GROZIT!

James Lonefeather is easily the most disagreeable man I've ever known.

Let me start at the beginning

After my injury aboard The Vengeance, I decided I needed a bit of a holiday. Being as my right hand was now made of obvious nano-technology, that was a little problematic. Fortunately, there was a viable technological solution to conceal this affliction: gloves.

I decided to stay off the seas for a while, and, so, I found myself in Earth once more in the city of San Fransisco, local time of 1888.

The city was mostly a civilized affair, though it was clearly a city of unfettered capitalism (which is to say largely controlled by those who had, through largely criminal endeavours, amassed the funds to, for all intents and purposes, own everyone else.). Even with that, however, it was a city where... most... of the crime went on outside of the average persons field of vision. In essence, it was a somewhat veiled imitation of the Nassau from my past.

I spent a bit of time wandering the city, which had the familiar feeling of optimism found any time a world or civilization was approaching the dawn of one of their arbitrarily decided new eras, as was the case here, being a mere twelve years before the beginning of their twentieth century (the idiocy of their numbering system stemming from the birth of a largely fictitious baby forty five hundred years prior, yet, for some reason this date was changed by fifteen hundred years on the orders of a number of rich, bald men in shabby robes.)

On the outskirts of the city, I happened upon the ranch and estate of a man named Emerson. He was, likely, the wealthiest citizen in town, as he owned all the local banks in San Francisco and the surrounding towns. In short, it was said that he owned everything.

As it happened, that afternoon, two of his ranch hands were preparing to shoot a young, though clearly angry black stallion who was in a corral with what HAD been a third man... or what was left of him. Not wanting to see whatever tragedy had occurred be multiplied, I interceded, stopping the two ranch hands. A scuffle erupted, which attracted the attention of Mr. Emerson.

"Mr.?" He began.

"Warital," I half-lied, "Donovan Warital"

"Mr. Warital, that horse seemed like a good investment at the time for three hundred dollars, as you can see he's strong and fast as The Almighty, himself. Trouble he's one crazy mean sumbitch. Hal went in there to try and break him and the damned beast struck like thunder! Kicked poor ol' Hal's head near off. Killed him instant. We got to put that beast down 'fore he kills again."

"I can calm him down so he won't be any more trouble, Mr.," I said, certain I was correct.

"Mr. Warital, if you can calm that devil down, you can HAVE him!" he laughed, "Hell, I'll even give you my best saddle to go with him."

I, of course, had to take the challenge, since I never could stand to see animals of instinctual intellect suffer. Mind you, it really was no challenge. A small, low amplitude, sub-audible gravetic pulse from my gravetic screwdriver, targeted to the horse's medulla provided an instant attitude adjustment, making the horse docile in my presence.

Clearly astounded, Emerson kept his word, giving me his saddle and the newly affectionate (at least to me) Thunderstrike, as he had been dubbed. I was also offered a job as a "freelance security expert" for the banks, which I took to provide some money to live in this era.

It was in this capacity that I met James Lonefeather.

James Lonefeather is easily the most disagreeable man I've ever... I've... already said that.

A bank in the Nevada territories had been robbed by a gang of outlaws lead by someone named Big Smith. Emerson sent me out to find and capture them. Nothing unusual in that, given my employment at the time.

The problem is that Smith had a three thousand dollar bounty on his head and Lonefeather was a bounty hunter.

I met Lonefeather en route to the town of Poker Flats. He was a wall of muscle in an old, but fairly well kept Union army uniform (though worn in a VERY casual manner) , carrying a double-barrelled shotgun slung over his shoulder and a cavalry peacemaker on his hip as well as a number of VERY large knives.

And a bowler hat.

He had the temperament of a starved, caged animal... very angry and very dangerous.

I told him my assignment, which didn't sit too well with him.

"Listen, fool!" he bellowed, "I don't care who signs your vouchers. Smith and his gang are worth forty five hundred dollars and that bounty is MINE. You get paid either way, but I don't and I've been doing this since I was fourteen, so out here, I'm the boss."

