Our mourning done and crew gear set, again we made haste to church entrance.
Bart’s reflex quick as waif made for his purse, then fleet of foot beneath the boards.
Our trek in vain as hatch caved over, a whisper of memory come too thin to grasp.
Again ascending as the Ratboy rambled, and to Belladonna’s we set out.
Accosted en route by scoundrels met, our timbers shivered by their threat.
One cleaved in twain to ask no more, one sent toppling for evermore.
At whorehouse welcomed by Lady Grey, with dark needs met we settled in.
Reminded of the Duke’s ill will, we took our rest with no bequests.
Awoke to tales of Sweet Mae’s savagery, manticore left amongst the sawdust.
To musty bookstore next we went, the storekeep there ugly as fish.
“The key is Fibonacci” read, from Scribbin’s desk to Cap’n’s head.
A parable named 1,1,2,3,5,8, picked up it seemed to seal our fate.
As flames grew high we forced escape, while shopkeep dropped through narrow hatch.
Walking then at pace now quickened, Cove’s eyes upon our brisk descent.
By Scabworks back to soul unbound, through traps and halls to maidens door.
Shot loaded and rituals laid, we stormed forth into the fray.
She staggered ‘neath this new assault, ‘neath axe and fist within her vault.
Pistol rang and anchor fell, her form dissolving down to hell.
The maiden’s ever living eyes, swept with anchor to our hold.
As bones and body brought to ground, the Spaniards soul at once set free.
Ghostly chains and cutlass left behind, gathered quickly for our coffers.
Our crew left now to decide where next we’d seek our prize.
Pirate Björk 