Seadogs & Blackspots

I can't help but chuckle, wishing I weren't outta whiskey and back to the rum. But years at sea, and even my time on Siren Island, has taught me you don't always get what ya yearn for. It ain't like I went there for decades-old scars on my neck and arms from a flesh-deprived Siren. Not like I knew she'd wind up being the only fortune I'd ever really find at sea or that my first bludgeon would be some long-of-tooth wanker called Eugene. Oh, the memories. Legends of things I'd never have had the nerve to dream even on that first journey to the New World. They hit me like waves by the tallest of shores. My Agata. Alexandria. And now, her son. Our legacy. The only treasures left I'll ever have any use for again. Agata: My heart. My soul. The kind of woman legacies are built upon. And now, even she's gone. Stolen from me to eternal sleep; ashes scattered at sea. Or is she?