And So The Pendulum Swings

Vane let out a stifled yawn as he lent against the railing of the crow’s nest, dawn watch bored him to tears but was easy work compared to what the rest of his work gang would be going through right now he thought to himself. Stretching his shoulders out he glanced over his shoulder down to the deck below as he fumbled with the settings on the decrepit binoculars that had been shoved into his hands half an hour before hand by an equally bored deck rat from the night gang. Twenty metres below he could  hear the grumbling and cursing from his so called ship mates as they made the usual morning checks over the Bonny Marie, her ancient structure requiring constant checks and never ending maintenance with whatever parts they could find or pilfer from other crews. Smirking to himself as a small squabble broke out as he panned the binoculars around scanning the tunnels horizon point for the signs of any movement before moving onto the next point of interest. Here and there ancient skeletal remains of ships could be just made out, and in odd places glinting blue crystals mixed into the rock of the tunnel proper danced in the skittering light from the ship. Nothing as per usual he thought to himself, the last few months had been interesting at the very least, the constant flow of combat had woken some of the crew up and set a fire under them motivationally whilst others had revealed in the excitement of facing the arrogance of the backstabbers in open war. Personally Vane didn’t give a mute’s ass with the old tales, the only thing that had his eye was the thoughts of riches to be claimed and setting himself up for life as all good reavers should do. Survival was part of this; the ultimate game of chance and luck, and he intended to weight the odds in his favour by any means necessary as he glanced down at the continuing fight below. If he’d have had his way he’d have just cut the throat of the first bosun he’d found of the ship he wanted but the local oligarchs didn’t take kindly to competition and so he’d been forced to join one of the main bands ships, a red jack vessel as it had turned out. Within a season he’d managed to position himself into a cushy little post as one of the ships lookouts without needing to spill too much blood, the only issue he found now was the unending boredom. They’d had the enemy cornered nice and tight in the previous season; all ready for the taking with all the potential loot just sat there, only for the moronic bliss wolves to then make a mess of things and let them escape after letting the siege barges get ripped to pieces and scuppering their bombardment of the privateer port. Now they were sat out here on the far end of picket duty watching and waiting to see what the raven’s would try next whilst the leaders of the white reavers main fleet took turns torturing the dumb idiots from the bliss wolves before finally cannonading the lead ships’ captain. He’d have to satisfy himself with simply watching the Red jacks aboard the ship tear each other apart as they currently were doing over some theft or another as he reached into his pocket and began to twirl the coin between the knuckles of his hand. Red Jacks were so easy to rile up with a few basic acts of manipulation or subtle theft he grinned as he chucked the coin up into the air and deftly caught it between two fingers, one simple slight of hand during a card game and tomorrows entertainment was all set up to go. Popping the coin back into his pocket he settled himself into watching the chaos he’d set in motion, until a few minutes later one of the hatches swung open to the sound of shouting as the ships whip-master came onto the main deck accompanied by a trio of brutes. Wadding into the brawling in short order the two leaders we unceremoniously pulled apart and thrown onto the deck as the other combatants slowly stepped back from the new comers, a few short words emphasised by punches to the face had them back in some semblance of order as the two ringleaders we dragged in front of them all by the brutes. The air of the tunnel rang out to ripping cloth and two short sharp cracks as both were lashed round the mid-waist with a long corded length of plastirope that the whip master has fashioned into a full whip. Sniggering to himself Vane stood amused with the unexpected turn of events that would more than likely see a few attempts on the whip-masters life in the coming days leaving some room for either promotion or more amusement on his part. The sound of humming gravimetric plating however pulled his attention away as he looked round in quandary, the sound growing steadily as it was carried over the tunnel winds as Vane scanned around for the source. After a moment or two he spotted the origin as a ship came into view in the half gloom further up the tunnel, its hull was covered in patch worked welds and hasty repair marks, the grav plates glowing and sparking slightly every so often pointing to some kind of damage. Adjusting the binoculars he searched the ships surface for a decal tag or holo-flag, taking a minute to find it as the ship rolled slightly to port as it made to head past the bonny marie. A leering mask with a forked tongue flashed along the ships flank; its name plate well worn out to leave on a handful of odd letters, “Crows nest to Conning, unidentified ship sighted, anything on scopes?” Vane spoke rapidly into the radio handset mounted to the wall behind him, “Conning, Crows nest, checking it now, you get jumping Vane?, Wait out” a voice crackled back over the radio mockingly. Part of Vane though to head down and smack the cheek out of the idiot manning the conning station but he pushed the thought down until later as he continued to watch the approaching ship. The main deck was covered in rusted welt and large dents in places with its super structure not fairing much better, a large hole amidships caught Vane’s attention as it came closer, clearly whoever they were had seen some kind of combat and scarpered. Probably some opportunistic rat who’d slipped their leash he thought as the radio crackled into life again “Conning, Crowsnest, its one of ours Vane, IFF sings clean” the voice form below chuckled. “Definitely going to cut a couple of his fingers off” Vane thought as the damaged brig sailed past, the bonny marie flashing its welcome back signals as the damaged ship sailed by. As vane turned his attention back to the deck something glinted from the passing ships damaged hold, a faint sickly red glow almost clinging to the vessels innards. Some part of Vane’s mind, the part that had kept him alive for so long; and drove his blood lust more than likely, kicked in at that point that something wasn’t quite right and nagged at him to look closer as the ship moved past them and begin to disappear back into the half gloom of the tunnel behind them, heading for the bundle of lights that was the rest of their armada, Vane had just begun to reach for the radio as sickly red tendrils pulsed out from the mystery ship and everything went black...

