A child of a hard arm for a notorious pirate (I dread to write his name)and a voodoo priestess. Her broken mechanical wings held her aloft just long enough to get inland far enough to be away from those cursed Imperialists, now I am free to roam to the country. Then once my wings are fixed, the world.
Wings fixed, albeit against their wishes. Inland has grown sour. The pigs that have basted themselves till they were wreaking, wretched in their filth, and sticky in their sloppy grotesque-ry. I must bath myself in the Sea once more. This time to the seaside shores of my souls' past lives. I recuse myself to my boat once again, for silent reflection on my abstaining from the tables of those so soiled. My boat, she will fly again. I will grow stronger, calculated in my repose.