For all the trouble it's caused him, keeping a journal helps.

"There's the irony in this." Davenport says aloud.

No one answers him. But he writes there's the irony in this down in the book anyway. It's true. Journaling helps. As does post cards and stone calls. I should still really talk to someone perhaps, he thinks. Like others have suggested. But someday he can't really stomach the idea. He still finds himself saying his own name while talking to aloud to himself after all. The idea of accidently responding to a strangers question with "Davenport!" Makes his tail knot.

And as much he as much as he loves his former crew and former colleagues to give voice to problems to talk to them about it seems to be putting another burden on them. Bottling up problems isn't a good idea either as he's learnt. So, journaling helps. Sometimes he doesn't touch a pen for days. Others he writes until his hand is cramped and it's dark outside or worse getting light outside. Like…Like Lucretia.

Davenport tries not to think of Lucretia. Which means he ends up thinking about her all the more. Of cores he does. Mostly at times like this the comparison of himself now and the younger, young author only just out of cadet training Lucretia. Both of them hunched over their books by dim lights at little desks in pokey cabins as he is now. Necks stiff startled by time. If Davenport had had a gold piece for every time he had seen a light on under the corners of her door and had to check in on her, he could have sunk the Wavehumper; never mind filled the Starblaster! On some planar systems she was even worse than Barry for working late. At least Lucretia wouldn't fall asleep at her desk as much or develop such a caffeine addiction. Then again tired and sleepy humans were easier to handle compared to a caffeinated set of Elf twins. Especially that time in cycle thirty one…

The clock on the wall chimes. Davenport blinks. He'd zoned out, adrift again. His pen still poised over the full stop of There's the irony in this.

"Startled by the time indeed." Davenport sighs and stretches. Thinks. And reads what he is written today. He's sighs again this time in frustration having forgotten what he was writing, having lost his train of thought in memories.

The Wavesmasher has become is becalmed. And has been for the past two days, only drifting with the tide. Davenport counted his rations and ordered his maps and had worked out he if he was still stuck by the afternoon tomorrow, he will have to burn a several spell slots with gusts wind. Or more sensibly fire at the engine and chug along. He'd rather not resort to that. The engine is fitted in case of emergencies. But it's noisy, dirty and slow moving. Not at all like The Starblaster's beautiful bond engine.

He's said so in his journal. Perhaps Barry could come take a look at it next time Wavehumper is at anchor or is in dry dock...

Davenport closed one journal and opened another.

Another ironic like comparison; He has two journals on the go at the same time. (three if you count the one he notebook he keeps at the helm for notes.) He's never been able to do Lucretia's ambidextrous party trick of writing in both, two separate pieces at the same time. Not even with his tail. He had tried in secret he ended up with two wonky illegible copies.

This Journal is large and bound in red leather; and is more of a captain's log and planner then one for personal feelings. Dates time weather sightings etc. He'd kept one on the Starblaster, but with an archivist aboard it hadn't really been necessary all the time. Now Davenport feels its another anchor to keep a grip on things. In the margins of today's date, he makes a note about asking Barry to take a scope at the engine. If he's not too busy reaping things.

Davenport skims over the pages, checking it's all in order. Ship shape as it were. And nods with satisfaction that while being becalmed has put him behind of his plans, he still should make it to the next port of call on schedule. In time to catch the post and the local market, possible even the fair, before continuing on up to the Sword Coast. Most docks are still out of action which means he has to travel further between stops. but with each month more are reopening. More places to explore.

He double checks Weather schedules. His Meal plans. Taako had promised to send him a good meal pre-cooked and Kravitz delivery whatever that meant. He didn't know when but it was noted in the log all the same. There's a bad storm next week set to last a few days as it travels west. There's the flyer for Bar Chesney's grand opening in a few weeks' time. He flipped a few more pages forward from there. Magnus birthday is where it should be, as is everyone else's. Angus's next match the semi-final so to see how the kid does. Barry And Lup's wedding anniversary. Lup's new body and Lup's new body party are in post it notes stuck where the lich had suggested as a rough estimate. He hopes it doesn't get moved back again for her sake. He has Magnus and Barry's therapy days in too, along with reminders to call Merle every Tuesday ( via one of his kids because merle always has his stone on silent.) Some other plans are Months away. But still are There's several candlelight's parties pencilled in. Killian and Careys wedding, on the anniversary of The Day its invitation pressed into the pages-

A tear falls on the page, surprising him. Blast he thinks scrubbing his face. He hadn't realised he'd started to tear up.

He misses his friends. He misses his crew. He misses the Bureau and Fisher. He misses- he wasn't cutting himself off completely was he? He just needed to learn to be himself again same as the other five of seven… He misses the seven of them being the seven of them. He misses spending time with them, sharing meals and insights. He misses Merle and he misses Magnus. He misses Barry and Lup and Taako.

And he misses Lucretia of all people. Even misses her now, as she is, not just the woman he spent a hundred years traveling with. But he misses who she's become. Older. The director. The one who betrayed him. All of them.

He puts down his red diary and again picks up with blue journal. And writes saying as much. Pours out his feelings till he feels lighter. Till his hand is sore but he feels better for it, to get things down on paper.

This journal is blue, smaller but with more pages with it's paper cover illustrated with a generic slightly inaccurate star map. Davenport originally brought to serve as a ship log. But it's days would often be so full of anger and joy and Sorrow and new discoveries, he'd gotten another, the red one in order to keep his ordering in order.

Is that what she did? Ships logs in one hand or one pocket and a private but more personal account in the other? The thought brings up a very vague memory of Lucretia. He can't see her face as its turned away from him as she stretches out her back. He can't remember where it is- or when he can't place it in any year, century or decade. But he remembers two books on her lap, set down as she flexes and massages her tired wrists.

But he misses her. Well he misses all of them. But right now in this moment, at his two books, he misses her. Worse he understands why she did the unforgivable. Would it be better if he didn't? He's not sure. They really need to talk sometime…

Davenport sighs. Tidies away his pen and ink. Then closes both books, sets them back on his shelf, next to a stack of post cards. And goes to take a walk on the deck.

Yeah, journaling helps. But that's enough for today.