The intrepid, some would say mad, explorer Arthur Christianson ventured alone into the Antarctic wastes, convinced that he had found Atlantis and the secret of all human civilization. His badly damaged campsite was discovered two years later, though his body was never recovered. Below is the contents of his final journal entry, retrieved from the site: -- Deathshead419
[AN: I try not to have real people in these stories, and there is a person by that name in Linkedin, so the name is now Arthur Christiens. I trust you forgive]
Day 23 of the Antarctic journey, The mountains are in sight. I am once again thankful for the equipment purchased from the Inuit tribes of northern Canada. They have had untold centuries to have refined clothing best suited to enduring the chill. I have learned well from their primitive wisdom.
I grow weary of salt pork and dried seaweed, but they are rations that will last. Tomorrow, I sally forth towards the mountains. Proof of the hollow Earth is within my reach!
Day 31 of the Antarctic journey. Searches of the foothills prove fruitless, so far. Killed some of the native birds for dietary variety. I find the meat gamey, oily, and tasting vaguely of fish.
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