The Draftless, Captain Hunter Hobson. Day: Thirteen. Coordinates: 49°56'40.6"N 2°41'37.1"W The crew have complained again. I have the right mind to open the hatch and let them fall. But watching them plummet would be somewhat unfavourable on my part—as the seafarers below like to say, I’d be up a creek without a paddle without them. Yet, they have complained again. About what? I can not answer. Their jobs are to keep the coal burning and the propellers turning. They shouldn't have enlisted if they found the living quarters unsatisfactory or weren't expecting blisters to marry their hands. The first rule of aeronautics: Anticipate the worst. An airship could drift, stranded, among the clouds for days with no port with which to dock or passing ship to aid them. A crew must be hardy, well versed in the dangers of the sky. If the men want to suck their thumbs and wish each other sweet dreams at night's end, who am I to comment. But to complain about a burn from the engine's fires or the high altitude forcing their minds to fuzz— I can not begin to understand. Perhaps Skyport Notus will provide a more ample crew. * The Draftless, Captain Hunter Hobson. Day: Sixteen. Coordinates: 49°10'18.4"N 19°27'18.5"W The crew have complained again through means of vandalism. Sometimes before breakfast, letters of mutiny were sprayed about the quarter-deck (I have attached a daguerreotype of the scene). First-mate Barlow discovered young Fox with the spray can down his breeches, and on later inspection, I uncovered flakes of red paint buried under young Dottie's nails. They received two lashes and are locked in the cupboard of my cabin and shall be flogged once we arrive at in port. * The Draftless, Captain Hunter Hobson. Day: Seventeen. Coordinates: 50°39'26.6"N 25°35'15.9"W Yesterday's punishment has had a somewhat negative effect on the remaining crew. Although The Draftless continues her course towards Skyport Notus, I've noticed more hostility and belligerence. My solve in the matter has resulted in a cut in their rations and a lash for each. Whilst it appears half the crew still pledge their loyalty to me, I can't deny that a dash of concern hasn't crossed my mind. * The Draftless, Captain Hunter Hobson. Day: Seventeen. Coordinates: 51°33'23.9"N 27°17'55.9"W I woke to the clash of cutlasses and yells of the wounded. Barlow came rushing to my cabin, a bloodied gash in his side and the words of murder on his lips. The crew had turned, slaughtering those who stayed loyal to the end. Soon thereafter, bootsteps hammered on the stairs, and I dead-bolted my cabin door. The titanium seems to be holding. I offered Barlow dressing for his wound, but he soon passed in my arms, his cut too deep. His body now rests in the tub, submerged in the last of my rum. Hopefully, the smell will hold out: I've already resulted in wrapping a handkerchief around my mouth; the stench from the chamber pot is proving hard to bear. * The Draftless, Captain Hunter Hobson. Day: Twenty. Coordinates: 72°52'22.6"N 4°27'32.8"W We are nearing the coast of Whitefay, with approximately two hundred clicks to Skyport Notus. Snow-capped mountains are visible through my window, and white mist swirls the air with each breath. I located a pair of fur-lined mittens, but I fear for my fingers; I can no longer feel the pen beneath the fabric. Barlow remains in the tub. I wrapped my bed drapes over his body; I couldn't tolerate looking at the taut, waxen mask of his face any longer. One of the young ones is weeping from the cupboard. I feel as though I should show some decency and let them go, but who's to say they won't slice my throat as soon as I unlock the door. So there they will remain. The Draftless, Captain Hunter Hobson. Day: Twenty. Coordinates: 62°41’15.3"N 3°43'26.7"W Frost has claimed the cabin windows. I am down to my last candle snub. I have collected all my spare paper in the hopes of starting a fire and— Shouts have erupted from up on deck, and I fear— Yes, that's them thumping on the door. I must ... ** “Ellis, come look." Violet brushed a clump of snow from the brown leather cover with a gloved hand. “A book?" Ellis groaned from behind; his coat zipped up to his chin. “Seriously? Ma said to look for something useful." “Don't pout! It's a Captain's log, I think. See the Airship on the front?" Violet flipped the cover, and the spine croaked. “It's from The Draftless. Look!" Charred grime tainted the torn edges of the yellowed papers. Words that once coiled in twisted a cursive smudged across the page, and Violet brushed a gloved finger over the airships title. Ellis lifted his goggles, his nose scrunching at the soiled page. "How does it end?" “We know how it ends, dummy," Violet said, shutting the log with a snap. “A fire, a wreck and two survivors. Come on—" “Ow! Stop grabbing my hand so hard!" “Wimp! Come, we have to take this to Granpa Fox and Grandma Dottie."