Military Campaign Progress
The annuals of human history are littered with tales that  cross from culture to culture, from era to era, leaving their mark on each as they pass by with such a profound effect on those that carry the stories in their heart, that the effect spreads the very name of a single action carried on the winds until it becomes a rallying cry and yet onwards until it becomes a legend inspiring those all around with the valour of a time long past. These legends each sing different songs and teach lessons of a different tune, but all carry the same single point that drives the listener onwards in the face of uncertainty, that the indomitable will to put one foot forwards in defence of ones home, to persevere under the direst of circumstances against the oncoming dark will light a fire in the hearts of all those that would bare witness to the act, and so they will choose to take a stand by each others side until the time it right to push back and roll the veil of oblivion back before the wave of true grit and all the courage that a people have as they march in the defence of their very way of life. Each great period of time has its tales of hero's and legend, from the days of antiquity at the hot gates when 300 loyal soldiers and their warrior king stood with their allies against an insurmountable force to buy time for their kin, to the single admiral that with but a few ships crushed an invading armada through strength of mind and wit, on into the days kings and queens where the birth of the legend of one noble outlaw that would defend the people from the cruelty of those very kings and queens would bury so deep into the minds of a people it would be carried with them and their nation for the rest of time. With each step forward humanity has taken it has brought with it a new legend that would define an era as time rolled ever onward into the days of gunpowder and steel with the corruption of thrones stood against by a small brotherhood of honour bound soldiers, through to the blood and mud of trenches with the brave few willing to man new machines and take to the literal skies would break the deadlock and end the bloodshed, through to the bravery of young men willing to charge into the gullet of death and storm the beaches of a conquered continent, before the next generation would begin to look skyward and launch themselves into the unknown of the stars above, each has been driven by that same act to take one step forward.

For the raven privateers the very fabric of their culture as a people is constantly interwoven with these tales of perserverance, of those that came before and the deeds they carried out in the name of their people, forever immortalised in songs sung across the breadth and depth of the home ports, decks of the various ships and throughout the taverns wherever privateers might come together in drink and song as the nights draw in. Each generation that passes adds to these songs with their own of the myths and legends come to pass in the years hence, and of the true heroes of the tunnels that took one step into the gloomy dark below or the ruins above ready to face whatever might lurk there with a fire in their gut and a cry of defiance. No true scion of the ancient former mining tunnels could ever deny the feeling that the greatest of these tales pulls at their heart as the call to adventure and a place in the history of their people, and when those tales are sung by all beneath the banner of the raven privateers in times of war, anyone who threatens them can never truly stand in their way for long. In this the raven privateers perseverance impresses on each new tale from every generation an ever lasting promise to always be ready to take that one step forward into the unknown beneath a flag held high, and a legend standing ready at their back.

