"Oooh, yeah, dove," crooned the whore. "Oi've seen 'im, 'e's doin' loads o' bis'ness 'round 'ere!" A grubby hand clutched the coins tightly while the other reached out. "Moight 'av' more ta tell ya', dove, if ya grease me ol' palm some mo'."

Glowing eyes the colour of embers bored into the watery ones of the leady of negotiable affection. A brief nod, the clinking of a few more coins, an irritable hand gesture. The whore in her cheap, often-mended crinoline dress muttered, bending so close that her customer could smell the cheap rum she had drunk last night, and the grease of her unwashed hair.

"There's a Miqo'te gal seekin' 'im as well. Not from these parts, mind ya. Blue as you, jus' lighter and prettier. She's boardin' up in the Wench, like they do."

"Thank you. If I find her, you might be in luck. Provided you keep that mouth of yours shut nicely."

"Sure, dove, ye can trust me."

The whore's words met only the retreating back of her business partner, who had set off at a brisk walking speed. A brief dismissive wave of a scale-covered hand dismissed her last remark.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

The morning sun reflected off the shiny surface of the sea, turning it golden where the waves crisscrossed. With them they carried, soft, trailing hair and cheap crinoline skirt, the body of an aging prostitute who had fallen in the night, drunken, no doubt, after a generous customer had spent too much of his hire on her. The sun turned her sightless eyes and milky pupils the same gold as the rings that had been singed into the horn-like protrusions of the Au'ra who sat at a table outside of the Drowning Wench, a large oilskin sack by her feet. When she had finished her breakfast of sugared dodo eggs, rice and tea, she shouldered the bag and left, whistling the tune of a lewd war song.