----500 years before current timeline ----

The rickety boat screeched ominously as another wave crashed against its ancient hull. Clewis Vascaria gripped the railing, his brown knuckles ashy-white but his red eyes alight with excitement.

He turned to his comrade, Lark Vasca, who was hunched over a bucket, looking decidedly less enthused about their maritime adventure.

"Come now, my friend," Clewis said, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. "Surely the prominent Lark Vasca isn't defeated by a bit of choppy water?"

Lark raised his head, nailing Clewis with a glare that could rip paint off walls. "Fuck off, Clewis," he snarled, swabbing his mouth with the back of his hand.

"This isn't a 'bit of choppy water.'" He mimicked Clewis' new fake accent he was using as of late. "It's a fuckin' storm sent by the gods to punish me for knowing you."

Clewis chortled, the sound carrying over the howling wind. "Such poetry! If only you'd put such passion into your paintings, we might not be in this predicament."

A short detonation of wind made it nearly impossible to hear what the man said.

Lark's own response was cut short by another bout of nausea, as he vomited over the side of the boat, Clewis's smile faded slightly. He patted his friend's back awkwardly, unused to showing genuine concern.

"We'll reach calmer waters soon," he said, his tone much softer. "And then, my friend, our fortunes will change. Izmar awaits, with all its untold riches and adventures." The smile returned, full force to his face.

Lark straightened up, wiping his mouth on his sleeve this time. "If we don't sink to the bottom of the ocean first," he muttered, at least returning his friend's smile.

The two men made an odd pair. Clewis, with his sharp features and perpetual smirk, exuded an air of confidence that bordered on arrogance. His clothes, though worn, were of fine make, hinting at a past of some affluence but more telling of his thieving ways.

Lark, on the other hand, was more soft-featured and a constant scowl braced itself against the elements of life from his face. His rough-spun shirt and patched trousers spoke of a life of true struggle.

As another wave rocked the boat, Clewis stumbled slightly. He caught himself on the mast, chuckling at his own clumsiness. "You know, Lark," he said, "I've been thinking about my next book."

Lark groaned. "Not another one of your 'get rich quick' schemes...The last 'Novella' was the reason we were charged with treason--"

"Tried but not convicted my friend, tried but not convicted!"

Clewis insisted, his eyes blazing.

"But this one's different,"

"Picture this: 'The Treacherous Journey; Izmar: A Tale of Bravery and Discovery.' We'll be the heroic explorers, braving unknown waters to bring knowledge of a new land to our people during a time of instability!" Clewis was near screaming, breathing heavily into Lark's ear.

"And who, the hell, would read an autobiography about two runaway ex-slaves? " Lark questioned, his tone dripping with mockery.

He would have laughed if it was impossible at the moment, Lark was fighting for his life to not tumble overboard more than he wanted to insult his dear friend.

Clewis waved his hand dismissively. "Everyone, of course! People love tales of adventure, hot steamy sex, and substance! And once we've actually been to Izmar, we'll have all the details we need to make it believable."

Lark snorted. "Right. Because your last book was such a roaring success...wait--If its a documentary; how the fuck is there gonna be steamy sex?"

He raised an eyebrow, scared at his friend's implication.

Clewis's smile stuttered for a moment.

His previous masterpiece, "Inside The Palms of Harlnoldious," had been a spectacular failure. Not a single copy had sold besides to the chief minister of propaganda and hate speech, and they'd been laughed out of every publishing house in the city as much as tortured for the words written against the current king.

"That was merely a setback," Clewis declared, recovering quickly.

"This time will be different. We'll have real experiences to draw from. Your illustrations will bring the wonders of Izmar to life, and my words will captivate the masses--"

"Or; WE DIE!" Clewis chuckled, holding himself up with a rope as the captain of the small vessel screamed something from the head of the ship.

Lark turned away, focusing on the horizon.

"We are going to," he murmured.

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Clewis chose to overlook the jab. He'd long since grown accustomed to Lark's barbed disposition. Instead, he pulled out a worn notebook from his faded coat pocket and began scribbling furiously.

"Day 17 of our perilous voyage," he mumbled as he wrote. "The seas rage against us, but our spirits remain intact--NO! INFALLIBLE. In the strained distance, we spot a behemoth of the deep, its massive form breaching the waves as the dashing Lark..."

"What behemoth?" Lark interrupted. "There's nothing out there but water and more bloody water--Why are you calling me dashing too; I don't want any part of your weird fiction."

Clewis looked up, annoyed at the interruption. "It's called creative license, my dear Lark. No one wants to read about men bobbing helplessly on a placid sea."

"No one wants to read your books at all, you made them up also" Lark grumbled.

The boat lurched suddenly, sending both men stumbling.

Clewis's precious notebook went flying, landing in a puddle of seawater on the deck. He lunged for it with all his might, managing to snatch it up before the waves could claim it entirely.

"Accursed ocean," he swore, frantically trying to dry the pages. "Look at this, Lark. Weeks of work, ruined! How do you expect me to work with you whining so much?!"

Lark peered over his shoulder at the smeared ink.

"Looks about the same to me; Bullshit." he said with a shrug.

Clewis shot him a glare. "Your criticism is, as always, overwhelmingly mid-tier."

