The following is a partial transcription of papers found within the bilge of a foundered ship near Holcus. Due to the location of where the writing was stored, sea water, mold and rats seemed to have claimed the majority of the text.

  Written eight months and 20 days ago.

  I’ve been kidnapped by crimpers; they arrived by boat, docking in Hazeltown’s port. Through some incredible misfortune, it seems that they mistook myself and Cled (who was also working the docks) for sailors. They persisted in that belief, despite us telling them the fact that we simply live here and have never sailed. That night, after drugging our drinks in the tavern, the scoundrels whisked us away like coins placed within the reach of a cutpurse.

  After we continued to argue this aboard, we were told to shut our damn traps and be grateful they were feeding us. Neither myself nor Cled chose to respond, for we were both fearful of some violent retribution. We later learned that the crimpers also managed to snatch some sailors from a ship that had just recently docked; poor sods hadn’t even been in town for half a day.

  After proving my literacy to the captain, the latter half of my watch now has me sitting belowdecks, counting the ship’s inventory. Truly I do not think that a madman could have a devised a form of torture more cruel than this. Hours down here feel as if they’re decades, and the constant rocking of the boat paired with the low light has caused me to be severely ill more than once.

  My only reprieve is that I have access to scraps of paper and charcoal. While all of the paper and charcoal is the captain’s property, I’ve been skimming some off the top. I’d say my thievery has worked so far, though I suppose that this sort of thing keeps on working til it doesn’t. Afterall, the headsman’s basket is empty until his blade falls.

  For now, my secret is safe down here. I fear to store these writings in my sea chest, in case the mate ever feels the need to search my belongings. I know that storing this “journal” of sorts in the floorboards will expose my writings to rats, but there is not much I can do to stop them. However, if the rats were to eat these writings.. Well, then at least I could trust them to preserve my secrets.

  Written eight months and 12 days ago.

  This tub is called The Stitch, and it seems as if around half the crew have been kidnapped, with most of us being kept on separate watches and in different locations. Despite this, I’ve gathered through whispers on the wind that many here were drugged and then dragged aboard.

  The captain has had us fishing and clamming for the near entirety of the voyage so far. It’s utterly miserable. My hands feel like they’ve been stripped raw, having been damn near ripped apart by these horrible nets. The wind and waves are so violent that half the men aboard are convinced that Cric himself wants us dead. I can’t say I blame them, as we’ve already had one of the hands go overboard on his watch. No one’s seen him since.

  Seems like The Stitch bleeds seamen and needs to often replenish them, though no one really knows why. The only people that may know are the non-crimped crew, and they aren’t very interested in telling us much of anything. If I had to guess, I’d say that these horrible conditions play a large role in it.

  Written eight months and 2 days ago.

  So far we haven’t done much of note. The weather’s let up, so they’ve had us practicing our seamanship. The men aboard were extremely unhappy once they learned (rather swiftly) that Cled and I weren’t lying when we said we’re not sailors. While the weather kept us from needing to do much to prove our prowess, the calmer waters have rather clearly highlighted our significant flaws. Rumor’s reached my ears that the mate threatened to beat Poor Cled because he couldn’t keep up with the hands on his watch. I now feel a bit more fortunate that so much of what the captain has me doing keeps me below deck.

  Cled is near double my years, and though the man is seemingly imbued with the strength of a bear, his age and mighty size have not been kind to him. Back home, I’d heard him complain of his joint pains, saying the harsh weather causes him to ache and stiffen. I don’t think the earlier cold and foul sea storm did him much good. I worry for the man; an injury at sea, especially a vindictive one dealt by a hand or the mate, could jeopardize his future back in Hazeltown. Our surgeon has next to nothing in regards to healing herbs or remedies, so even a relatively small injury could easily grow out of control if left untreated for months.

