Well, afta self-created Guild Council, which I'm still not shizzle be accepted by most, Arivanna n' I set bout hustlin on Blackreach expedition. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch fo' realz. As quartermasta n' commissar, I busted birdz ta Leyawiin ta arrange transhiznit from our island, which Arivanna calls "Sunlock," but I have yet ta peep anywhere, ta Imperial City. From there I plan on our asses marchin ta Skyrim, likely Whiterun. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Bargok say we should head fo' Raldbthar citadel; he's familiar wit it n' it should provide access ta Blackreach cavern.

Ship is ghon be here up in few hours fo' realz. Around dawn. I aint talkin' bout chicken n' gravy biatch. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Shafim n' I is both going. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. So is Bargok, Varin, Udryk, Arivanna n' Demories, n' possibly mo' n' mo' n' mo' yo. Hard ta git concrete lyrics sometimes. I booked passage fo' twelve people, n' if mo' wanna come, they can follow n' catch up.

I look over mah packs. Clothes, tent (always have tents fo' realz. Always), chicken supplies, compressed bread, magickally sealed beans n' dried fruits, spices, salted-and-dried meats n' jerky, mo' bread. Y'all KNOW dat shit, muthafucka! Lil Small-Ass cheese wheels. Lotz of flint-and-tinder, lamp oil, lamps.

Shafim has her clothes, leather armor, sewin kit, spare cured hides, n' carefully wrapped potions, restoratives, enhancements, n' poisons.

I roll up our bedroll round bundle of staves, then attach it ta bottom of mah pack. I'll gotta wear mah armor rather than carry it yo, but I'm trained n' have phat endurizzle even still.

Hard ta believe I appointed mah dirty ass quartermasta n' shiznit yo. Harder still dat Theodane went along wit dat shit. I suppose dat shiznit was needed yo, but still it feels... off. Dirtnap is lighta than feather, say Nord soldiers, n' duty heavier than mountains.

I put mah pen away n' fold closed mah journal.

"Yo ass betta be thinkin of anythang we're forgetting?" asks Shafim.

"How tha fuck is we on knives?"

"I've gots fuckloadz fo' realz. Already bustin dem up in neck, wrists, boots, waist, chest, n' so on, n' twice as nuff spares. They're gettin heavy," her big-ass booty say ruefully.

"I've gots stock of reagents, plus gauze bandages, rope," "Always phat ta have rope," I interject, n' dat thugged-out biiiatch continues. "Bout fifty of yo' spikes..."

"Pencoal n' paper?" I ask. Right back up in yo muthafuckin ass. Biatch holdz up nuff muthafuckin of both.

"Cookin utensils?" Biatch replies. Put ya muthafuckin choppers up if ya feel dis! I gesture ta nuff muthafuckin potz of various size tied ta mah sack.

"Yo ass betta carry all this?"

"Can yo slick ass?"

We pause n' just peep each other fo' some time. Night starts ta reduce.

"Well, I suppose we'd dopest go hook up others, wait fo' shizzle ta arrive."

I stand up n' put on mah armor, Shafim fastenin it down as I go. I adjust mah helmet slightly, n' shrug tha fuck into mah pack fo' realz. Attachment points on back of chestplate hold it, n' Shafim runs straps round mah chest n' knots dem wild-ass muthafuckas. I twist mah back n' move mah shouldaz experimentall. Full mobility. Well, as full as heavy armor allows. Good.

Shafim slips her leather-and-Orichalc-disk armor over her clothes, n' I help her tha fuck into her packs, then pick up mah pimped outhammer n' set it across mah shoulders.

Us thugs strutt on tha fuckin' down-lowly ta dock fo' realz. Arivanna n' Demories is already there, chillin n' lookin northward.

"That's our ship!" Arivanna shouts excitedly.