Warlock! Something is Rotten in Grim Biskerstaf...

Trusova doesn't know what's going on between the dock hands and the confessors. It's not that she can't understand it; she's developed an anti-curiosity in her profession toward anything that might drag her into more trouble. She backs away from the immediate scrum, happy to let whatever person wanted to take credit for the slaying to step forward and assert their claim.

Lambert’s arms and legs had almost been parallel by the end of it all; such was exertion on the hook.

When the body falls slump, the force of Lambert continuing to pull lands him with a wet arse and sitting on the dock. But he can’t find it in himself to stand up yet. His legs had gone to jelly. He pants:

"Right, well. I’d say we did alright there!"

And then he stoppers his mouth as the blade is drawn on the dock worker. If the Witch Hunter took a turn, they could all be burned for just interacting with the thing.

’Preventative measures’ they called it.

Foghorn's profession means he must maintain good relations with the dock workers. Then again, he's always disliked yhis particular blowhard. And anyone'd have fish guts for brains to be gettin' on the witch-hunter's bad side!

Foghorn helps Lambert up and enlists his aid securing the blob.

Wheezing, Lambert nods at Foghorn, and quietly says a quick "Thanks!"

Then his eyes go to the two guards, as he busies himself with bringing the full, wet mass back onto solid ground. They’d know the man better than anyone else, if they worked with him regular. They’d signal what usually happens next!

It would appear Rausimod had been entirely unaware of the commotion going on behind him, his focus was so intent on the sea. "Right, then! Time for an ale. No better way to mourn loss than drowning in suds." The dwarf rises to his feet, wipes off his mouth (though neglecting most of the beard), and turns back to his recent fishing crew. He looks down on the blob, then up to the confessor, then to the captain. "I assume we're getting paid for this... thing?"

There's not much of a splash, and fewer ripples as the dwarf's mace disappears into the river, claimed by the slow-moving mass of gray, forbidding water. Rausimond mourns the loss briefly as Banio blends in with the crowd and Trusova steps back as well. Lambert and Foghorn work on making sure the sodden mass of steaming, now blackened flesh stays put, but the thief lends an eye towards the two guardsmen to see how they are reacting to the steel in the Confessor's hand, and in his words.

Interestingly, they look at one another, and glance they share is an uncertain, perhaps worried one. The city's guard are renowned for not wanting to work too hard, and for preferring to settle things quietly. A few coins here, a promise there -- that's the usual way with the watchmen. Today, these two men have clearly been pressed into a service they find distasteful, and at some level they look as afraid of the demon-hunter as anyone else present.

"Well?" Tyrinious says to the formerly mouthy dockworker, the end of his dagger still at the man's bare, vulnerable neck.

The bald man risks a swallow, then says, "Lord Telk wi--"

The rest of the sentiment goes unheard when the Confessor bares his teeth and opens the man's throat, flicking a wet spray across the dock with a single violent motion. Blood spurts and fountains until the docker brings his hands to the wound and falls to his knees. The red fluid bubbles and courses as the shocked man's mouth moves for a few seconds more, until Tyrinious wipes the end of his ornate, straight-bladed dagger on the man's shoulder, then turns from him.

"You wish payment for dragging this here, do you?" he says to Rausimod as he walks to face the dwarf. Raising an eyebrow at his dagger for a brief spans of seconds, he then smiles slightly and sheaths it.

"Very well. Well earned. If you find more, I'll pay for those too. And if you find the source of this corruption, the payment will be ten times this." Extending a gloved hand, the man shows Rausimod two coins of gold. Gold! "And a hundred times this, should you put a stop to it."

Rausimod accepts the gold, and his eyes lock with the confessor's. A rookie mistake if he had ever made one. The man's eyes threatened to drag out his secrets. The dwarf breaks out in a cold sweat, and scurries along to find any familiar face.

Seeing the gold coins pass from man to dwarf gives Lambert’s legs their strength back.

"And will it be two gold apiece, sir. Or shared among the few of us! If you don’t mind me asking, that is! Lodgings to think about, and such, is all!"

Trusova starts to wonder what happens if they don't find the source of corruption. Would taking the confessor's gold make them accountable for getting results? Clearly that's not what he said, but men like this often said one thing but expected much more.

But, she had to admit the coin was good, and she suspected the taint that created this demonspawn was also responsible for The Blight. What's more, now that the Confessors were involved she could plausibly tell her superiors that her services were commandeered to deal with The Blight, should they wonder why she was delayed.

She surveyed the team. They kept their shit together when the terror was upon them, showed good instincts. Rausimod lost his maul in the river, true, but weird things happen in battles. She wasn't even sure where Banio got to, but maybe that was a skill they could put to use.

She watches Rausimod take the money. She makes sure to give respectful but brief thanks to Tyrinious even as the dock hand lies dying from the gash in his neck (I mean, what did he expect to happen?). She ropes in Rausimod, who has their gold coins, and engages him in conversation.

