We're starting over. Everyone's fired. Get off my ship.
Only Guy Fancophone, Magellan Smythe--who I think is still alive; I could be wrong; I must re-read this blasted electro-log--and Argumentus Constantine, even though he is a garlic-smelling windbag.
I must re-do this adventure, as we have never left port and the ship is rotting away. The hull is, I'm told, rife with screworms and banshees. I also cannot find nearly any of my possessions. This happened to me once in the south of Araby. I had angered a local prince by telling him, inadvertantly of course, that he looked like a waterfowl and that his mother was a whore. He took offense and sent a hashshashin to force me to join the choir invisible, as it were. He slipped a potion in my tankard of grog. When I came to, all of my things were gone and I was buried to the cravat in the middle of a waste-land. So this is nothing new.
I'll write more once I think of what it is precisely that that will be.