The first handful of days of the new season would pass in solemn silence for the black cats as the armada limped its way back to kilo, the initial illation of delivering a decisive blow to the invading corsairs washed away by the ambush that had so nearly succeeded, leaving moods sombre across the various damaged decks and bloodied faces. Docking up once more however unlike their previous retreat that had seen the various squadrons of the fleet almost crash landing wherever along the docking arms to a look of astounded surprise and worry from the port populace, this time they were met by waiting cutters and small skiffs from Kilo itself, port militia troops and repair crews waiting attentively to ease the armada back into docking bays and repair cradles as stretcher bearers and sawbones alike dived aboard ships to the sounds of the wounded, backed by the acetylene rasp of welding torches and fusion clamps kicking into life as the expert repair crews from Kilo set to work patching holes and hammering out dents to bring wounded craft back to life once again. The entire port came alive with activity as the first reports from ship crews began to make its way around the port, they’d broken one of the corsairs arms so badly now that it was all but useless even if the black coats had lost some teeth in return. “A good fight is not with out blood” the old captains would mutter amongst themselves as Kilo once more lived up to its reputation as the eve of the sixth day came to a close, the blinking flashes of repair works lighting the eerie gloom of the tunnels beyond. A rough head count is pulled together by the flag staff of the armada during the following days and by the midst of the second day of the second week it calculated that roughly 1 in 3 of the black coats has been killed or so injured they’d never sail again, yet more ships were added to the list of lost hulks despite the repair riggers best efforts. Amongst all this activity though a small transport skiff is noticed coming from positive north, the tunnels that led to Home down and the great cargo shaft to the surface above. A small landing party disembarks and quietly disappears into the mixture of repair works and reorganising crew ships, what draws a few eyes as the night sentry’s tale flits round the taverns a couple of days later is three of the figures amongst this party, two coated in the badges of the fleet stewards to the black coats and the old adamant, the other with a large mechanical prosthetic arm, all part of the surface squadron that would normally take twice the time to return. Clearly something was up was the general consensus for them to be rushing back, but what beyond something to do with the surface no one was quite sure as the days past by into the third week. One final oddity was noted however as one of the surface squadron ships is cautioned off from the rest of the armada during the low morning, some crate or something was seen being carried aboard with exceptional care by almost naked crewmen, small little beings wrapped in rags and chirping to themselves seen bustling to and from it to one of the other ships listed for teardown for spare parts after a broadside had almost completely torn the guts out of the ship on one side.

Any seasoned voyager of the depths would instantly spot the diminutive creatures for their true nature, the illusive, chaotic and mischievous scraplings that often infested the lower parts of ships. What these small cheeks or terrors; depending on who you asked, wanted with whatever was going on would cause many a rumour to begin to spread as they always did, alongside a spike in random heaps of junk appearing with the sound of angered shouting over high pitched chuckling across the port as the fifth day of the third week came to a close. The next few days would pass by to the constant sound of this cacophony of repair work, groans of the wounded and the strange happenings aboard the isolated ship as the scraplings made themselves truly at home amongst the salvage piles. During the dawn of the third day of the final week of the month however a morning repair shift of riggers would find a pair of raiders arguing loudly by one of the docks as what appeared to be a rusted out hulk sat bobbing along on a set of jury rigged grav plating, investigating the commotion via the swift use of the blunt end of his wrench the lead rigger managed to pry out of the two raiders what the issue was. The ship was evidently one of those listed for tear down that had been moored up alongside the surface squadron vessel, but now it was sat here, seemingly ready for use barring the slap dash nature of the repair job with a small gaggle of scraplings happily sat perched on the railings. The ’chieftain’ of this scrapling band simply stated one high pitched phrase whenever anyone attempted to board the strange ship; “Stowey ship, no entry” backed up by a small guard of tool wielding scraplings that would politely but firmly block the boarding gangway via a deluge of random parts and the occasional lump hammer. After an hour of attempting to get past the small band at the cost of a few new bruises the rigger crew would simply rope the ship off and leave the two originally arguing raiders to guard the gang way as the Scraplings settled themselves to singing their oddly catchy little tunes of chirruping voices.

