When the first helljammers emerged into our world I was but a babe, clutching at my mother's apron strings. Wide eyed and romantic, as only a child could, I listened to stories of these demon vessels and the adventures of the brave navy men who spent spit and blood against them. Old bones tales of ghosts and wicked charms had come to gain more bite than even the Brothers of the Grimm could have guessed. As the ghost ships still prowl our shipping lanes like threshers stalking a shoal of fish.

As a man I may be disenchanted of notions of chivalry and ribald mayhem, tempered by my career as a seaman. Through storm and clear water, I have visited more ports than I have teeth; I have killed men; and sent one helljammer and her crew to the grave. I am nobody to be trifled with.

When the news of the siege and sacking of Port Bexley reached me on that dark day, I became disconsolate. The Burning Sails set upon them unawares and undefended, her cannon laid the houses to rubble — murdered men, women, and children in their beds during the small hours of the morning. Come dawn's first light, the helljammer had sailed and left the port ablaze in smoldering ruin.

There were no survivors.

My family are quartered there. Were. My beautiful wife, Mary. My daughter, Melinda. The only thing colder than death is the stone set in my heart.

The old stories say that The Burning Sails does not forget and she does not forgive.

Well, neither do I.

Captain Bluelark, you are mine. Though Hell does indeed bar my way, you and I have a graveside rendezvous.

I do not intend to be late.