Ed'iting. That be posh landlubber speak for cracking the skulls together of scurvy dogs who don't hoist the mainsail promptly, be I right? Of course I be, arrr...
So, you be the latest lass that those cultists of Dagon have inveigled into their dark and slimy lair? Not that I be having anything against Dagon mind you - in my profession a man can't afford to be ticking off too many deities that have sway over the tides and moods of the sea - but, not to put too fine a point on it, folks as go in to the noisome depths of that fastness don't come out the same - they come out with weird looks in their eyes, and strange nervous twitches. Indeed, betimes, things seem to writhe under their skins. And that's if they come out at all. T'is said that three interns of late have disappeared with nary a trace of having ever existed, although there have been odd sightings of sharks and of other creatures in the bay - entities which be not quite fish but neither quite man - and strange screams and posts of the damned reverberating around the twisted cables of these inter-nets.
Haunted. That's a good word to describe some of the bad stuff which goes on, although I be too proud a pirate to use that awful 'shiver me timbers' phrase. Except I just did. Damnation. Now me fellow captains are going to insist I pay the forfeit and put a sack of coins into the Little Orphan Cthulhu fund.
Anways, be a taking up with some patron such as Nocticula - or mayhap Gozreh, if you don't go in for the quite-so-kinky stuff - and she might see you in relative safety through the choppy waters ahead and in to your home port.
And Besmara's tricorne be at your elbow.