The dawn of the second month would pass by to little that the port populace and crews of the black coat armada were not already well accustomed too, a few ships being gently towed from their repair cradles by tug skiffs before reigniting their main thrusters and rising to re-join the fleet to the sound of tired cheers from exhausted work crews. The light flotillas for the most part had gotten off lightly during the actions of the previous months with the constant flurry of welding sparks coming from many of the heavy flotilla line ships attesting to this fact, accordingly the various captains of the lighter hammerhead cutters, skiffs and rocket attack craft found themselves assuming most of the patrol duties as the fleet recouped. By the eve of the final day of the first week this luck of sorts had landed them with a chance at some long range patrols as a few ships at a time would head off for a day or two to probe at the corsairs positions, small running single ship to ship skirmishes playing off in the tunnels below. This harrying action had a double effect as it kept the moral of the fleet and raven privateers up as they probed for weak spots, and occasionally handed a new small victory too as another corsair ship was sunk as a black coat ship would return with the IFF box ripped from the hull of a corsair ship to add to the pile, just like in the days of old when victorious captains would display the captured flags of defeated vessels. One morning during the fourth day of the second week of the month a couple of the ports populace would report a handful of the IFF boxes being carried off by a trio of scraplings following after a single female privateer in a long overcoat, accompanied by the two fleet stewards. What the fleet stewards wanted with the victory spoils had a number of folks scratching their heads, something though had them even more perturbed with the way the scraplings seemed to follow the lone female privateer though, like a crew would follow its captain a few would muse as the tale made it rounds. The same figure would be noted leaving by a single lone skiff bearing an unknown crest in the eve the same day, the small blinking keel light fading away in the darkness of the tunnels as it made its way northwards. At the same time the jury rigged ship from the week previous would be noted to slowly being tested as it sailed round the docking arms of the ship, the metal armed surface squadron member seen at the helm as if they were practicing for something. A few of the younger children of the port would cluster at vantage points watching the ship as it flitted back and forth, each gesturing and making their own guesses as to what was happening.

These oddities would soon be pushed aside however as come the midst of the next week a general signal would cross the fleet as the light flotillas were ordered to form up and all patrolling ships to return to port ready for muster, the activity along the docking arms became a frenzied heaving mass once more as crews returned to their ships, supplies were brought aboard, port militia clearing gang ways as various captains and their officers headed for their ships, the background of every action accompanied by the hum of gravimetric plating and the low roar of pulse drives flaring into life as ships broke anchor and made to form up. A number of skiff vessels normally attached to the heavy barges of the armada were detached and assigned to run escort for the strange vessel, nicknamed the morn red sky from the odd glowing spotted coming from the ship, as it too powered its way into the tunnel winds and settled with its shoal of skiffs in formation with the rest of the fleet but still somehow separate. Come the next morning the muster would be complete with the fleet, flotilla by flotilla, making their way once more into the coreward tunnels with the lead elements pushing ahead to establish a convoy with the escorted ship nestled in the midst of the fleet proper. Those that had seen the effects of the last strange ship that had accompanied the fleet after the rear admiral had spent weeks tinkering with it in the previous season now had the memory spring forward and they wondered if this ship was another plan drawing on the corsairs over confidence, if so it was lacking the large canisters that had been strapped to the last ship, and to top it off any time another ship came too close  the escorting skiffs were surround the offending ship and forcibly move it away from the craft through hails in a couple of cases and in on instance the escort captain threatening to throw the inquisitive cutters captain overboard. The oddity ships name soon became a by word for unease amongst the armada after this as each ship steered a few more metres to port or starboard around the small squadron of ships as the days passed by into the eve of the months end.

