FUCKING FUCKED FUCKSTICKS
As you may have gathered, I'm pretty fucking pissed off. Some fucker shot Jeff. A fucking proxy. So I'm back in England; Jeff's alive, but he can't really do what he needs to do. Frankly, we're not even sure if he'll make it; he's pretty fucked up. Fucking Deimos (yeah, the ancient Greek personification of terror. How fucking egotistical) has taken control of most of Delta's old group. And there are a fuckload of them. Fucker decided to eliminate all the competition or something, I have no fucking idea. Maybe he's just fucked in the head. I should have fucking been there
Anyway, I'm back in England. You don't fuck with my people and get away with it. He wants a civil war? He's fucking crazy, but he can't be allowed to continue.
Congratulations, Sanna. I'm not following you right now. I'll find you later.
OK, I've calmed down somewhat now. Still fucking pissed off, but I've just got the estimates on numbers. Sobering stuff. Twelve of us, and thirty odd of them, plus several hallowed. Royally fucked if it goes to a pitched battle. After all, we ain't that great at fighting. Well, I'm not, neither is Orbis, or Kappa, or Grace, or me. Asbolus isn't bad on the range, and Quasit knows his way around a sword. And Caligori knows a thing or two. Still, three good fighters and ten decent ones against thirty people? Slaughter. Times like this I'd be drinking, but I can't afford to. Fuck, I can't face this sober and I can't drink. I need a fuck-off brilliant plan. Any of youse got suggestions?