When The Door ain't openin' much, because the moon is but a sliver, them's the days we 'ave to go fishin' - ajarin', we call it.
We load a muckwagon with bait - beads, baubles, or sometimes, if we 'ave reason to believe that The Door is openin' into a world where there might be hungry things, even food. Then the crews get into place - wagon handlers with rope and pulleys, harpooneers and spearsmen at the ready, old Gunpowder Grady with 'is traps and blasting barrels, seers, warlocks and even a monk or two if we can spare 'em - 'cos you never, ever know what might come through the door when we haul that wagon back in!
Now some days, ajarin' is easy as a lazy day on deck with a calm sea - we roll in a wagon of beads, pull back a wagon of booty, make inventory of the catch and hit the grog barrels hard. Other times, it's a grim, dangerous, exhaustin' task, and if the things that come back in the wagon don't try to eat you, you count it a good day.
Well, this last ajarin' was a wierd one - we knew it was goin' to be tough right enough - as soon as we cracked open The Door , a foul green miasma came rollin' through it, near choked the hingecrew it did, and howlin', wailin' desperate sounds like souls lost and beggin' to be found. Put the whole crew on edge that did - decided not to bait the wagon, but load it with Grady's finest ghoulgrabber traps and see what came back the first few dips.
What came back was a set of slabs that proper put the willies up us, and on the advice of Brother Beerbatter (our duty monk for the day), we packed up, slamed shut and braced ourselves for the tongue-lashing Mr P would hand out for so poor a haul.
Anyways, we'd all be much obliged if you took a look at them, and even more obliged if ye'd part with a penny for 'em and save us the scoldin'...
As always, to see our treasures, follow the sign o' the tentacles. I'm off to read some stories 'bout ponies and kittens - finest cure I know for the heebiejeebies!
Your faifthful spiker, netwrangler and sometime Bosun,