Journal Entry of Adrian Douglas Porter

Plymouth, Devon, England - August 12th, 1902

Back in Plymouth, stepping into the old house felt heavier this time around, knowing Uncle Atticus was gone. He was always my favorite uncle, the one who got me hooked on tales of the unknown, before he lost his goddamn mind to the icy clutches of Antarctica. 7 years, all alone in that wretched place, that lengthy isolation would be enough to drive anyone mad, but alas, I know something else must have altered my uncle's mind.

His death brought me back home, not just to pay my respects but to find closure, maybe understand what happened to him out there in the endless ice. Underneath the worn rug of his study, a trapdoor I'd never known about led me to a hidden room, a place that felt like stepping into a freezer, where every breath hung in the air. The place was like a snapshot of Atticus's mind after he came back—chaotic, filled with piles of notes and a painting that struck you more like a punch than art. It was a view of icebergs painted with a kind of red you'd hope never to see in real life, like blood frozen into the snow. Wading through the mess of his last years, trying to piece together his obsession, I found a phrase scribbled on a piece of paper that hit me hard: "The ice bleeds truth." This cryptic phrase ignites a fire in my soul, a burning need to uncover the reality that beckoned Atticus towards his doom.

Thus, I am drawn inexorably to the frozen enigma of the Antarctic. With resolve steeling my heart, I will forge a crew worthy of the odyssey that awaits. We shall cast our gaze into the abyss that once ensnared my uncle, and in our unity, dare to grasp the truths that lie buried beneath the ice.

But who would dare venture to the frozen hellscape? I have a few people in mind but I'll need the very best out there, experienced specialists beyond the shores of my homeland.

In this cold, solemn chamber, with determination etched into every word I write, I commit to the journey ahead. For the sake of Atticus, for the pursuit of the truth, and for the answers that the Antarctic holds in its icy, crimson grip.

Adrian Douglas Porter