Tis blasted cold has cut me and me men to the core.  Winds howling like the ghosts of all ye lost swashbucklers, make even bones of the youth ach on these decks.  Me brawl iced over and me hands black with bite, I lead me men on ward so tae might live to tell arr tails of our journey to all the lassies in port. The devil him self walks me ship, and seeks to infect ti crew with doubt and fatigue.  If the mighty sea can be calmin its temper and me crew can catch a wink, then I be believing that we may live to make an new entry in me ledger.