From the private logbook of Decadent Design, Captain HRH Aurora Dawn.
Rusty has raised the suggestion of abandoning the mission as a lost cause. I refused him outright, but privately I must admit to having been tempted. There is too much going on, events that defy explanation, the crew being driven down by this incessant racket, the invisible leer that haunts our every waking moments. My own horrible vision.
And now somepony has snuck into my cabin and written in my private journal. I am loath to confess that I lost my temper and flew into an unseemly, unprofessional rage at the sight of those scrawled words in no form of hoof or hornwriting I recognize. They almost look like the work of a child. A prank played by some uncouth, disrespectful member of the crew, perhaps. I hate to imagine one of my own committing the nefarious deed, but to whom else might I cast blame?
I spoke to the master at arms, if one can deem the shouting I threw about so violently as ‘speaking’. There is no denying that what happened is unacceptable conduct for the crew of one of Her Highness’s airships, but my own manner was every bit as unbecoming. Surprisingly, it was Rusty Iron who calmed me, brought me back to my cabin, and soothed my bearing with a purely medicinal dosage of my own regulation-unfriendly stash of brandy, which he refused to partake in beyond a single glass.
We spoke for over an hour in my quarters, each spilling forth our troubles and concerns. I, attempting to make up for my sudden display of immaturity, tried to keep things strictly professional, but was both intrigued and horrified when Rusty spoke to me of a grave secret. He spoke to his father last night. His father, who is well-known to have died in the final conflict between the princesses and that nameless blight upon the Crystal Empire’s tarnished legacy. The conversation, he said, had been a confusing one in which his father struggled to recognize him and even took several tries to recall his name. Rusty, thinking the whole matter a dream at the time, had begged his father to refresh his flagging memory of the dark secrets of the occult so that he might better face what was before us. His father provided no such answers, instead impressing upon him the firm and fierce instinct to leave this place and not return for a time so great that his many times great grandchildren would surely not live to see it come to pass.
A dream, Rusty had first claimed. Yet the more he spoke, in hushed and trembling airs, the more he questioned whether it was so. I chose not to speak of my own spectral, hideous encounter that night. The old stallion’s mind is strained enough as it is, to further stress his physical and mental constitution would be unbecoming. It was then that he asked, respectfully, politely, that we call the whole investigation off. Even if we chose not to reveal the supernatural elements of these encounters, could we not use the clear and documented medical malady affecting the entire crew as a justifiable excuse?
As I said previously, I rebuffed him, though kindly. We are officers of Princess Cadance’s Royal Air Navy, and we should act the part! He was clearly displeased by my decision, and I blame him not in the least, but he raised no further argument, and soon the matter was dropped entirely.
There is still the matter who who invaded the privacy of my journal. Even now, it steams me to my core. Yet time, Rusty's unusually conscientious conversation, and a bit of loosening of the nerves via suitable application of contraband brandy have altogether cooled my fearsome rage. Make no mistake, I intend to get to the bottom of it, yet for now it must be accepted that more pressing matters should remain at the forefront of my attention. I must take great strides to act the consummate professional and make up for my embarrassing, if temporary, forfeiture of composure in front of the crew.