The Island of the Turtle

How do you know when the very fabric of reality itself is breaking down? How can you possibly begin to detect it?

Lamont circled the turtle ship with a vague sense of unease. How did this thing get here, and why is it being shown to us? He watched as Elizabeth and Pierre followed the strange lizardman priest up the mound of earth that cradled the front half of the ship. As they clambered up it with enthusiasm, Lamont kept his distance, and instead chose to explore the area around the ship. There were the torches, of course, set up at regular intervals in order to illuminate the ship at night. He wondered if Theophile lit them every night, and for how long he'd been doing it. He said he'd been at it for the last 40 years, but could the lizardman be trusted?

For that matter, why hasn't anyone made more of an issue of meeting a lizardman?

Lamont shook his head and pinched his nose with his fingers. This whole thing was giving him a headache. He continued circumnavigating the mound, stepping over fallen logs and ducking under moss-covered creepers that hung between trees like spiderwebs. This whole island gave him the heebie-jeebies, and he hoped they wouldn't be here long. There were rather large mosquitoes.

"Why did you bring us here?" Pierre was climbing onto the ship behind Elizabeth. Theophile was following behind.

"It has been foretold! The line of the priests and priestesses who came before me is long! Your coming has been the subject of much hope and speculation!"

"Hope for what?" said Elizabeth, standing awkwardly on the ship's listing deck.

"Hope to save the world," Theophile hissed conspiratorially.