A dull pencil is greater than the sharpest memory. - an English proverb
Aethon opened his eyes and groaned. “Where am I?” he muttered to himself. He pushed himself off the ground, running a hand through his dark, brown hair. Aethon saw the dingy he had traveled here (wherever here was) in. He heard people gasp.
“He is alive!” Aethon heard a woman cry.
“Of course I’m alive,” he said thickly. “Where am I?”
He peered around. Surrounding him was a small village of simple, wooden huts. The people, (there were twenty or so- not too many), were wearing plain wool clothing that smelled like seaweed and sheep. He saw an old man wearing a dark brown cloak hobble over to him. The old man had a long white beard, no hair, and crooked teeth.
“You, you are on the island of Lemuria! The Cursed Island of Poseidon, the Sinking Island!” said the hobbling old man, wheezing. “I am Areoles, the medicine man; father of Aridides. And who are you?” Aethon opened his mouth, and then shut it.
"Now, don’t be shy and tell us your name! It’s not like a god has cursed you.” Areoles paused. “Are you cursed by a god?”
“No…” said Aethon slowly. Could he trust these people? This island was cursed by Poseidon, but since he was cursed by Poseidon too, what harm would it do to stay here a bit?
“They call me Aethon,” he told Areoles.