The small waves of the river lapped at the ferry’s hull and the dock’s studs, gentle splash after gentle splash, in a soothing rhythm. It was almost enough to lull Dorvo to sleep. Well, that and the simple fact of how long they had been waiting.

At first, the journey had gone well and seemed to be going swiftly. He and Garban had left Dralif Cor and taken the road North-East, following the Vynte Bay toward the mouth of the White River. The plan was to take the ferry to Whitmouth, then travel by road to Oakhome and then Keening, where they would meet with these Heralds that Garban was so nervous about. It was to be an easy, fast route that would see them to their destination in but a few days.

Technically, they were still following this plan. It had, in fact, gone exactly as intended. They’d reached the ferry in good time, and all that was left was to cross over to Whitmouth.

Unfortunately, the ferry had not been docked when they’d arrived, and so Garban and Dorvo had to wait.

They watered their horses and a quick meal at the Ferry Inn, which had been constructed by some enterprising soul right next to the ferry docks some time ago. The building was half on land and half on a dock of its own, and the entire structure had a bad habit of creaking and bending whenever the wind picked up, as though it could and would topple down into the water at any moment.

Dorvo was very glad to be out of there.

What he was not glad about, however, was the wait. He and Garban had been sitting outside that inn, watching the river, for nearly three hours after their meal.

The water was wide enough that it stretched out to a horizon, and just beyond that Dorvo could make out the distant shadows of the far shore. Whitmouth, he knew, was on the other side. Unlike Keening, this was a city he had visited before. The pair of them had registered with the guild in Unthalar, before traveling down the White River to Ostranport and then Whitmouth, taking any jobs that his mentor deemed suitable for beginners along the way.

Whitmouth was, by Dorvo’s reckoning, exactly the same sort of place as any other port city on Rothé—possibly even any other port city on Halorath. It reminded him most of all of his childhood summers in Anteros, a seaside town in the Tersen Republic. Both were cities that had been built around their harbors, and the constant hustle and bustle on the docks and the ships pulled in and out of port was their lifeblood. Natives seemed to be a rarity, and most of those who wandered the streets were either sailors on shore leave or travelers just passing through. The closer you got to the water, the heavier with foot traffic the shores became, and the more dangerous.

And yet, there was something strangely… freeing about the ports themselves, the sense that the city opened up here to give way for the sea. It was a feeling that Dorvo had first come to admire, and then had come to crave. He was looking forward to being back in Whitmouth, even if he and Garban, like so many others, would be merely passing through.

It was nearly dusk when the ferry at long last appeared on the horizon, and it was fully dusk by the time it was pulling in alongside the dock. The two adventurers waited with their horses as other travelers disembarked from the boat first.

When at last the ferryman was ready to take on new passengers, Garban approached him.

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“Two travelers,” the dwarf told him. The ferryman was an older fellow with a weathered and leathery face. “With two horses.”

The ferryman nodded and spat over the side of the dock, into the water. “Two pieces then,” he said.

Garban frowned. “That’s gone up,” he noted. “Time was, it was a mere half-piece per traveler and horse.”

“Hazard pay,” the ferryman informed him. “Water’s not as safe as it once was, you see.”

That comment piqued Dorvo’s interest, but he remained quiet. It pleased Garban to take the lead on matters like this, and he wasn’t particularly eager to displease his dwarven mentor.

“Very well,” said Garban with a sigh. He handed the ferryman two coins. “When do you expect to embark?”

“When the sun’s fully down,” the ferryman replied. “Last voyage of the day.”

“Well then, we were lucky to get here when we did!”

“Aye,” the ferryman agreed without enthusiasm. “Lucky indeed.”

They guided their horses onto the deck of the ferry, and took seats where available as other passengers shuffled on board behind them.

“What did he mean?” asked Dorvo. “About the waters not being as safe as they once were?”

Garban shrugged. “Pirates, perhaps,” he said. “There are always brigands, out there in the wilderness, trying to make a violent living off of those of us who live honestly. You know that, lad.”

Dorvo’s thoughts went to the bandits they had encountered back in the Forest of Goblins, and he nodded.

True to his word, the ferryman set off across the water once the last ray of sunlight had vanished over the horizon. Lit torches lined the sides of the ferry—a wide, rectangular construct—casting the occupants in dancing shadows and flickering warmth. There was muted conversation here and there, but Dorvo paid little attention to any of it. Instead, he looked out over the water and wondered at what dangers it might be hiding.

They were halfway across the river when he found out.

It began as a bubbling, just off to the side. Dorvo might not have even noticed it amid the buzz of conversation around him and the splashes of the waves made in the ferry’s wake, if not for one of the two deckhands calling out to his master about it. Once Dorvo’s eyes were drawn to those churning bubbles, he couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something… off about them, as though they presaged some great danger.

His horse appeared to agree, because she let out a fearful whinny and moved away from the side of the boat.

Dorvo was standing then, and anxiety gripped him. Every instinct within him demanded that he be ready to fight, and he braced himself for whatever was coming.

It happened all at once. The water around the bubbles exploded, and a pair of long, thin tentacles whipped into the air. People began to scream, and one of those aquatic limbs lashed out at the ferry and wrapped itself around a child’s leg.

The boy cried out for his mother and fell to the deck. He screamed and sobbed as the tentacle dragged him to the edge, toward a watery grave below.

Acting without thought, Dorvo drew his rapier and slashed at the tentacle, cutting it in two. The bit around the boy went limp, and the rest of the tentacle thrashed wildly as it withdrew into the water. For an instant, Dorvo hoped that perhaps his attack had frightened the monster away.

And then five more tentacles burst out of the river.