I’m writin’ this in a soggy doorway in Bogsbridge. Not where I thought I was goin’ to be just two hours back.
Someone must’a put a newt in Gozreh the Stormlord’s ale, ‘cause ’ee’s mad tonight. The storm came up out o’ nowhere, and must’ve got up to th’ sixth or seventh verse in under an hour. There were lightnin’ too, like I’ve not seen this far from the Eye in many a year. Great cracklin’ gouts o’ the stuff, crashin’ down wi’ the weight o’ Fishguts’ cleaver on one o’ them chickens. Rosie was up there in the crow’s nest when a bolt comes down an’ splits the mast clean in twain, an’ Rosie with it. There’s another of this merry crew left to the fishes.
We couldn’t make it round Motaku in this state, so cap’n grabs the wheel and tries to take us into Bogsbridge. It’s a famously poor ‘arbour, and it were already crammed wi’ other vessels made the same decision we did. It didn’t look like there was nowhere for the Mistress to moor, but cap’n caught a rip an’ a sailful o’ the storm’s breath, and just threaded a needle between the other ships. We come to in the harbour, mostly sheltered by the ridgeline, and went ashore in the longboats o’ the local people, Besmara bless ’em.
‘Course, the town’s full o’ sea dogs lokin’ for a place to kip – only smilin’ faces I seen all night were the innkeeps. Bumper day in Bogsbridge fer them lot. Best I could manage is this doorway, watchin’ the rain comin’ down and the lightnin’ revealin’ the wrecks that’re left in the harbour.
I ‘ope Bert’s got some extra quartermaster’s supplies on board, ‘cause it’s goin’ to take a bucketload o’ elbow-grease to get that ship seaworthy again.