  I don’t think Cled would handle being crippled or slowed by injury well at all. Hazletown is made up of good folk, but a man’s pride can only handle his livelihood depending on the charity of others for so long. If one of those injuries required immediate healing for fear of death, well.. I’d wager that the likelihood of his injuries being properly treated here are about the same as one of the Rí’s own galleons stopping by to hand deliver the medical supplies and healer.

  Written seven months and 3 days ago.

  The Stitch is not a clammer, nor is it a fishing boat. It is a bloody pirate ship. Everything makes so much more sense now. The crimping, the silence from the other hands on deck, even the supposedly high turnover rate of seamen. How did it take me so long to figure out this ruse?

  These pirates decided to show their true colors today. Captain had Flann up in the crow’s nest (he’s had a hand up there ever since the weather cleared up) and at about midday, Flann shouts down, “sloop ahead! Starboard side!” While this is normal- the announcement of ships nearby- something in his voice put me on edge. So of course, I look starboard: why is the location of a sloop important? We’re not the largest ketch ourselves, granted, but we’re clammers. No pirates would give a damn what a clammer’s doing, and I doubt they would go for one that likely had double their crew. Examining the boat tells me that the sloop seems to be a merchant ship, named Lady’s Breeze, with men aboard that are pointing at us and yelling to one another.

  I look over at the captain, feeling mighty confused, but the man seems to have the hell’s own fire gleaming in his eyes. “Come about starboard!” He roars. “All hands on deck! We’ve got one!”

  This first call sends myself and the rest of the hands on watch scrambling towards our positions on deck, though I feel further confusion at these orders. I’m already struggling to work the rigging by the time the second call for all hands is shouted out. I look up in bewilderment as the more experienced off duty hands begin to stream out from below deck, each of them bearing various weapons. The newer crew (mainly those who had been crimped) came up only slightly behind them, though only around half of them bore any weapons.

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  The mate begins to shout orders to those of us actively manning the ship, pausing briefly to curse at my lack of efficiency. I try not to curse back at him, but admittedly my fear of him made that a bit easier. The captain looms down from his perch near the wheel, leaning over the railing to address the gathered crew. As he speaks, I feel my confusion turn to terror. “We’ve got a sloop starboard side,” he bellows, having to speak above the luffing sails and creaking groans caused by the harsh turn. “A mercantile vessel.”

  There’s an excited murmuring of response from the armed members of the crew, with the rest of us remaining muted and confused. The captain grins wickedly, the avarice in his expression somehow making him look younger. “You new rapscallions!” I toss a glance over from where I’m still fumbling with my rigging, noticing that he seems to be addressing the unarmed crew, myself included. “Watch closely and watch well, for you’ll be expected to join in the next time we find prey. No prey, no pay!”

  The sailors, or pirates, as I’d just learned, echo this back in a cheered roar. “And any of you currently not on watch,” the captain continues, eyes roving over the unarmed men. “May join in, should you like a fair share of the loot. If you’re ready, then grab yourselves a weapon.” I stop what I’m doing, disbelief freezing my hands and turning my head. I’m sure no man within their right mind would approach and accept a weapon.

  Cled, along with two of the sailors (Audey and Torr) whose ship was docked at Hazeltown, step forward. Cled wasn’t the smartest man; he made a living off of lending his muscle to folk about town, and sometimes about port if anyone needed an extra pair of hands for the day. However, he was a kind man: when winter would set in, he would be one of the first to help clear the walkways with his own shovel, or he would help provide the towns invalids with firewood. This wasn’t him. Cled was Hazeltown’s man, not The Stitch’s killer.

  As Cled approaches the captain, the terror that had been holding onto my heart begins to slip away, falling into a yawning abyss of despair. I take a small step towards them, hoping that my minute movement would catch Cled’s eye, perhaps even help wake him to reason. It didn’t. Instead, he looks at the weapons that the captain proffered to him, taking a moment before accepting one of the axes. I look away as cheers erupt from the men around me.

