The Great Fog of Despair Spring 812

Almost the entirety of Confederation Bay, an area of at least 200 miles across, is covered with a magically summoned Effluvium of Despair. The subtle smell of sulphur and brimstone indicates a possibly demonic origin. In this fog, no wind blows, and the swell rises and falls listlessly. With visibility reduced to a hundred yards or less, and neither wind, sun, nor stars to serve as a guide, there is little hope for the mundane sailor to row or drift clear of the fogbank once it rises. All who breathe the vapours must fight the magic or become overwhelmed with Despair and Lassitude, prizing their own life and noble purposes no higher than that of a speck of sea-tossed foam. The only blessing this provides is the indifference to the raging hunger and thirst that eventually must seize all men who are indefinitely becalmed out of sight of land or salvation. Once caught in this miasma, there is no way out; it is best to slit the throats of your companions while they peacefully sleep to spare them further suffering, then drink yourself into a stupor, and finally slip overboard and be drawn down to a watery grave when you cannot struggle. An alternative plan for those who rightfully fear and loathe water is to set fire to the ship deep within its holds, and have it burn to the waterline, taking all its souls directly to their deserving judgement. Tonight I will attempt this method of escape; any report of its success must be written by others.