"Captain! Where is that man?" barked a woman, her voice sharp. She went by the name of Malvulis- First Mate Malvulis- and looked every inch a Dunmer. Fierce red eyes scanned along the deck of the Marie Elena- patience wearing thin, Malvulis decided to charge Ralph with her post. The Breton did not like this, muttering under his breath angrily- every dark-blond strand of hair on his head began to quiver with hate. Towards her. Malvulis jumped onto the deck, her leather heels clacking slightly- the moorings swayed to and fro, the waves pounding against the ship. She strode across the deck, her feet steady... unlike the grey-bearded Imperial who stumbled past. He smelt of heavy ale. And smoke. That made her nose wrinkle harshly, instead of the rotten fish sun-drying along the Waterfront shores- shaking her head, Malvulis noticed something amiss.
Gaston's cabin door was ajar. And there were small tracks of water she felt under her fingernails, as she touched the door frame... except it had a rusty smell. A slippery texture. And a deep- red colour. She thrust open the door with a locked fist- only to find Gaston Tussaud with his insides on the outside. Viscera and gore trickled slowly down from a gaping, open throat- his head was discarded on the floor; a look of horror etched across his eyeballs. His tongue was missing. She took a step forward, only to hear a small croak- her head flickered left to find her Khajiit recruit. His stomach had been punctured thickly, and he was still bleeding out fast. She rushed over, the shock rendering her silent- her hand flew up to cup his face. She looked beside him and could see the mutilated corspe-well, bits of- another sailor. Swallowing quickly as nausea came over her, she heard the Khajiit whisper. Leaning in, she could smell the echo of death on his stinking breath.
"So-on-ner-ss-et w-wah-s he-re." And his head dropped, blood running loose from his mouth.
And murder she screamed, over the waves, the salty breeze; murder ran like wildfire, making people talk faster. More panicked. And another newspaper denouncing her work. Mhezsura pouted like a little girl as she read the article, a mug of mulled wine to her lips. It called her a monster. A daemon. Something risen from the darkest mouths of Oblivion, and walking on Nirn. In short, it called her an evil bitch.
And funnily enough, she didn't give a fuck.