Laughing to myself, I replied "Whatever you say 'Lord Bowler'." my mocking tone was lost on him.

"I like that... Lord Bowler..." He smiled.

As we got closer to town, we got sloppy. Smith and some of his gang managed to get the drop on us in a valley. It was like being in a shooting gallery. Lonefeather got away.

I was not so lucky. I took three shots to my left heart and two to my throat. Thunderstrike took two shots to the neck.

I was fortunate that Smith's gang took off after Lonefeather because it didn't take me too long to reach the threshold of regeneration.

As I've discussed before, I take precautions for regeneration. I carry a vial of my blood with me, into which I channel the excess energy beyond the actual healing of wounds.

Of course, the regenerative process caused me to grow a new right hand, rending the nano hand I'd been using useless in that regard, however, there was enough excess energy from my regeneration to reprogram the nano-genes which made the hand up, allowing me to command the nano-swarm to repair what could be repaired in Thunderstrike and replace what couldn't.

I was, understandably, a bit confused, given the distance between myself and Bifrost, and so I mounted Thuderstrike and let him mostly lead the way.

Two days later, as luck would have it, we stumbled across the camp of Lonefeather, who was. once again, on the trail of Smith. I said the only thing that came to mind in my post-regenerative crisis.

"Bowler..."

With that, he leaped to his feet and spun toward me, a look of terror on his face.

"YOU! You're.... Get away from me, devil!" He shouted "I saw you die! You can't have my soul!"

For someone so huge, Lonefeather is incredibly fast. Before I could react, he had pulled out one of his knives, cut me deeply across the right side of my face, slicing my eye, and then got on his horse and ran into the darkness.

The shock of it all, however, was enough to bring me back to my senses. I pulled out my Stattenheim flute and summoned Bifrost, entering it with Thunderstrike.

Unfortunately, I was beyond the first eighteen hours of regeneration.

This will leave a mark.

Grozit! That was my favourite eye.

What was Lost is Found, What was Always There is Gone

Nothing is ever simple. That is, of course, a universal truth, but it goes double for Time Lords, it seems.

So, the intrepid, if amateur crew of The Vengeance set sail to investigate the rumored "sirens" of the Caribbean in 1718. They performed admirably (though I must speak with someone about teaching agents and guards the difference between a topsail and a topgallant) and our voyage was, in the early part, fairly uneventful.

We did not, however, make it to the region we were going to search.

We happened upon The Howling Tide, the ship of the notorious pirate captain known as "The Fox", and he wasn't going to take chances about being taken in, so they opened fire.

The Vengeance, however, far outgunned The Tide and we were able to disable the ship fairly quickly. That, however, is where things become strange.

"The Fox", as it turned out, was someone familiar to me. And not from my time under the black.

It seems, so long ago, when the original Vanishing Point fell victim to the cyberiad and was destroyed, the TTC carrying two of my Ordinals, Dracony and Henry was lost in the vortex. We searched, of course, but no sign was to be found.

Somehow, and the details are still very sketchy, Dracony had been deposited in the late 17th century on Earth and had made a life for himself in piracy as "The Fox". Mainly due to not actually knowing who he was.

So I invoked parley, having recognized my old friend, and hoped to determine what was going on. Icie and JennieLynn boarded The Howling Tide with me and, during the discussion with Dracony, a member of his crew got... twitchy and severed my favourite hand, which is now... somewhere in the Caribbean. Under the Code of the Coast, of course, that crewman had to die and Dracony did his duty in that regard.

To make a long story short, Dracony is currently under my jurisdiction on Vanishing Point as we try to reawaken his memory and re acclimate him to New Gallifreyan society.

In the mean time, I am attempting to construct a prosthetic hand...

... with one hand.

A conundrum I must admit.

Father never had to deal with this kind of thing, I'm sure....

