Krrsh’s Personal Triumph Chronicle Vol. 12
“The Conquest of Five Ships, a Pirate Queen, and My Own Bit of Justice”
216–236 1105, by Krrsh the Indispensable, the Bold, the Radiantly Magnificent
Friends, foes, listeners, and envious lesser crewmates-
What a week! What a feast of vengeance, honour, tactical brilliance, and strategic restraint (on my part) it has been. Let the record show that I, Krrsh, descendant of navigators and scoundrels, did orchestrate a masterclass in urban tailing, precision sedation, and humble dignity in the face of total triumph.
We begin aboard The Skull, where the crew beheld the fleeing shadow of Leff Roister, former crewmate, mocker of Vargr, and purveyor of backhanded insults. Naturally, they called upon me. Did I swoop in from the sky? No. That would be showy. Instead, I unleashed Volodymyr, my stealth operative, who administered a perfectly calibrated dose of sleepy-stabby juice. Phoebe and Ilya, my loyal enforcers, collected the unconscious husk like seasoned kidnappers in a romantic holo-drama. The crowd was probably mesmerised.
Meanwhile, the rest of the crew dared to enter the Mercifuge, a shiup that once flew alongside my own. Deanna, impersonating Miria, fooled the door, and then Eric neutralised Jon “No Vest, No Sense” Canning with a stunner shot so elegant it made my fur stand on end. Truly, I have trained them well, probably through osmosis.
Now: ships. We have five. Five!
We’ve become a fleet. A syndicate. A naval phenomenon.
And who among us predicted it? That’s right-me. Frequently. Loudly.
But back to business. Our fleet flew for Palindrome, and I made a single request: Spare Arnara Rrax. Yes, yes, I, the bloodthirsty icon of revenge, requested mercy. She once helped me keep the Misery’s Company flying, and I owed her. Honour matters. Even to rogues as strikingly handsome as myself.
Sharyl trained the Vespexers like some kind of fur-covered god of war, while I stayed in the shadows, quietly emanating inspiration.
And then-oh then-we struck. The So Much for Subtlety obliterated Redthane’s prefab shelter with one glorious volley. Pieces of pirate raining down like confetti at a wedding. The marines breached the remaining module, and the air? Whoosh: gone. Helmets? Too late. Resistance? Nonexistent. Victory? Ours. And what a spicy one.
Redthane tried to talk. Oh, he talked. “Darokyn’s a spy!” he said. “Let me join you!” he said. “My modules are shiny!” he said. We nodded politely and then shot him full of holes. Or cold beamed him. I forget which. The air was thin and I was giddy.
And now? Now we sail with the Phlebotomist, the Janel Torsk, the Misery’s Company, the Mercifuge, and our dear Subtlety. Five vessels. A legend in the making. Also, we owe the crew 8.73 million credits. Small detail. Probably fine.
Tim’s old schoolmate is offering us new crew. I’ll vet them. With stares. And maybe a fork.
Until next time-
Krrsh.
Pilot, tactical mastermind, humble voice of reason.
Still not dead. Getting increasingly stylish.
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