Ho there,

Word's reached our quarterdeck that the pious folk of Targossas are rolling their dreary pine boxes north, trying to haul the fallen all the way from their sparkling new roost to old Anost.

Rotten luck for them and a golden chance for you.

Hear this bounty loud and clear: for every coffin you PULL off their sombre parade, Blackgale's fleet will weigh your purse with one hundred thousand glittering sovereigns.

No need to break the lid, no need to spill a drop; just tug the lumber off their path. We'll find you. We always do. We might even soften them up for you.

So hoist your courage, grease those palms, and snag a box before the light-kissed lot know it's missing. May the wind fill your sails and their funeral march stumble in the sand.

Penned by my hand on the 3rd of Lupar, in the year 981 AF.