This shall be the first of many entries chronicling my adventures in the continent of Africa, and my own personal journal as well. I, Henry Jenkins, have been hired to find a certain explorer whose party has gone missing during a scientific mission to find the true nature of the mountains dividing the continent, labeled “Mountains of the Moon”, likely by some superstitious mapmaker with a fondness for fairy tales. I have been given a vast amount of resources for this expedition by my employer, an organization that seems to want Doctor Thompson (said missing explorer) back no matter the cost. I know next to nothing about my employer, and I don’t have much of an urge to find out. As long as his word is as good as his coin, I don’t need to.
Joining me on this expedition is a rather odd fellow named Benjamin Carter. It seems he is also employed by the same mysterious patron as I (a subject he is not very keen on talking about, I’m afraid) to accompany me as a survival expert. Mr. Carter has a queer, rather odd feel about him. Sometimes I catch him watching me, staring at me when I look away and continuing until I make eye contact and he focuses elsewhere. I shall have to keep an eye on him, though it is likely just the dullness of his social etiquette brought upon from months in the wilderness alone.
I sometimes wonder why I’m going back to the dark continent. I had thought the previous adventure would be my last, the end of that chapter of my life. It would have been, had I anything to go back to. there is a hole in my life that I fear will never be filled, so I grit my teeth and soldier on.
I should end this depressing thought. there is no good in dwelling on the past, as my father always said. Fame, glory, and wealth lie in my future, waiting to be seized. I should get a good nights sleep, we sail off tomorrow.
Henry Jenkins steps off the small dinghy, posed like a heroic statue to inspire confidence in his men. He is tall, about 6’2”, dressed in a sharp explorer's outfit, complete with matching Pith helmet and shined boots. His face sports an impressive beard, mostly black with noticeable streaks of gray running through it, one of the few examples of his age. The only other telltale sign is the slightly wrinkled skin bordering his penetrating blue eyes. in his mouth he clutches an ivory pipe, a keepsake carved from the spoils of a previous expedition. His skin is tan for an Englishman, due to his habit of working shirtless above deck on the journey over. one spot on his left ring finger remains pale, a sharp reminder of previous tragedies. Slung over his shoulder is his double barrel shotgun, a treasured heirloom from his father. As his boots make a dull thud on the sandy shore, he reaches into his pocket and checks his watch before replacing it and frowning.
“I had thought we would arrive sooner.” he grumbles to no one in particular.
Benjamin Carter slips into Henry’s vision with an unsettling grace before replying. “If it wasn't for those storms, I would think we could have arrived a week ago...” He continues to talk, mumbling faster and faster. Henry begins walking towards the village, disinterested in his companions inane attention to detail. As he walks, Henry quickly shifts the conversation. “Well, we arrived too late to start out today. Lets set up camp here for the night.”