From the journal of Bastian Ironhand…
I’ve come back from the brink yet again, I have. Old Boris Makarov sent us on one last crusade for him to bring in an infamous thief called the Rogue. We tracked the man down in the north with no trouble, but our train ride back to Korsk was interrupted when another train came up from behind and ran us off the tracks. Once we came to, we found ourselves fighting strange raven-beasts. They might’ve been a challenge for lesser men, but not for the Dogcatchers! Once we slayed the foul beasts, we found that our train was transporting nothing other than blasted Cryxian technology! It seems to us that Mr. Vargus is up to no good. We all might just have to have us a chat, we might.
Though he was our prisoner, the Rogue found a manual rail cart and offered us transport to the nearest town. During the ride, we discussed this man’s fate. As it turns out, he isn’t the Rogue – he’s just the current man using the name. We agreed that honor comes before payment and advised him to let the name die. At any rate, we made it to a town only to find it deserted, and while we were sleeping through the night, some old “friends” of Din’s arrived. Some legions of the Everblight, they were. Fearsome, twisted bunch! They brought an army but agreed to pit their champions against us. Little did they know what we’d found in town – the Lady Ayn, a heavy warjack. If the Lady herself was half as beautiful as her ‘jack, I’d be in love. We faced off and taught those monsters why one doesn’t take on the Dogcatchers.
We returned to Korsk and told old Boris that the Rogue was dead, which is more or less true. He paid us a bit anyway, Morrow bless him. And though I had to give the Lady Ayn back to the Khadorans, my lovely Zachik had a surprise waiting for me – a custom light warjack she’d been working on for some time. She’s some woman, she is. I must admit that I found my thoughts turning to her whenever someone wasn’t trying to kill me. I don’t know if I can ever repay her in kind, but I’ll do my best. I’m seeing her often, since we must steer clear of our normal residence while one of Makarov’s political rivals has it under investigation. Despite Makarov’s proximity interfering with my business, I’ll soon have her own custom armor finished. By Morrow, if it isn’t the finest craftsmanship she’s ever worn, then I’m an ogrun. I’ve also made some purchases for myself – the vagrants we chase down won’t stand a chance.