The next few days would pass to the sound of the gravimetric hum from the fleets engines as the final month of the season bedded in, every ship as the armada moved once more into position would feel the anxiety begin to grow as if always did, the prospect of combat knawing at every member of the black coats as the minutes ticked past. Passing further and further down a few of the more experienced captains began to notice that their route whilst utilising the major tunnel routes was always winding them down some side tunnels normally utilised by scouts, a few questioning signals were raised that flitted back and forth along the holographic banners of each ship to the lead ships only to receive an order to simply hold and wait as the armada finally came to a halt during the late hours of the seventh day. Calling the lead ships from the light flotilla together aboard the flagship of the armada the assembled captains were quickly brought into the captains quarters of the ship and bayed to sit by the fleet steward they found waiting for them. Over the next few hours a constant flow of queries and questions would be put to the steward as she listened to the concerns of the captains about the state of the fleet, most boiled down to the fact that another solid clash could potentially splinter the armada, especially with less support from the surface squadron this time around. Letting them finish the fleet steward would hold up a hand for quiet as she explained the happenings on the surface before she pulled up a small stack of documents, patting them with one hand she began to explain what they ha learnt and her plan to be carried out that she had worked out with the fleet steward for the old adamant whilst they had traversed the ruins above. The key point required patience she put to the assembled captains, those with experience launching lighting raids or gun runs would be given squadron command lead to maintain a skirmish posture across the fleet for when the time came, the key point was getting the morn red sky into position and setting it on its course with its volunteer captain. At this she dismissed the various captains and let those with the required knowledge begin to work out the optimal deployment with what the fleet had as she headed out on deck herself to begin talking with the fleet flag staff. The fleet would spend the next day repositioning itself into a series of mobile flotillas that could operate independently for a while whilst also supporting one another when they engaged as the heavier ships were held back in a solid core around the flagship of the black coats, by the midst of the week they would be ready to push one once again as the new temporary chain of command was quickly established across the fleet and the various flotillas began to make their way slowly forward. A rear picket ship would flash a warning to the main vessels as a ship was spotted making its way down to them, flashing a supposedly friendly signal it was quickly identified as the skiff that had depart from Kilo a few weeks before hand with the lone privateer and her accompanying scraplings. The ship was rapidly waved through after a order from the fleet steward cuts over the comms net to the picket ship, the small vessel, loaded up with some crates heads over to the morn red sky and after a seemingly quick conversation between the lone privateer and the escort guards her vessel docks up alongside the ship and the scraplings begin to haul the crates on board and disappear into the super structure, the sound of tinkering and sparks emanating from it over the coming hours. By the weeks end a single signal was pulsed across to all ships during the very early morning, the morn red sky under its own power and emitting a strange dark song like radio pulse pushed off into the dark ahead of the armada with its volunteer captain, a small capsule like craft seen clamped to the back of it being the last thing the forward picket ships would see as it disappeared into the gloom.

