"I can't believe I used to eat swampers," said Oren. They were back on the boat now. Serem was rowing, with powerful and controlled strokes. They"d said little since leaving the islet, but she couldn't help herself. She needed to talk about how gross she felt. "It's making me sick."

"That's just the poison," said Palas.

"When did you last eat a swamper?" asked Serem.

Oren went to throw up over the side of the boat, but got nothing for her troubles other than a painful, dry retching.

"Ten years ago, I guess. Last time I came out here with my pa. Then the fish came back, and we stopped having to eat swampers."

Palas rolled his eyes. "Gods. This island is a hellhole."

Something bumped against the boat, rolling them inside. Oren felt her stomach lurch with the water.

"Watch it," said Palas sharply, nursing his battered head.

"Apologies," Serem said. He peered into the moonlit stream. "We hit something."

"Obviously," hissed Palas.

Serem leaned into the water. The boat rocked dangerously. He pulled something aboard - something heavy. It splashed into the bottom of the boat, covering them all with swamp water.

Oren leant forward. The lump was wrapped in a cloth and tied with string. She drew her scimitar and cut the twine, then peeled back the wet fabric.

Palas groaned.

"More refuse from the deep. Great."

"It is a human," said Serem, wonder in his voice. "A youngling."

"It's Misha," said Oren hoarsely. "Little Misha Moorie. She disappeared last month. We all thought she'd wandered into the swamp and got lost and drowned or something. Happens every now and then. Maybe crocs, y"know?"

"Hate to break it to you, but no crocodile cuts up a child like that and then wraps 'em up in twine," said Palas.

The body was disfigured: every inch of skin was covered in red, bloody cuts.

"Swampers?" asked Serem.

Oren shook her head. "They can't even make a spear. I don't think they could do this… besides, look at the cuts."

They formed a strange, abstract pattern of unfamiliar geometry: perfectly symmetrical, the shapes swirled and cut and zagged across the body.

"Religious markings," said Serem. “Like mine.” He stretched out his own arm, showing off the array of dark grey stripes against his lighter grey skin. They formed a pattern of sorts, Oren saw now.

"Free advice," said Palas. "Don't tell the townsfolk that the mutilations on their kid look exactly like yours. You"ll be strung up within the hour."

"They’re not the same," said Oren. "But they are markings of some sort. A symbol. But what do they mean?"

"Well," said Serem, still keen to push his theory. "In Osgoth culture, our markings symbolise a covenant with our ancestors. Markings like this can be used as a way of preparing a ritualistic offering."

Oren pulled the fabric over Misha's face.

"Like an offering to a god?" asked Oren.

"Something like that, yes."

Oren frowned. "What kind of god would want that as an offering?"

The first stirrings of dawn had begun to break over Brightsail by the time they returned. A rose-coloured sunrise coloured the bay. For once, Oren was glad to see it. The bag of swamper heads at her feet and the dead body behind her were beginning to stink out the boat. Combined with the lingering effects of the poison, she felt pretty bad.

Oren was grateful to be on the creaking wood of the pier. She took a deep breath and steadied herself.

"Where do we take these things?" asked Palas, dropping the sack of heads on the pier. They made a wet thudding noise as they landed. The blood had begun to seep through the sacking material, creating blossoms of red.

“It's quiet,” said Serem. “Where are the fishermen?”

Oren had been too nauseated to notice, but Serem was right. All of the fishing boats were still moored to the town's pier - usually they headed out just before dawn.

“Strange. Let's get paid,” said Palas.

Oren nodded and led them through the cobbled streets, back to the Fisherman's League. The tiredness came over her in waves now. The exhaustion of her first real battle coupled with poison was enough. She was looking forward to counting her gold in the soft warmth of her bed.

The town was still sleeping, but the Fisherman's Guild seemed alive. It was a large square warehouse with an open front. The windows glowed bright with candlelight, but somehow it still felt as gloomy as ever.

“Hello?” called Oren.

“Who's there?” cried a voice. There was a rushing of footsteps, before a series of men in purple robes appeared in the doorway.

Oren had to blink to make sure she wasn't hallucinating. The men were the town's fishermen. Most of them didn't own more than two shirts - and yet, here they were dressed in strange clothes. They looked… almost religious.

“Oh, Oren,” said a familiar voice.

The men parted and Balhook walked forward. He too wore the strange purple robes - but his were marked with gold.

