The raid went well. Better than I could have imagined. Eight slaves were lost; easily replaced. The wreckers are mine. Hardened, ruthless, mindless; clay in my hands. They could not resist the sirines' song; now they dream of me.
Their leader was planning a raid on the cove; he would have failed, but our losses would have been high. In one strike, months of strife has ended; the sirine queen knows this. She is compliant. For now.
The wreckers' have far less than I hoped for; vagrants without vision, they pawn off pitiful cargos to a contact in Beregost. A dwarf; 'Kagain', a caravan runner. He may prove useful, in time.
Still, the brigands are armed; not well, but enough.
There is a fortress south of here, infested by gnolls. Crude, but remote. It could serve as a base; to gather, equip, train others. It is not beyond my grasp, but even with the sirines, I lack the numbers needed.
The slaves tell me there is a village nearby, high in the hills. They say a xvart shaman inhabits it, that many of his kin dwell there. If my numbers are to grow, I need arable land.
The storm gave up her riches; a dwarven smith was amongst the survivors. The sirines took him, and three others. Why the sea spared him, I don't know, but I will not argue with such good fortune. His mind fell easily, and I shall put him to work in the village. But a smith needs ore; I have heard the rumours, the slaves confirm it: the ore here is rotten. Many leave to find work elsewhere. I must investigate this more closely.