Personal Log: Entry Alpha Alpha Omega Epsilon

******* ****** Entry Encoded Under ASGARD PROTOCOLS ****** ******

****** ****** BEGIN ENCRYPTION ****** ******

Gur bar jvgu ab cnfg.

Gung'f jung V nz gb gurfr Gvzr Ybeqf.

Gb gurz V nz bar ngbavat sbe n cnfg/shgher pevzrf... Gelvat gb orpbzr n cvyyne bs Arj Tnyyvserlna fbpvrgl.

Vg'f n snpnqr V arrq gb erznva va cynpr sbe abj.

Gur vqrn gung V jnag gb svg va gb n fbpvrgl eha ol gubfr jvgu ab... zrzbel bs gur zvfgnxrf bs gurve naprfgbef vf ynhtunoyr.

Abj gung V erzrzore, V unir fghqvrq bhe naprfgbef, fcrpvsvpnyyl, bs pbhefr, Zbgure naq Sngure.

V xabj, sebz gur zrzbevrf gung unir erghearq, jub gurl jrer naq jul V nz... jryy...ZR, ohg gung jubyr cyna snvyrq.

Vg vf cerfhzrq, ol nal bhgfvqr bofreire, gung Cebwrpg Nftneq jnf n snvyher. V fhccbfr, va vg'f vavgvny checbfr, vg vf.

Ohg, nf fpvragvsvpnyyl oevyyvnag nf Zbgure jnf naq nf vagryyrpghnyyl fhcrevbe nf Sngure jnf, gurl jrer fgvyy anvir naq fubeg-fvtugrq.

Gurl fbhtug gb fgnaq frcnengr sebz gur ebg gung jnf gurve crbcyr.

Ohg gubfr jrer gur npgvbaf bs sbbyf.

Gur Gvzr Ybeqf, sbe nyy bs gurve bofreingvbaf bs gvzr naq fcnpr, ner nf oyvaq nf Gberyna frn-zbyrf.

Gurer vf na byq nkvbz sebz Rnegu (gur gehr bar bs A-Fcnpr) "Va gur xvatqbz bs gur oyvaq, gur bar-rlrq zna vf xvat".

Gur ernyvgl bs gur havirefr abj, ubjrire, vf V unir obgu rlrf...

Abj V whfg arrq gb uryc fbzr bs zl crbcyr bcra gurvef.

Gur cneg gung znxrf zr ynhtu vf gung Ovsebfg gevrq gb gryy zr, ohg, bs pbhefr, V pbhyqa'g haqrefgnaq. N pyrire tvey, fur vf. Fur pubfr zl anzr pnershyyl... jvfryl...

Ohg abj, jr haqrefgnaq rnpu bgure. Abj, jr ner ba gur fnzr cntr, fb gb fcrnx. Cercnengvbaf ner va cebprff, ortvaavat jvgu ryvzvangvat gur... cbzcbhfarff... V unir orra pybnxrq va. Gung jnf Sngure'f jnl. V nz abg zl sngure... V nz fbzrguvat qvssrerag.

V nz sne zber guna zl anzr fhttrfgf.

V nz Gur Znqzna!
****** ******END ENCRYPTION****** ******

Song of the Sea

Things have been fairly calm around New Gallifrey and Vanishing Point lately. The election of the new High Cardinal is done. I lost by a single vote which, while disappointing, was not wholly unexpected. There are, after all, far too many traditionalists within our society. While they are a danger, they are, for now, a small one.

To pass the time, I recently looked in places I used to frequent when I captained The Revenge. My longing for the freedom and happiness of those days has had me somewhat restless of late.

It was at my usual tavern stop in Nassau that I first found something was amiss. The brothers (as those of us who sailed under the black called each other) were... afraid.

Nassau was, at the time, a pirate's republic. We were the true power, governance and military force there. While different crowns traded periods during which their respective banners flew, they held rule over nothing but those banners.

