My name was Sir Winterbean Calligraphy. I lived in a walrus shell, once upon a time. There I rested, by night and by day, for a hundred dozen years. I slept a dreamless sort of sleep, surrounded by the ghosts of a thousand jellybeans. I was not to be woken except at the dawn of the new age, the age of the Itinerant Wombat.
That age never came.
Instead, I was awoken by the last of the alpacas, swimming placidly through the ocean, as is their wont. Its clawed toe kicked open the shell and the sea came pouring in. It was not a pleasant wake to awaken, especially when one was expecting a horde of wombats in greeting. Alas, that was never to be. I would later learn that the wombats had departed the world for greener pastures and bluer trees. They didn’t even leave a note to mark their departure.
So here I am, last of the Calligraphy Knights. I have survived these last few days on the flesh of the last ocean alpaca in the world. A noble sacrifice on its part, if perhaps lacking in foresight. I do not foresee rescue from this accursed spot of land before the oceans turn to boiling again.
When the oceans boil, the rocs will come. And my shattered walrus shell could not protect me any longer.