Captain's log of the HMS Sunday Game Night

From: Nathan
To: Game Friends

Game Friends,

Three days we’ve malingered here, becalmed by cruel fates. The last bit of luck was taking on fresh water and limes at—hold!—is that a sail I spy on the horizon? Quick, Trevor, up to the crow’s nest! What colors do they fly?

—green, red, black, yellow, and blue? It can’t be! The dread ship Carcassonne! Pray she has not seen us lest we all be doomed. But no—how quick she approaches. Blast this wind! We’re in for it now, lads, make ready for combat!

See now— though we be becalmed, the sails of the Carcassonne swell with a favorable wind— and through my spyglass I see that she is crewed by no living men. The captain wears the clothing of a man, yet beneath his tricorn hat I see only a flat green surface. His arms like green nubs thrust a cutlass in the air, inciting the crew to make haste for us, their prey.

. . .

I write now for those who may read this tale later. The strange crew of the Carcassonne boarded and quickly subdued my men—their bodies shrugged off both sword’s blade and musket’s shot. I was brought before the captain, and as I looked into that featureless visage, he spoke this message:

S̘̰̳̉̓̊û͈̖̙̬̣̉̍ͮ̉́͋̒ͅn̻̻̣̭̖̲̥ͤd̖͔̝͈̆̋͆̏̈́͂̚ͅȧ̳̝̪͚̝̟͖ͅy̼̥̞̮̮̪̦ͤ͆ͭͭ ̲͂̄̆ͬ͑̅̅G͓͔͓̓̄͑ͧͭͮͣ̄̚a̹͚̠̎̀m͕̜͕͇͍̫̏̒̊e̝̮̤ͨ̃̂ͧ̚ ̜̖̤̪ͯͤN͚͎̠̝̤̿̔ͦ̃̓͒ͣi̺̙͊̎̍͂̂ͮͤ̋ͤg͇̱̳͎͗̾̑ͣͥ̋h̻͙̤̳̤ͦͣ̉t̼̤̤̤̺̹͉̥̍̓̏͑̒ͫͨͅ.̻̬̭̰̲̍̈̇ ͍̩̟̺̃̅͋5̤͔̱̻̹̟̥͙̎̔p̪̭̪ͦ̄͒m̩̟̞̠̪̱ͭ̉ͭ͐ͫͫͧ.̯̪̯͚̦̬͙ͦ̃͛̎͒̅̉̿ͅ ̟̣̼̥̦͚ͭ̋͒͆Ṇ͉̀̑a͖̗͈̼̥̼ͧͦͤͣt̹͓̣̜̫̖͉̬̳̊̿ͭh͎̲̹̪̪̻ͯͩ̂͂͗ͅa̗͔͈͔̹̓̒ṉ͚̦̬̥̥͔̱̠͂̐'͚͙̈̒̏̐̎͒ͬs͔͎͊͗ͭ͋ ̺̉̔ͣ̽ͮͤ̚a̪̪̙̫͓̫ͭ͊̊̿ͅp͉̠͍͆̋̇ͅa̺͓̗̳͖ͣ͆͑̚ͅr͔͈͈̖̟̣̉̒̒ͭ̓̚ẗ̲͌ͅṃ͇̤̄ͨ̓̍̽̉e͉͉̎ͣ̇͆ͭn̘̞̭ͯͪ͆ͮ̾̾̑̽̓t͍̹͎̟͙͑ͤ̓͑.̺̭̗͐̆

Thereafter, the strange not-men returned to their ship and left us as they found us. I know not what this means, but I hope that future generations will be able to decipher this dread prophecy.

Nathan