Because the brothers were the true power in Nassau,  the kind of superstitious mumblings that were filling the tavern were disquieting.

The stories were more unnerving than those of the somewhat mythological corsair, The Fox, who, despite the fearful tales of the brethren, was clearly no more than a clever pirate with a taste for theatrics.

No, these stories were tales of ships lured off course by the haunting song of the sirens. Some of them described  hearing a high-pitched howl, others an unholy whirring by some of the smaller islands.

This piqued my curiosity, as sirens were creatures of myth. If they truly existed, it suggests a higher life form than the humans here; potentially extraterrestrial. If the "song" was technological, then it also suggests a potentially time active species.

This would require an investigation, Given the nature of this era's society, it would further require the investigation be clandestine. My best option would be to recover The Revenge.

Prior to our "disappearance", Anne and I hid The Revenge in a concealed inlet. I made my way there and was agog at what I found...

Nothing.

The Revenge was gone.

Mind you, I'm fairly sure I know who had taken her, but I have no time to chase him down at the moment.

Given the short time I had, I returned to Bifrost to track down an appropriate ship to use for this mission.

I managed to find a 44 frigate at anchor just off Tortuga. She was much larger than The Revenge, actually. Since she was at anchor and currently crewless I... liberated her, naming her The Vengeance (and thanking our ancestors for developing the technology necessary to transmat and store such a vessel inside a TTC), then headed to where I could find a crew to investigate these "sirens".

A crew of Time Lords.

Clandestine Caprice and... Some Other C Word

I know, I know. Seven hundred years is a long time to go between entries. Things came up.

So, a recap then, shall we?

Well, while I was still suffering from the nano-gene infection and searching for some kind of cure, I was contacted by ***REDACTED*** about a mission to ***REDACTED***, which I really had no desire to under take, given my condition, but I was the most logical choice, so I accepted it.

Not wanting to travel fully alone for the amount of relative time it would take to accomplish my given task (not to mention my lack of full trust on my abilities should the analgesic mask failed), and so, I enlisted Icie.

Perhaps enlisted is not the proper word. I won't use the word blackmailed, though, because I prefer the sound of the word extorted.

So we set off into the vortex.

I'm not going to bore you with the mathematics involved in what I was tasked with, nor with the entire story of the mission.

I will, however, say this: some time toward the beginning of the sixth century in the vortex, the voice came.

Unlike the voices of the narwhals, which were always somewhat cacophonous and hard to make out,even if they were somewhat unified in their desired communication, this voice overwhelmed everything.

Loud.

Clarion clear.

It told me... He told me... to turn off Bifrost's shields, open The Eye of Madness and open the doors.

This, any Time Lord will tell you, will fill the console room with chronal energies, instantly aging any living thing therein millions, even billions of years. Normally, this would likely even kill a Time Lord.

However, when said Time Lord is infected with nano-genes, things are a bit different.

Now, mad, I may be, but stupid, I'm not. I keep, within Bifrost, a vial of my own blood for... regenerative emergencies. (I do not like to leave anything to chance). I got the vial, told Icie to stay in her room for few hours, and programmed the doors to open for five minutes.

That five minutes of pure chronal energy aged my body nearly one hundred eighty billion years.

Just enough time for the nano-gens to age beyond viability and for me to age to the point of needing regeneration.

Once the doors closed, my regeneration began immediately. I felt every cell in my body rejuvenate. The change was imminent.

So I redirected the remaining of my energies into the vial of blood.

Then, the unexpected happened.

The narwhals fell silent..

Only the voice remained.

SLEEP! it commanded.

AND REMEMBER!

That is all I remember from that moment.

The next memory I have is waking up in my zero room.

Over a century and a half later.

Icie had found me in Bifrost's newly reconfigured console room and dragged me there.

Still, after the zero room, there were no narwhals.

Even the singular voice was gone.

But there was something... unexpected.

My life...

All of it...

Even my life in N-space.

I remember it all.