“Mum! Look! It’s disco death!”
Baba Yaga considered this.
“I accept that title.”
Near the docks, Blackbeard himself drifted proudly across the harbour, shirtless again, spectral chest gleaming in the morning light while he loudly argued with a fisherman about “authentic pirate aesthetics.”
“Put a shirt on!” Baba Yaga yelled.
“THE SEA IS MY SHIRT,” Blackbeard shouted back dramatically.
“The sea has failed you.”
Several nearby locals snorted into their drinks.
Blackbeard ignored them completely, climbing onto a stack of crates and striking a heroic pose.
Baba Yaga rolled her eyes so hard she nearly saw another dimension.
Honestly.
Men.
A local witch passed her carrying several crates of magical lanterns.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
The witch hesitated briefly before lowering her voice.
“Did you hear about the kidnapping?”
Baba Yaga stopped walking. Interesting.
“No,” she said calmly. “But I’m about to.”
Which was how, over the next twenty minutes, she collected the story piece by piece from increasingly dramatic locals.
Edith gone.
Taken before dawn.
A forged note.
One of the bounty hunters involved.
The gold-eyed fiancé.
Boats leaving the harbour.
Kraken sightings near the cliffs.
By the time she reached the harbour wall overlooking the sea, half the town was buzzing with outrage.
One fisherman loudly offered harpoons.
Three elderly witches discussed curses over pastries.
