The Last Resurrectionist

There's a bay at the end of Corrhéo, where a jetty made of coral extends out past the shallows to the edge of the abyssal shelf. A smooth steel railing runs along its edge affixed with lightning-rods with winches of spooled chains at regular intervals, some with their chains cast out into the silt. At the end, a steel framed structure, clad in corrugated tin panels, rattle and clatter in the breeze. The old tin sign hung on the sun baked door reads, "The Resurrectionist."
Deeper: [d4] Steel gibbets covered in fine copper mesh, hang from chains suspended over the rail of the pier. A cable connects the cage to a lead cylinder at the base of the lightning rod that arcs and sparks with electricity.
A figure in a tall hat beckons in the distance beside a man in protective leathers brushing the dust and silt off a withered corpse in the caged gibbet. The air carries the aroma of ozone and burnt hair, but surprisingly, little damage is observed on the corpse itself.
The man in the tall hat never takes his eyes off the body as he says, "A corpse will fully desiccate within a day in the mixture, the heat and salt-silt leeches moisture quite well."
He gestures toward the warehouse where men load wrapped-bundles into crates. With well-worn diction, he pitches, "When the corpses are hauled up to the pier you see, they are strung, hung, sprayed with paraffin wax and wrapped tight in muslin gauze before being packed into wooden crates filled with straw and sawdust, ready for storage."
He fills his lungs, an expression of pride radiates on his contented face. "Spoilage, is at a minimum here on the coastal shelf. It's the air you see - all them electrics keeps the moisture, mold, monsters and miscreants well away. A corpse, properly prepared, would easily be viable for two, even three hundred years in these conditions."
He turns to you and says with a toothy smile, "You wouldn't happen to be from up north would you? There's a big market for exotic corpses like yours in Plath right now." The Resurrectionist leans in close and whispers tellingly, "I'd cut you a special deal for the rights to your remains. What do you say, chum?"