"Blast it!"
Of course, "blast it" was exactly what Balyn had just failed to do. He'd wanted to hurl a flaming Molotov cocktail into a cluster of oil-filled urns, setting off an explosion that would consume the giant shark-faced fishman that had lumbered around the corner of the decrepit, barnacle-encrusted building. He'd wanted to repay the thing for nearly giving him a heart attack when he was just trying to run down one of the harpooners.
Well, you can't always get what you want.
Especially when you have lousy aim, he added as the Molotov shattered harmlessly against the wall of the building, the wood so sodden and slimy that it was no more flammable than Yharnam brickwork.
Balyn flung himself aside just in time to avoid the bulk of the giant as it hurled itself at him in a sliding tackle, hurtling across the watery square. He got to his feet, but now the harpooner was on him, plunging its spear down in a running charge, and Balyn barely sidestepped the attack in time to keep from being the catch of the day. Growling, he raised his saw cleaver and slashed out, ripping the serrated teeth through the fishman's hide like it was a flensing knife, spattering the corrupted ichor that served the thing for blood.
He was just raising his cleaver to deliver the finishing blow when he was suddenly seized from behind, clasped in two giant fishbelly-white hands, and lifted into the air. He kicked frantically, trying to free himself, but could do no more than look back over his shoulder helplessly as the monstrous creature opened its jaws wide...and bit down.
~X X X~
"There ought to be some kind of consolation prize for this," Balyn sighed as the sweetness of moonflowers replaced saltwater and decaying sea slugs in the air. "Some kind of collectible with every twenty-five deaths. Saw cleaver keychains. Messenger plushies."
"Welcome home, good hunter," the Plain Doll greeted his muttering. "Are...you all right?" She tilted her head to get a better look at his face.
"What? Oh, yeah, sorry. Seaside towns just always make me think of tourist stuff. I don't know, maybe I once worked a summer job at a resort town?"
He rose to his feet, stretching out the imaginary stiffness from his newly uninjured body.
"Anyway, back to work. Hey! You guys!" he called out to the messengers in the bath. "Do you have anything like a crawfish for sale?"
"A crawfish, good hunter?" If anything, the Doll looked even more puzzled.
"It's the first rule of fishing: always use the right bait. And I'm pretty certain now that those giant fishmen are"—he rubbed his rump ruefully, remembering shearing teeth—"definitely bottom feeders."