[The Bloody Bay Fleet]

"DAMN!" The Admiral roared, staring at the broken and twisted mass of wood, metal, and flesh. "Damn and burn! Bosun! Lord-Captains! To me!" The Admiral stalked back into his cabin, his black cape flowing behind him. The eye in his chest plate was rolling and spinning in what was always assumed to be an angry manner, but now... now the anger was rolling off the tall, pale elf in thunderous waves. The other ships of the Lord-Captains, thankfully spared from the initial attack, gathered around the larger Chaser once more, lashing themselves together so that the ships could still sail. Admittedly, the council would be slower than the rest of the regatta, but as the Bosun blew his whistle, and it was echoed through the other ships, and songs-more mournful now-were sung, one could get the sense that such things made the Fleet only wish to sail faster home.

 In the cabin of the flagship, the Admiral slammed his fist against the grand map table. "MacDonnaugh. You know our numbers. How many?" The Bosun looked calm, almost reversing their roles of stoic and impassioned. "By my count, we have lost eight Crown ships, five Songbirds and three galleys, that is a total loss of three-hundred-and-eighty men." There was a soft rumble from the gathered captains. While it was not large number by any means in comparison to the armies and navies, it was still a large fraction of men lost to seas.

 "Damn and burn," Captain Mackay said, making a small, reverent gesture of prayer. The gesture and sentiment was echoed by the rest of the group in the cabin. The Admiral shook his head. “They will be mourned, and their memories toasted once we arrive at the Seat. Do we know how long it will take us to reach home?”

 “At least one more full week of sailing, Admiral,” the Bosun said, tracing their path on the mapp, brushing wooden markers that fell when the Admiral struck it. “But we should be able to make it there, I hope. I doubt they were expecting such a response to one of those great serpents, and it did its task.” The Bosun’s voice was calm and sorrowful, but his eyes looked glazed. There was a remarkable ability that MacDonnaugh had, to separate himself from the emotions he felt and simply do his task.

 “Very well then,” The Admiral said. “We continue to sail. The regent was protected, so our job was done well as well.” His eyes burned with the eldritch flame. “Alert the lord regent that we will no longer be anchoring at night, and that we intend to see him to our home and beyond as swiftly as possible. Be honest should he inquire about our losses, he has a right to this knowledge.”


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DAYS LATER:
 The Bosun is sitting across from the regent, smiling… smugly? The expression is certainly a smile, possibly pleased, but it is definitely not a wholly benign expression. The way that Parcival held and looked at his cards, the Regent may begin to think his chances were slim. There was a commotion outside the cabin window, a large albatross rapped its beak against the window, and the Bosun looked over. Turning back to the cards and the deck before him, the Bosun lays down his hand, a small arrangement of nothing in particular, “You’ve crippled me, my lord,” the Bosun said, “excuse me, I believe our scouts have made their report.” He smiles easily, but there was still a tinge of grief and anger to his posture. As he opened the window and received the albatross, there was a formality to it. He spoke strange words to the bird, and then he retrieved the roll of parchment, unfurling it, and reading it.

 As he read, his face darkened once more, and he began to read aloud, “Fort Line has been taken by a false house of nobility. Wretched men dig trench from Fort to sea. Winged men lacking faces. Silk-clothed dancing death. Likely not to survive. Eight nightscales likely lost. Not surrendering. Likely last message from this scribe. Drink deep, Bosun. And Drink well. Bring to heel. Threats from air at night. Not sure at day. Good- it ends there.” 

The Bosun sighs, and speaks softly to the albatross, releasing it from his grasp. He moves back to the table, stiffer now, and more mechanical. “Forgive me, Lord Regent, but… I don’t think I wish to play another round with you. You may drink with me if you so wish.”