Bilgewater’s White Wharf had earned its name because of the layer of winged animal waste covering it from start to finish, which was distinctly normal at a resting place for the dead.

People here didn’t cover cadavers; they returned them to the ocean. A grave of the depressed dead draped suspended in the cool profundities, set apart by several weaving grave-floats. Some were simply name posts, while others were detailed burial place markers cut to take after raising krakens or hearty ocean vixens.

Miss Fortune sat on a vacant case of Rapture Rum toward the finish of the wharf, legs crossed and a harmful cheroot hanging from her base lip. In one hand, she held a length of breathing cylinder associated with a half-lowered casket skimming low in the water. In the other, she got a handle on a length of frayed rope going through a rusted pulley square and attached to the final resting place cover. Both her guns were holstered inside simple reach.

Twilight cast a feeble sparkle through the fog rolling in from the ocean, recoloring the water’s scummed surface tobacco yellow.

Cawing flesh gulls lined each swaybacked rooftop on the quayside, which was consistently a hint of something to look forward to. They knew superior to any the indications of new pickings.

“About time” she murmured, as a shaven-headed man in a drake-scale dress coat rose up out of the limited, flotsam and jetsam gagged rear entryway. A pack of needle-toothed wharf-rodents followed him, trusting he was smashed and may drop to turn out to be simple meat. The man’s name was Jakmunt Zyglos, one of the Painted Brothers. Any corsair deserving at least some respect had tattoos, yet every last bit of Zyglos was inked with ripped at snakes, sweethearts’ names, and a record of each vessel he’d sunk, each man he’d killed. His skin was as acceptable an admission as any she’d known.

He walked intentionally along the wharf, however his eyes dashing carefully from side to side gave the lie to his certainty.

His hand grasped a long cutlass with a shark-toothed edge that balanced low on his hip. He too flaunted a gun, a thickset carbine with shiny lines running the length of its barrel.

“Where is he?” requested Zyglos. “You said you’d bring him.”

“That a Piltover hex-carbine?” she asked, overlooking his inquiry.

“Answer me, damn you!”

“You first” said Miss Fortune, letting some rope out through the pulley and permitting the casket to sink somewhat more. “All things considered, I don’t know how long this breathing cylinder is, and you wouldn’t need your sibling to abandon air, okay?”

Zyglos slowly inhaled, and she saw the strain leave him.

“Truly, damn you, it’s from Piltover” he stated, drawing the weapon and holding it out by the trigger watchman.

“Pricy” said Miss Fortune.

“I surmise you’d know” he jeered.

She let out significantly more rope.

Air pockets of air got away from the now completely lowered casket. Zyglos held up his hands, right away penitent.

“Okay! Okay!” he argued. “It’s yours. Pull him up. Kindly

“You’ll come discreetly?”

Zyglos gave a bark of fatalistic giggling.

“What decision do I have?” he inquired. “You sank my boats and murdered every one of my men. You’ve sent my family to the poorhouse or the gaol, and for what? A taken hex-firearm? An abundance?”

“A tad bit of both to say the very least?”

“So what amount am I worth to you, bitch?”

“Coin? 500 silver snakes.”

“This anarchy for an awful 500 snakes?”

“It’s not the cash that is got you slaughtered. The reality you’re one of Gangplank’s sworn men” said Miss Fortune. “That is the reason I need you dead.”

“Dead? Pause, the warrant says alive!”

“Valid, yet I’ve never been truly adept at adhering to guidelines” said Miss Fortune, delivering the rope and the breathing cylinder. The final resting place dove into the dimness of the depressed dead, following a foam of unglued bubbles. Zyglos shouted his sibling’s name and ran at her, drawing his serrated blade. She let him get inside spitting separation before drawing her guns and shooting him with the two barrels, one through the eye, one in the heart.

Miss Fortune spat her cheroot into the ocean and blew the smoke from each gag.

“Self protection” she said with a grin, practicing her lie for the abundance pursers. “Insane blockhead came at me with that tooth blade of his. I didn’t have a decision.”

Miss Fortune twisted to recover the fallen hex-carbine.

She turned the weapon over in her grasp. Excessively light for her preferences, however cunningly made and irrationally deadly. The phantom of a grin jerked the edge of her mouth as she recollected the glow of the old workshop, the smell of firearm oil, and the hint of her mom’s hand on her shoulder. Miss Fortune murmured and shook off the memory before it went bad. She tossed the gun out over the water, sending it down to the dead. The ocean requested its due, all things considered, and she’d not lied; the weapon merited a little fortune.

She stood and walked around into Bilgewater. She realized she should toss Zyglos’ cadaver into the water as well, however the wharf-rodents and the carcass gulls needed to eat, isn’t that right?

Also, new meat was an uncommon delicacy on the White Wharf.