  Written seven months and one day ago.

  It has been two days since The Stitch murdered the sailors aboard the Lady’s Breeze. It did not take me long to tally up the inventory of what was looted; indeed, that only took me around half of my watch. Instead I have spent the last few days contemplating my life, and how things have come to this. I have feigned illness, though that has not been a difficult feat.

  I did not intend to watch the slaughter that took place, yet I did. As The Stitch caught up with her quarry, she purged the majority of her sailors from her own planks, launching them off in two separate gigs. The pirates aboard them hooked grapples into the merchant’s sloop, forcibly attaching their gigs to either side of the boat. The poor men aboard the sloop fought back valiantly, launching barrels, crates and other heavy objects at the parasites attempting to hijack their vessel.

  One particular barrel must’ve been especially heavily laden, for when it crashed into one of the scoundrels, it smashed into his shoulder with a sickening crack and crunch of broken bones. The pirates aboard roared in outrage as the man crashed into the sea alongside the barrel. A moment after, one of them managed to clear the railing of the Lady’s Breeze. As the scoundrel took the deck, his blade swiftly plunged into the belly of a sailor that was trying to scramble away from him. As the pirate struggled to dislodge his blade, another sailor’s sword was awkwardly swung towards him, nearly finding purchase in his flesh.

  As more of The Stitch’s bilge rats boarded, the victims on the ship were quickly struck down. The fight was messy and disorganized, with The Stitch’s own men taking numerous blows. I watched as Torr misjudged a swing, sending a blade that was aimed towards one of the merchants instead into the side of one of the pirates. The pirate crashed to the deck, holding his entrails in his hand and gasping like a beached fish. Torr continued to wildly swing, but one of the sailors lodged an axe in his back that caused the man to collapse to the ground in a twitching heap.

  It is difficult to put into words the depths of horror and despair that this scene created within me. I prayed for Cric to swallow both vessels right then and there and to be done with it all. I am assured that there is no nightmare beneath his depths that can compare to the horror that we have conjured above his waves. I continued to watch the carnage, feeling an indescribable urge to bear witness to the violence. Or, as I reflect now, perhaps I watched on in an effort to prepare myself for what might eventually be my own fate.

  Written six months and 28 days ago.

  A dozen sailors aboard the Lady’s Breeze died. Four of The Stitch’s men were also sent to the depths, with another three suffering moderate injuries.

  Cled was among the injured. An axe near severed his left arm, causing it to hang off of him like a growth now only attached by skin. The man begged and wailed and cried for our surgeon to leave it alone, to not saw it off, to not do it, please. The mate snarled at Cled to stop wailing like a strumpet begging for coin, but even that scoundrel seemed disturbed by Cled’s hanging appendage. Despite the surgeon’s warnings of infection, the mate eventually told the surgeon to wrap Cled’s arm and to leave off it.

  Written six months and 13 days ago.

  Not much has happened as of recent. Cled’s arm has become infected and the captain had finally forced the man to let the surgeon cut it off. I’ve heard whispers that it may be too late for him, given how long it took for him to give up the arm, but I’m hopeful that he can make a recovery.

  I suppose the captain now expects all the new hands aboard to accept that The Stitch is a pirate vessel. While I do accept that the ship is used for piracy, I am not okay with the role that is expected of me. I don’t imagine that I will be stuck here for more than a few months, so I pray that I will be able to survive long enough to either escape or buy my freedom. I have not brought this up to the captain or mate, as I do not want them knowing my true feelings on the matter. I must admit that I also feel unprepared for their potential answers.

  I know what I must do to make it through this ordeal. I will continue to log and track the ship’s inventory; I will jeer and howl and bay for the blood of the ships that we hunt; but I will not kill. I am not willing to stain my hands with the blood of another man for the sake of making my life easier for a time. If I need to face the consequences for refusing to shed another’s blood, then so be it. I will not sink to the level of these evil men.