“What are you doing here?” he said smoothly.

Palas upended the sack, tipping swamper heads onto the cobbles.

“Six of them. At seven a piece, that's forty-two gold,” Palas said, folding his arms.

Balhook looked at the disembodied swamper heads. He showed no surprise or disgust at their now human-like faces, but the other fisherman shared uncomfortable glances.

“Very well,” said Balhook. He placed a hand inside his robe and pulled out a weighty money pouch. He counted out the gold pieces - which was almost all of the coins he had on him - and handed it to Oren. The fishermen eyed them hungrily.

“Thank you for your services.”

Oren nodded and went to turn back to the town, but the Osgoth began to speak.

“There is… something else.”

Oren had nearly forgotten!

“Oren?” said Palas, nudging her.

“We should speak in private, Balhook.”

Balhook nodded and clicked his fingers. The assembled fishermen disappeared into the warehouse, leaving them alone in the bright dawn. He took a step towards them.

Oren had a strange sensation as the dwarf moved closer. Her skin felt like it was crawling with a thousand tiny insects. She wanted to scream… and then it passed.

What was going on? The fishermen of Brightsail - the ones who had worked with her father for years - were acting like Balhook's servants. Balhook was a powerful man on the island, but he was never well-liked. And what was with the strange purple robes? Her head spun with exertion and too little sleep.

“We… We found something. Someone.”

At the last word, Balhook gave her an odd look.

“Little Misha Moorie. We found her body in the swamp,” whispered Oren.

Balhook studied her face for a moment, and then broke into shock.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” he said.

“We left her body in the boat. I don’t think it's right for her parents to see her, the way she looks.”

He nodded, and swallowed hard. “I'll send someone over to deal with it. Thank you very much, Guildmaster.”

Oren jingled the coins in her hand. “Same to you.”

With that, Balhook retreated into the warehouse and the door was drawn shut.

She dreamt of fourteen gold coins. They were so heavy that they were pulling her under the water, drowning her in the endless darkness below.

When Oren woke up, her entire body was stiff. With agonizing slowness, she clambered out of bed and rolled her shoulders. She felt much better, despite the damage she’d taken at the swamp. Oren had read that any building marked as an Adventurer’s Guild held special healing powers, and was glad to have found out that was true.

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The fourteen gold coins were still there, arranged in little piles on the nightstand. As the Adventurer Guildmaster, she was entitled to a larger share of the winnings - but she'd decided against taking it. Fourteen gold pieces was plenty, more than she'd seen in years. With this money, she could really fix up the Guildhouse - maybe even get a proper sign made.

Her head filled with dreams, she made her way down the creaking stairs.

Serem was sitting at the table in the dusty main room, his fingers intertwined as he stared determinedly into nothing.

“Serem?” she said.

He blinked and turned to her with a surprised smile.

“You're awake,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” she said, ignoring the sore stiffness in her back.

He nodded. “Your injuries were severe. You took the most damage in the battle. I can take a look, if you like. I'm not a cleric, but I'm familiar with the basic medical techniques.”

She shrugged. “I’m fine. A long rest healed me up. Where’d you pick that stuff up? Thought you were a Brawler.”

Serem smiled. “I am - or rather, will be when I return - apprenticed to an order of warrior monks specialising in unarmed combat. To use the body effectively, one must know it completely.”

Serem stood up and took a cup from the shelf above the hearth. They were, to Oren's surprise, clean. Had the Osgoth done it whilst she was asleep?

“I took the liberty of making coffee,” he said. “Would you like some?”

He poured from the dented coffee pot and set the cup down on the table next to him. He’d taken a battered pewter cup for himself. It was the one she used for cleaning tasks. Oren hoped he'd washed it before using it.

She took it and drank gratefully, peering out of the window into the dark street outside. It had been not long after dawn when they returned. How long had she slept for?

“Where's…”

“Serrah Palas said he was going to celebrate.”

Oren nodded. Pretty usual Adventurer stuff. First they got the gold, then they got drunk.

She thought about the gold pieces again. She thought about Balhook’s cold, lifeless hand, fishing coins out of a leather pouch.

“Are you alright?” asked Serem. “Perhaps I could affect another healing charm.”

“I’m fine,” she said, waving him off. “It’s just… something doesn’t feel right about all of this.”

“About what?”