The rest of the black coats would follow after the odd ship a few short hours later with the lead vessels powering down most of their systems to allow them to hopefully get the drop on any enemy picket vessels as their sensors picked up the core vessels further back and adjusted their sights accordingly. Drawing up in the final approach tunnel to the north-eastern approach down to drogba’s house what the fleet would find waiting for them would ripple through out the fleet with  equally parts dread and utter illation as they powered round the final few metres of solid rock. Ahead the flames licking through drogba’s houses super structure could be seen, the ruined casemate still smoking alongside the other almost completely collapsed with the odd portable rocket launching out every so often alongside bursts of small arms fire, the port was within a breathes reach of death but the enemy fleet was far far worse. Laying splintered on a large outcropping on the tunnel floor a picket ship with the flickering name of Bonny Marie lay smashed and dead, ahead a great heap of vessels lay shattered on the tunnel floor at what would have been the anchor perimeter point for drogba’s were they still capable of flight, they had seemingly dropped from the sky, the sudden impact detonating reactors and magazines of ammunition in equal measures, the effect ripping corsair ships to utter shreds as a faint red glow seemed to dance at the edge of power cabling, sparking systems and even the tarnished metal work of the ships hulls. Amongst this the forward most ship kicked its search lights on as it coasted forward, its crew powering forward as volunteers when a signal was flashed across the fleet, one step forward into the unknown. The edge of its light picked out a tangled wreck in the middle of a half circle of destroyed corsair ships, the morn red sky laying split into on the rock surface below, a number of twitching mutants laying on its surface seemingly dissolving into slick ichor and mucus. Applying a touch more power to the thrusters just in case the cutter pushed head to find a small capsule craft seemingly bobbing in the tunnel air, a rose spray painted on the side as they pulled it aboard to find the volunteer captain of the morn red sky smirking to himself, though his mechanical prosthesis was most certainly worse for wear from what ever effect had been unleashed by the red sky’s cargo. Clapping him on the shoulder the captain of the cutter sent an all clear signal back to the rest of the fleet as he proffered a bottle of rum to the volunteer captain, “Raven luck holds true” he grinned as he pulled the lid off before taking a swig as the rest of the crew cheered the volunteer. The plan finally revealed before them the fleet steward sent a signal across the fleet advising every ship to leave the corsair ships where they had fallen and not to touch anything as the fleet powered forward in search for any remnants of the corsair fleet. A number of picket ships from the far side had managed to escape the initial pulse had powered up to attempt to rescue any survivors, these ships were pounced on with bloody enthusiasm by the forward skirmishing flotillas, short sharp gun battles erupting as the first few were blown out of the tunnel winds by fusillades of cannon fire and rocket impacts, the next few ships were boarded with prisoners taken by vengeful privateers as the black coats proper pushed in to reclaim the full perimeter of Drogba’s house. Pulling what information they could from the captured corsair vessels small hunting packs of ships were spread out into the tunnels leading back up towards tink’s town with reports coming back down the airways of a number of running  ship duels occurring as privateer vessels jumped patrolling corsair ships, in one case a full squadron of corsair vessels were engaged in an escalating battle as they pulled in all remaining raiding corsairs and the black coats dispatched their heavy guns to deal with the clash. By the end of the final day of the third week of the month even these skirmishes would splutter out as the sudden superior numbers of black coat vessels in the area tipped the scales completely in the raven privateers favour, though with a few casualties through out the various vessels. In the immediate time as these running battles were going on, the black coats settled down into res-securing the approach vectors that they had been jumped from in the previous season and the approach the corsairs had come from originally as far as they could tell. In this they were surprised to find a small handful of skiff vessels powering out from drogba’s to meet them, crewed by extremely thin and bloody faced port militia left from what had been drogba’s garrison they pushed aside any medical attention the black coats attempted to offer as they immediately made to report their combat strength, munitions level and remaining capabilities to the commander of the armada, the surviving officers being led by the gunnery captain of the almost collapsed case mate, a wad of half scorched papers stuffed under his arm that he slammed down on the fleet stewards desk as his after action reports and intelligence they had pulled together during the siege, before simply requesting an ammo resupply and stomping back off towards his small squadron of boarding skiffs and heading off to search for something to evidently kill as he led his surly band of half starved and extremely angry port militia off to exact some revenge on whatever corsairs they could find. Making a note to give them a wide birth well known to the rest of the armada would send a immediate order to the ships hold to round up all spare ammo and get it loaded onto any remaining drogba’s house vessels before they departed.

The final few days of the month would come to be the focus of the story in the coming months as the black coats firmly stamped out any remaining shreds of corsairs around drogba’s and the ruins of tinks’ town, the utter devastation levied on the invading corsair fleets leading to the tunnels around drogba’s to be rechristened by those present to the iron drop sound for the sheer quantity of corsair vessels laying broken before them. It took a full week to count them all alongside even to begin to draw up the potential casualties the morn red sky’s blast had inflicted on the corsairs but the rumour was that flitted across the black coats was that they had torn what remained of one arm completely off and severed the other so cleanly that two entire fleets worth of ships sat on the tunnel floors. During the captains meeting aboard the flag ship of the black coats the various flag staff and individual captains would come to learn that the rumour was almost true, their skirmishing had broken the back of one fleet by itself, more than likely the fleet they had mauled in the previous season before being jumped themselves. The ’Phage’ bomb as the fleet steward referred to it was more than likely a extremely dangerous one off for now but it had destroyed and crippled two thirds of another corsair fleet, effectively wiping it from the tunnels entirely and sheering some ships from the sole remaining fleet as well. At this the room explodes in cheers and cries from the assembled captains, the noise causing the two riggers on guard duty to kick the door in, blades drawn at the sound to find amused faces flagging down with some confusion at the laughter. A rough head count puts the potential enemy loses in the region 2,478 enemy dead potentially from the blast and collapse of two fleets between the most likely dead and those that had fled back into the tunnels from where they had originated one of the flag staff comments, the numbers causing a number of captains to cough and splutter as their laughter died away in awe at the magnitude of the victory handed to them. “If our estimates are right, we are nearly 1/3 as large again as the remaining corsair fleet by ourselves” the flag lieutenant finishes as the fleet steward stands and raises a glass to the assembled leaders of the black coats, a piece of paper clutched in her hand “Add to this that the Old Adamant has just finished mustering as well, we may feel the hunger in our stomachs once more but for now we out number the enemy 3 to 1, and we know where their home is...”

