Captain’s Log, April Third, Ten billion, Thirty Five Million, Two Hundred and Thirty Six Thousand, Four Hundred and thirty two Anno Gatori.

I’m becoming concerned about the morale of the crew again. We haven’t seen land for three weeks and the sport here in the outer reaches of the Aeem Sea is scarce at best. The Changeling and The Bad Example have had another lover’s quarrel and she took her leave of us in her biplane today. I can only hope that she has the good sense to return before her fuel runs out this time, I’m growing ever so weary with having to hoist her plane back onto the deck of the ship after an emergency landing on the water.

The Changeling is in a black mood, which bodes ill for us all. Our sole saving grace is that we’ve learned since welcoming it onboard in which of it’s forms it is best left alone in. It took the lives of eight sailors to learn that lesson, Gator devour their souls. It prowls the deck in the form of the Child of the Black Arts as we’ve come to call it. A strange, pubescent female by the looks of it with several arcane symbols etched into it’s skin and what I can only guess is ceremonial jewelery jutting from its face in unwholesome places. The Apostate has taken to calling it Starbuck after some maritime novel or other.

We thought to escape its wrath by giving it a wide berth, but that has seemed to only aggravate it. Earlier today it singled out one of the sailors and punched him; after which he exploded. Those present at the time relayed to me that it then suggested to them that they “Obey the fist,” which led to murmurings of The Changeling dabbling in some blasphemous activity or other. I choose to believe for the time being that it is not an affront to The Gator, but rather a request to respect The Changeling’s physical prowess.

I’ve put it out of my mind for the time being as The Changeling seems to have locked itself into it’s quarters listening to music by someone with exceedingly long nails, most likely good traditional Asiatic music. I once met one of those gentlemen who cultivate long nails to play a curious string instrument. Unfortunately I was required to blow clear day light through the chap for attempting to remove my trachea with said nails. I dare say it was in poor taste for him to have on display the skinned and marinated bodies of my distant genetic relatives in his shop, it quite rightly ruffled my feathers, to use a turn of phrase.

Captain’s Log, April Fifth, Ten billion, Thirty Five Million, Two Hundred and Thirty Six Thousand, Four Hundred and thirty two Anno Gatori.

I’ve sadly developed a worrying case of ambivalence. My mother was always quite insistent that ambivalence is the surest path to moral decay, but she never did stray far from the nest. Irregardless, The Changeling is in a more becoming form, the dapper one who always wears a smart pinstripe suit with the most pedestrian shoes imaginable. A grotesque white affair with the laces hardly if ever done up. To make matters worse, every time I look up to fetch more ink for my quill, all I see is the absurd geometric pattern cut into the soles of them, as The Changeling has seen fit to rest its feet there as it endeavors to educate me on what it refers to as the fine art of brewing coffee, even as I record this very log.
I would very much like that posterity know that the unbecoming ink blots on this particular entry are a consequence of The Changeling shifting it’s weight and kicking over the inkwell as it explains that it is a neophyte’s mistake to assume that all there is to coffee brewing is the grind. If I am to believe The Changeling, which does in fact make a cup of coffee that some- in hushed whispers so as not to offend the chaplain’s ears- say it nourishes the soul in addition to the body, then the grind is but one of four fundamentals of the process.

As my wizened old uncle would say, “So long as the bugger I should take aim at is struck and does not rise again, I see no reason to concern one’s self with the Science of how one’s rifle fires.” He was somewhat uncouth, my uncle.

At last I am relieved from The Changeling’s ramblings by The Apostate. It seems land has been sighted, and thus I shall end this entry to inspect his claim.

Captain’s Log, April Six, Ten billion, Thirty Five Million, Two Hundred and Thirty Six Thousand, Four Hundred and thirty two Anno Gatori.

Land was indeed sighted, a rather unremarkable island if I may say so. As with all things however, appearances are often deceiving. The Bad Example has but just rejoined us, although under far less than happy circumstances. The information at present suggests that she flew over the island and was then pursued back to us by some form of demonic flying reptile with the most horrendous of mating calls. I venture that they are mating calls based upon the evidence of what they appear to be attempting to do to The Bad Example’s biplane. It’s a rather fine aircraft, but I shan’t say that I am driven to mate with it. Rather,

Blast it, it seems as though on her last pass over the ship, the wing of her plane cruelly smote the main mast and it topples into the sea. I shall have to leave the considerable comfort of my cabin as I write this journal, thus I must make all necessary apologies for any lapse in penmanship as I shall have to join the fray to beat back these avaricious beasts.

I’ve now been forced to draw my pistol and fire upon them to provide The Green Man with sufficient air support to engage the beasts properly, thus I must make all apologies for any powder stains found upon this record. I do endeavor as much as possible to keep my records as unblemished as possible, which is a skill that I lament is not taught in any of the finest naval academies of the land, but one that must be learned through cruel experience.

The blasted reptiles have hit upon a new course of action as the plane has once again been forced into the sea. Their course of action, which I vigorously oppose, appears to be devouring my crew now that their hopes of finding a mate have been dashed. Thus I am forced to draw not only my pistol, but my sword as well. Unfortunately that means that this entry must be curtailed to avoid the spilling of the blood of these wretched creatures upon the record of my journeys. It has been my experience that blood of any sort causes the pages to stick together maddeningly, thus rendering the record useless to the eyes of man.