From the Journal of Beckett Hafgufa:
If this is victory, I'd hate to see defeat.
I'm alive. More than many can say. That's something. Drunk, too. Drunk as hell. It numbs everything-drowns out the smoke and sand and heat.
I need that numbness.
Florivet's a limping wreck. We had to jettison most our remaining ammo to prevent a fire, and to keep us afloat. The balloon's more patches than canvas, and we're running at half-throttle to give the two remaining engines a break. Keiran and Rorin have done their best-we'll make it port, but every time the hull creaks, I start preparing to meet my maker. And the hull creaks a lot. I don't know how they stay sane. Every time I think I'm running ragged, I look at them.
Would you believe we're the lucky ones?
Lost the mercenary captain I was with. Ship named after a pastry, but they fought like devils. Maddest bastard I've flown with, and I've flown with a lot of mad bastards. His idea of strategy was to charge into the enemies teeth, and knock out their Baron before they could form a defense. I was cursing him to hell and back, even as I followed him into the lion's den.
We did it, though. We killed their Baron. Blasted his ship clean out of the sky.
Battle went worse for us after that. Most of the mercenaries died, and we lost a good chunk of the fleet. Our merchant ships were soft targets-went up like fireworks the moment they got hit. The Baron might had died quick, but the Maruaders or Menace-whatever they were-was every bit as good as I was afraid of. In the end, I called a retreat-burned our engines out with kerosene and 'shin, and got the limping remains of our fleet of there.
So. Victory. How about it?
I hope the Pact bloody appreciates what's left of their shipment.
I'm going to go find more moonshine.
Captain Beckett Hafgufa.