"Hey there, shame 'bout your mace. Perhaps you can use your share of that gold to get another. Surely of lesser craftsmanship than your mum's but hopefully still effective at caving in skulls."

"Aye, dragonseer," says the dwarf to Trusova. He had called her that since he had first discovered it was she who had seen a dragon, and he considered that a powerful omen. "I ought to have you buy me a new one out of your pocket for dragging me on that boat to begin with! You won't get away from me that easily." Though he doesn't immediately split the coins out (likely due to the number of crewmembers and the smaller number of coins), he does give a nod to any who talk of shares.

Now that Trusova sees a plan unfolding, she doesn't skip a beat to point out the silver lining of their current situation while responding to Rausimod.

"Hey, say one thing about this boat, say that it's led to a lucrative venture! Between the slime buckets and the demonspawn, we've made good coin. Not the easiest coin, but everyone's still got their fingers and toes. Truth be told, I'm all for putting an end to this corruption Tyrinious spoke of. The money's good, plus a friend of mine caught The Blight. It's all gotta be connected, right? So, who's in? We split everything even."

Foghorn watches the Confessor gut the docker like a trout. The fisherman's seen and done his share of killin' back in the day, and not fish neither.

He accepts the charter to rid the waters of whatever foul corruption ails it. When talk turns to splitting the payment, a grimace crosses his wide, sunburnt face.
"I say, 'even split' ain't fair at all. It's my boat, understand? By rights, captain deserves triple share, but I'll take double."

---

And they say I’m a thief…

Lambert guffaws at the prospect of an unequal share.

"It’s you who should be paying us to board that bloody death trap, not the other way round!"

The man loses all pretense of good manners once the Witch Burner is out of the picture.

It's Foghorn's turn to laugh.
"I guarantee, no other captain'd be daft enough to hire you folk. Fugitives, all, and a dwarf! Yer welcome aboard the Amity, and I'll split with ye fair six ways. Good luck findin' a deal like that."

"Ah, then it's on the captain to replace the lost goods of the crew, if we're all negotiatin' after the fact. AND to buy the first round of ale. And if we're to keep on with ye, lodgin's and eatin's. Never negotiate with a dwarf, boy."

"Lose it on my boat, I just might. Round of ale's on me after our next haul. Lodgin' and eatin'... what's mine's yours."

"We're taking a short breather, then heading back out. Confessor ain't payin' for gabbin'."

Foghorn busies himself getting the Amity ship-shape. He's under no illusion every one of his ragtag crew are staying on.

Trusova is fine with heading back out on the water; it meant more coins in her pocket in the short term, which both she and Whiskeyjack sorely needed. She doubts the root of the problem will be found skimming the surface of the water, but she doesn't know where else to start. She hops on the boat, unties the mooring tether, and moves to the prow with spear in hand. "Let's kill some demonspawn."

Daft and desperate…

"By short breather, I suppose you mean a night at the tavern. Short on the cosmic scale of things! Unless you’re paying overtime, that is"

Confessor Tyrinious nods at all who offer any semblance of agreement to his terms… which he makes clear with a quick word to the two city guards. "A penny for a bucket, a silver for a barrel. Fetch me from the Urdest Tower should they bring in anything bigger." Pointing to the dying dock worker, to the man now gurgling and breathing his last, he adds, "And clean that up, shove that scow off the dock. Make room for the perfumed Hissainians."

The ship’s captain and crew fall to squabbling and chatting as the witch-hunter departs, his dark cloak flowing behind him as the crowd parts for his passing.

Out on the water, light from the setting sun — just broken through the clouds — reflects and glints. It plays on the ornate, gilded bits on the ship from Far Hissain, too, and there are more than a few of those. At the prow of that ship a woman stands, tall and lean, dark-haired and exotic, garbed in sheer silks and adorned in jewelry that also catches the waning light.

Two mustachioed men row in close in a long, narrow dory, one unlike anything Foghorn has seen before. It is built for speed rather than capacity or stability, and he wonders how it would fare in heavy seas.

"Excuse me!" One of the brightly clad men says in accented speech. "We were promised this berth! The Sultana has been waiting!"

Banio keeps out of the way-- and out of the dying man's blood-- until Confessor Tyrinious has left the dock. Once the coast is clear, Phelbt stalks up to Foghorn and puts his soft little hand out.

"I believe I'm owed three silvers, for the barrels of sludge I recovered." Recovered might be a strong word for what Banio did on the waters of the Vessen; he was quite good at spotting the noxious slime, but his hauling skills left something to be desired. "I saw the Confessor pay you my share, and now you must pay it to me."

If Banio is concerned that the matter of his three silvers is keeping a Sultana of Hissain waiting on her pretty ship, he shows no sign.