Red flashed from the necks of the cannons across the bay, and the plip-plopping sound of bodies hitting water, the cries of terror being cut short, inspired no sympathy or pity. Instead he growled, trembling with rage, teeth clenched tighter than a clam with the most precious of pearls to guard. Foot by foot he stomped, each step full of hatred, to the railing of the deck, where men he might have once given a glimmer of respect plummeted into the depths of the bay, the murky blackness of the sea, cold and unforgiving on the moonless night. Cowards deserved no better than a watery grave, but this did not cross his mind. None of the carnage dared seep into his thoughts, lest it be cut down murderously like he did the majority of things that were not to his liking, especially if they be human. All he saw was the red flowers blooming and fading into the sea breeze from the bounty hunter's cannons, and the deck below him retreating into the abyss each time it took a blow, splintering and giving way to erupting flames that soon engulfed the entire vessel. Still his anger seethed until the tension was so great that the world itself might snap at any moment.
When no more cries of the drowning or wounded could be heard, and the carcass of the ship drifted ever deeper, a final cry was heard, and the last flower blossomed. He did not see it wilt and fade, but screamed so furiously at the world that were he to die that day it would remember the piercing cry, all across bilgewater and the rest of Runeterra, the fury with which the former Reaver King, the Saltwater Scourge, Gangplank himself departed.
When the ball hit, the final remnants of the ship were blown to pieces and the King was sent through the air like a child, hitting the water heavily with a dull splash. And as the icy water pressed him down, squeezing out the anger, he realised his stupidity, his carelessness, that had led to being ambushed and defeated so easily; it all came flooding back in and he let it out with the last breath in his body. With nothing left to live for and nothing to keep him alive, he felt a peace had blossomed in his chest. He noted his left arm was almost completely missing, but it mattered not. Several gashes had been dug into his chest in the explosion, but they did not harbour any pain or more attention than a mental note.
And so it was that he drifted down, ever down, deeper than the bay of bilgewater. No marine life could survive these depths, treacherous and unknown. Yet here he was, not humanly conscious but able to see, to feel. And in the lightless void he saw a seething mass, a writhing entity of green that made his stomach turn and his heart give out. In death did the bearded lady speak to Gangplank, and utter sweet words that reminded him of life, of the joys of living. It told of the fate snatched away as cruelly as by the sea, and what remained in store for him. Sweet words of the Priestess echoed through his thoughts, uplifting his soul. He felt peace and adrenaline, love and hatred; he desired revenge and a personal, twisted justice. With new purpose and resolve he replied to the Bearded lady, and felt it pull him down, impossibly far, until he was hurtling towards the surface.
The clouds had parted and the moon shone down on the bay; waxing but not yet full. A hand could be felt on the young woman's thigh, pleasant and welcome. But when another was felt just under her breast she yelped and smacked it away, surprised, turning towards her lover. She smiled and shook her head, wagging her finger from side to side signifying a playful "Not just yet", a gesture the boy received all too regularly. He smiled, acting as it was a tease, and the couple strode off towards the next bar along the waterfront. It was quieter on this side of town; cannons didn't flare and people were seldom found come morn with bloodied necks and punctured hearts. It seemed all too peaceful and the two were enjoying the evening.
With a gurgling from the depths, and a rushing of water, a man, tall, well built and terrifying clawed his way out of the sea onto the rocks, gasping and spluttering. He collapsed onto his back, caught his breath and reached into a pouch on his belt for an item that he pressed to his lips with his right hand. Startled, the couple dared not move, curious yet fearful. He turned to them.
As he awkwardly stood and emerged from the gloom, the hulking figure frightened them more and more until he was just a few feet away, red dripping from his clenched teeth, cold night air being sucked in through them. They fled towards the Bridge, up into the bowels of the dense buildings, wishing such a monstrosity was forgettable. Such blind panic they fled with that neither noticed the missing limb or the distinctive tattoos that would make any coastal man ruin his britches and run inland never to return. Gangplank laughed, his stump-arm shuddering in the cold, the salt water drying on his skin. He decided being alive felt good; surely more so if it housed revenge.
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