TITLE: The Harbor Master's Final Word
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Listen up, you barnacle-encrusted lot of Brine Harbor: be you citizen, drifter, rogue, or the rare honest soul.

You're clutching the first edition of the *Old Pirate's Gazette*. Now, don’t get your rigging in a twist—I didn’t ask for this rag, didn’t sign off on any coin spent, and certainly wasn’t asked my say on its tales. Yet here we are, and here I am, scribbling in it.

A gazette’s like a bilge rat’s log, mark my words. It marks down the comings and goings—who docked, who sailed, what rose up, and what toppled down. But unlike a ledger, it captures the gripes and cheers folks have about it. Arguably not an upgrade, those feelings.

Brine Harbor's no longer just a handful of ships and a sailor's prayer. It's crawling toward something more—streets where arguments echo, a tavern doling out breakfast to the early risers. It's high time someone scribbled it all down. Not just the hard facts—that’s my ledger’s job—but the yarns everyone spins.

So here’s your gazette. Devour it, bicker over it, line the fish basket if you must. But remember—every word is here because someone thought this scrappy, brawling, half-built harbor on the world's end was worth chronicling.

I’ve got doubts about plenty, but not about that.

— Greydon Salt Harbor Master, Brine Harbor June 28, 1725