I'm still aboard this creaking thing that Meagan calls a boat. Anton Sokolov, once the designer of mighty ships, thrown against the malevolent Ocean, and large enough to heave the great leviathans aboard, thrashing and spilling their life's blood across the decks. Majestic ships, swift, with luxurious cabins, fit for an Empress. Where are those vessels now? They are far too important to carry an old man like me. I've been abandoned by my own creations.
But maybe that's the way it should be. Haven't I been cruel? Selfish? Perhaps I should be forgotten; consigned to the junk heap. Maybe I should die, at last. And there's a chance I will - on this final escapade. To Dunwall then. We'll see what's left of me.