Tamyr sat in his small room on the Corsair boat, his attention torn between re-reading one of the many book he had brought along with him for the journey, writing in a journal about the progress of the journey so far, and hoping that the angry yells out on the deck from the Corsairs weren't the final declarations of mutiny. He had already been threatened to be thrown overboard twice now, and he didn't think that he could persuade them again with the promise of untold riches that they would receive for delivering him to the island.
"I still believe," Tamyr scribed into his Journal, "that if we take passage 5, from 'Army of Earth,' Vol III, and cross-references it with Chapter 84, Entry 395, in 'The Restoration of Wind,' by the author Americ Landil, who also wrote such amazing works like 'Animals of Stone,' 'Murder of the North,' and 'Memory of the Tombs' (which I might say expertly defends the hypothesis that the "magical" ley lines of Helt, as recorded by Sage Winterfell, circa …., ((which took me a while to find, actually. I had to scour the library in the monastery, searching for the works of Uyr Uyrsib that referenced Uyr Uyrsib (((no relation, but from the minor sketches I have found, I swear are the same person, though they are divided through time and space by nearly several hundreds of years and full continents apart)))…"
Tamyr's hand slowly came to a stop as he mentally double-checked his resources and facts, scrambling from his bed to his backpack in the corner, pulling out pieces of parchment upon parchment upon parchment upon parchment, carefully aligning them on the floor, connecting the red pieces of string that spanned between pages torn from different books (they were his own copies, he swears ((though the monastery might have been relieved of it's copy prior to it coming into his possession))). The red strings created a complex and intricate web; each string leading to a vast array of others, all culminating onto a pin that had hastily been struck through a small island, a mere pinprick of land, southeast of Cabraithia. Tamyr traced his finger over one strand of the web, following from page to page, nodding to himself that he remembered correctly.
Tamyr returned to the bed and resumed writing, "I still believe that these two writings confirm my visions. The book is real and is in terrible trouble of being found. These visions She has given me have culminated in this expedition. I feel like Cogh, beginning his great voyage, and I too shall keep record of my actions upon this world. For I know that I have been chosen to join my brother monks, to lead them to these trials, where their awesome strength and courage, granted by Acadia herself, shall sunder all obstacles to return this once-lost object of absolute power to its rightful resting place. For what are monsters and fiends to a servant of Acadia? What can demons do but fall before my brothers? Death shall triumph."
He continued writing, filling pages with his theories, detailing each string the the web he had created, referencing books, and paintings, and poems, and legends, and vision, and magic. This was his ritual on the seas, his acts of meditation and self-alignment to this singular focus. It didn't matter that he had already filled 5 other large journals with nearly identical words. He knew his purpose, and would allow nothing to destroy that strength of will.
The angry shouting intensified once more that night, and fearing that the Corsairs might really turn the boat around this time, scrambled to calm their anger. "I promise, my nautical brethren, that once we stand before the Black Dragon, who has had unfathomable time to gather his wealth, will pay you for your troubles…"