As night fell, the storm showed no signs of abating. Clewis and Lark huddled in the small cabin of the ship, a glittering lantern casting flickering shadows on the walls. Lark was hunched over a sketchpad, his charcoal moving in quick, angry strokes across the paper.

Clewis slanted over, curious. "What are you drawing?"

Lark grunted, shifting to block Clewis's view. "None of fuckin' your business."

"Come now," Clewis cajoled. "We're partners in this venture. Surely you can share your artistic process with me?"

With a heavy sigh, Lark turned the sketchpad around.

The page was filled with dark, twisted forms -- monstrous creatures with gaping maws and tentacles reaching out of a turbulent abyss of the ocean.

Clewis recoiled, pulling his nose upward. "That's... certainly evocative," he said, trying to hide his distress. "But perhaps something a bit more... uplifting might sell better?"

Lark slammed the sketchpad shut. "I don't draw to sell, Clewis. I draw what I see...and what I see is what the world really is--" A gleam entered his crimson eyes as they tightened, his red dreadlocks swaying slightly with the boat.

"And you see... that?" Clewis asked, gesturing at the now-closed sketchpad with an unlit cigarette.

"I see the world for what it is," Lark replied gruffly. "Dark, dangerous, and uncaring. Not some fantasy land where everything works out for the best."

Clewis was quiet for a moment, examining his friend as he ignited the intoxicant.

Despite their years of partnership, there were times when Lark remained an enigma to him. "Is that why your paintings never sell?" he asked finally.

"Because they're too... honest?" The word did not sit well with either man.

Lark's eyes sparked dangerously. "My paintings don't sell because people are idiots who'd rather look at pretty pale portraits than face the blackened truth."

Clewis held up his hands in a placating gesture. "I meant no offense, my friend. I simply wonder if perhaps a small compromise might--"

"I don't compromise," Lark interrupted. "Not in my art, not in my life. You're the one always chasing the next scheme, the next bestseller. How's that working out for you? You got run out of town just like me."

The words stung, more than Clewis cared to admit.

He turned away, staring out the small porthole at the raging storm beyond. "We'll reach Izmar soon, the captain said so earlier,"

"And then everything will change." he voiced quietly.

Lark snorted. "You keep saying that. But what if Izmar is just like everywhere else? What if it's just another disappointment?"

Clewis whirled around, his cigarette spraying ash toward Lark.

"It won't be," he said, fiercely taking a pull of the nicotine. "I won't let it be. We've come too far, risked too much. Izmar is our chance, Lark. Our chance to be more than a failed artist or a masterful scribe. To build something lasting, something meaningful."

Lark studied him for a long moment. "And if it's not? If Izmar turns out to be nothing but a shithole?"

Clewis's smile returned, sharp and determined. "Then we'll make it real. We'll create our own Izmar, piece by piece, word by word, brush stroke by brush stroke. Between your talent and my vision, we'll craft a legend that will outlive us both."

Lark shook his head, but Clewis caught the faintest hint of a smile twitching at his lips. "You're insane, you know that?"

"Perhaps," Clewis agreed. "But it's a madness that will change the world. You'll see, my friend. Izmar is just the beginning."

As if in response to his words, the boat gave a mighty lurch. Both men were thrown to the floor as the storm reached a fever pitch outside. In the chaos, Lark's sketchpad flew open, its pages scattering across the cabin floor.

Clewis found himself face to face with one of Lark's monstrous creations, its inky tentacles seeming to reach for him in the flickering lantern light.

Clewis found his thoughts drifting back to the land they'd left behind as the depraved image stared into his soul.

The Old World, dominated by the vast plains of the Garuno Empire, had once seemed as immutable as the stars. But now, like a rotting fruit, it was collapsing from within. The colorist caste system that had kept the imperial machine running for centuries was crumbling, its gears grinding to a halt as the oppressed masses rose up against their pale-skinned overlords.

The royal family's grip on power had weakened, forcing them to officially free the slaves in a desperate bid to maintain control; but the gesture came too late.

The tension in the air was palpable, thick enough to choke on. Ex-slaves like Clewis and Lark found themselves caught in a precarious limbo--no longer property, but far from free. Work was scarce, and those with darker skin still found themselves hunted, old prejudices dying hard.

It was this chaos that had driven them to seek out Izmar, the fabled new continent. Rumors spoke of a land of startling diversity: lush southern jungles teeming with life, vast northern steppes stretching to frigid tundra, eastern plains as far as the eye could see, and forbidding deserts ringed by towering mountains.

The realm's explorers had only scratched the surface of this new world, and already it had become a dumping ground for those the Old World wanted to forget.

Exiles, criminals, and ex-slaves were shipped off to Izmar in droves, a convenient way to rid the empire of its "undesirables" without shedding blood. For Clewis and Lark, it represented something else entirely-- a chance at a new beginning, free from the shackles of their past.

For a moment, a trace of doubt crossed Clewis's face. Though Come hell or high water, he would see this journey through. Izmar awaited, and with it, the promise of glory, riches, and a legacy that would echo through the ages.

As the storm raged on, Clewis and Lark clung to the promise of Izmar, each in their own way. One driven by ambition and dreams of greatness, the other by a grim determination to face whatever lay ahead. Together, they would forge a path into the unknown, for better or for worse.