There had been rumors about a killer hushed from lips in any bar along any dock in Bilgewater all the way to Buhru. Killing was as much in anyone’s nature as breathing, so it remained stagnant for weeks. The typical feigned grief over some sad, salty seafarer, sent for one more voyage into the depths of the water. But people get to talking, and talking leads to discovery. The Bloodharbor Ripper. It was actually quite the generic title, unfitting of the actual deeds. Maybe they knew no one would be sane enough to try seeking him out if they were actually aware of what waded beneath.
And that’s where Malcolm found himself the past some-days, easing against the edge of an alley in the Slaughter Docks. The moonlight glistened off of the water below as well as the Myron’s Dark he had coasted from one of the nearby establishments. He sat with the bottle at his side, his shotgun splayed on his lap, and a small handkerchief of various nuts. He had been there for a while, as his drink had begun to sweat, and there was only the occasional hummed sound of drunks emerging from the Bridge above. This place had never been quite as quiet since new heads had emerged the while back. He glanced across his shoulder, only a few ship hands and some disorderlies were still around. Shoving an assortment down, he turned to a poster he was keeping as his coaster. No picture but a crude monster drawn with giant fangs.
If they were to be taken at their own value, the word was the deaths all connected to a ship. A ship that no one could find even existed. And anyone that seems to know of it winds up dead, so no one was going to be keen on opening their gob to have it strewn apart come the next sunrise. This type wouldn’t typically concern him at all, but the reward was one of the biggest in some time. And something about it intrigued him. Almost familiar about the way the bodies were torn or put to sea by this pattern. Any man would have to come up for air sometime, so maybe it was time to see the Ripper.