Summary:

Following the ambush in the previous season that left the Black coats perilously close to disaster, the raven privateers armada has delivered a catastrophic blow the invading corsairs through the intervention of the surface squadron. They plan, though initially coated in secret for some reason, has succeeded in pushing the corsairs out from the 40% of the raven privateer home territory they had conquered in the seasons before now. And on top of this through the actions of a select few, thought with some inevitable casualties, now it is the corsairs who are badly out numbered and outgunned by privateers no doubly looking for some revenge. (Note: Standing Strength of the Black coat armada is now at 1885/3000 after suffering a further 205 casualties, invading corsairs have had total collapses of two fleets, suffering a total combined casualty list of 2,478, with their standing strength now at 1339/4500 at this time)

Seadogs & Red Ensigns…
With the recent conflict both above and below ground seemingly coming to a head in some fashion the admiralty has found itself pulled in multiple directions at once. For the every day privateer amongst the home ports the pressing issue of the invading corsairs and the Black coats battling them has taken up the majority of their attention whenever the subject has come up over a drink, or meal or whenever a moment of silence has come up with the constant sounds coming from below echoing upwards. For those that ply the land routes between the shore-ports on the surface the goings on in the green harbour draws their conversations with a regular basis as each passing courier crew or haulage team find in their quiet moments that the actions of a few carry their hopes and fears as well. Some of these anxieties are quashed through the simple fact of the ongoing mustering of the old Adamant; the surly rigger of an army to the black coats spritely raider, whilst others connected to those fears are eased or stoked into motivation to fight back against it as volunteer militias form and sign up to the muster parties heading past on a daily basis. For the admirals of the raven privateers this muster brings its own issues that tie up more than their fair share of meetings as the issue of food supply begins to creep in once more, whilst the current node held by the surface squadron can feed the populace and black coats through rationing, the numbers just don’t add up with a second armada active the admiral for the wreck shakes his head in conjecture with the admiral from kilo. The simple fact they all come to the same conclusion on is that another node will be required in order to feed their people and supply the second army, otherwise they will face some form of starvation once more and all the problems that incurs as well. What makes it all the more pressing the admiral of Home-Down states is the fact that the old adamant finishes its mustering this season meaning the effects will begin to make themselves known in effect immediately, this simple statements causes a swath of worried looks before they are blown off by the reports from below. With the corsair fleet so badly savaged the threat of death by invasion has been seen off for the time being, and on top of this rather than being stuck on the defensive the raven privateers can once more go on the offensive thanks to the actions of the fleet stewards and the unlikely volunteer. With this a messenger is dispatched to talk with flag captain Michaels and the surface squadron as plans begin to be drawn up for what to do next.

Summary:

1) With the completion of the muster of the Old Adamant a new rear admiral will need to be elected to take command of the force during the coming season, This election will be held in the usual manner upon the conclusion of the messenger’s meeting with flag captain Michael's around 9:00pm on the Friday night.

2) With the utter devastation laid on the invading corsair fleets an opportunity has presented itself to launch a full counter invasion into the corsairs own territory, as such an the option will be available for discussion during the coming season with flag during the Friday night prior to the rear admiral election.

3) With the completion of the old Adamant as a fully functioning army the food supply from the single controlled node no longer provides enough to supply both armies and the populace, as such from this coming season onwards unless another node is secured the raven privateers will slip back into starvation with all armies effected alongside the populace.

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