved for rainy days. Little of planning was required for this trip. He returned to the boat and proceeded to work his way with reassembling the mast with rope.

The afternoon was spent away before he finally had the sail up with patched dried leaves and vines of rope wrapped at its base where the breaking occurred. No time was wasted with toiling around as he pushed the vessel from the sands and set forth in the dark bristles of wind.

The waves peaked at their highest in the night but with every row of the oars the land looked thinner and flatter at his behind.

It was a great get away he thought to himself, pleased with the ease of sailing through the night. Optimism was a sure feeling to have but one that hurt the most when failures arose. He kept himself from over-enjoyment of changes in the routine and kept focused.

He was unchanged in the nature of when he would see land. A few more days and he would be back at home, sleeping on the moss in the evenings, but as it so happens none would be of true.

A week rolled by now with the rise of the sun, he laid in the very spot Twenty-seven had taken in a state of daze. Food had run out and water was low. He had taken to eating his daily catches, if any bit and drinking water through a device propped on this boat by the previous owner which had taken him some time to figure out. It looked as foreign as a new land to him and it spiked him with intrigue more than he cared to admit. A life changing invention he thought, and meaning every word, still curious as exactly how it worked.

He was half filled with excite and half filled with discomfort. It was the first time he had been out at sea without nature returning him and that could only mean he was out of the islands grasp or so that was the line of thought.

More weeks and months soon went by as he fell to the life of a desperate seaman. He laid flat and unmoving so as to conserve energy, while the boat moved with the waves. The mast had snapped again some weeks ago and blew away with the harsh gales leaving him with only his oars, but without strength there would be no rows.

Drifting about was all he could do under the blisters of the sun as the smell of sea water wafted his boat.

At the edges of the horizon, a glimmer of brown and grey shined unknowingly to the half dead man at sea. It was land, and one so different to the yellows of the island beaches, but yet he laid to the rockings of the boat.