Oren took a tentative sip of coffee. She was pleasantly surprised. She’d hardly expected an Osgoth to know how to make coffee, let alone well. Why not? He was clearly a thoughtful, intelligent being: the way he spoke, the fact he had cleaned the Guildhouse… It flew against all the expectations she had of Osgoths. She realised, not for the first time, that she really didn’t know anything about the world outside of Brightsail.

“There was something weird about Balhook last night, don’t you think?”

“I have only met the dwarf twice. Then, and the once when Master Palas and I first met you. I cannot form the basis for an impression,” Serem said.

“Well I’m telling you, he was weird. Something is going on.” She thought about Misha Moorie, her body cut to ribbons.

“Do you know him well?” said Serem.

“Nah. Sort of. Well… he’s been here about ten years or so. I know him as well as anyone else here. Not many people on Brightsail, you know? He turned up at a good time. Or, well, everything was pretty bad when he turned up, but things turned around quickly. He’s lucky like that.”

“Good fortune,” Serem said. “Oroum must smile upon him.”

That’s one way of putting it, Oren thought. A very fortunate man, indeed...

“Have you eaten?” she said.

The Daily Catch was the heart of Brightsail, or what counted for a heart. The island was small enough to support only a single drinking establishment, and this one did it well enough. On a normal night, it would be jam packed with fishermen, their wives and everyone else in the community trying to get their share of drink and gossip.

When Oren opened the door, the Daily Catch was almost empty. A fire burned low in the grate, and a single individual sat at the bar: one dressed entirely in black, with two gold dirt-encrusted scabbards on each thigh.

Palas didn't notice them come in or approach the bar. He didn't even notice when the barmaid, who had been actively ignoring him, began actively paying attention to someone else.

The barmaid took their orders for food and drink and busied off to prepare them. Oren and Serem took a table and sat down.

Serem looked around, as if searching for something.

“Something wrong?”

The Osgoth shook his enormous head. “So this is a tavern. I assumed it would be… livelier? One hears things from other Osgoths.”

“I've never seen it like this,” said Oren. “I don’t think I've ever been able to get a table, let alone have the choice of all of them.”

The barmaid brought their food - fried fish, of course - and shrugged when Oren asked her where everyone else was.

Serem eyed the dish curiously.

“Something wrong?” she asked.

“I've never eaten a… living beast before,” he said.

“Technically speaking, it's not living anymore.”

He nodded, but this didn't seem to reassure him.

“Do you just… eat it?”

Oren cut a piece of fish and put it in her mouth. Serem watched as she chewed, and then swallowed.

“Don't you need to… take the bones or the organs out?” he asked.

She shook her head. “The chef does that. Go on, try it.”

Hesitant, the Osgoth leaned forward and broke off a piece of the fish. Then, with a strange expression, he popped it in his mouth and chewed. Then he smiled.

“That's nice.”

The door to the tavern burst open and a crowd of people tore in, holding aloft burning torches.

“There!” cried a woman, pointing at Serem. “That's the Osgoth!”

Oren rose to her feet as quickly as she could and placed herself between the crowd and Serem, hands held out in a placating gesture. As the Guildmaster of the Adventurer's Guild, she held a modicum of respect on the island - but not much.

“What's going on here?”

“He killed Misha Moorie!” shouted a man's voice.

“And now he's taken another!”

Oren looked to Serem, who looked as confused as she did.

“I can promise you that Serrah Serem here had nothing to do with the murder of Misha Moorie,” said Oren. She saw the little girl's bloodied body in the boat. “Or anyone else’s baby.”

“Another child is missing!” shouted someone from the crowd.

“He's a killer,” said the woman. “Just like the rest of his kind.”

At this, the Osgoth stood up. He towered over the crowd, his thick features illuminated by the lamplight.

“There has been another?” he said, in his deep, sonorous voice.

“Don't act like you don't know! Where have you taken her?” The woman took a step forward and pointed a finger at Serem, eyes watering. “Please, just give her back…”

“It's just like last time,” said one of the mob.

Just like last time… The various cuts on the little girl's body swirled around in her memory. That pattern, she'd seen it somewhere else.

Someone in the mob stepped forward, taking a threatening step towards Serem.

Without thinking, Oren put herself in front of the angry villager and drew her blade. The villager took a step back, bravery diminished in the face of her weapon.

“Listen to me,” she said. “The Adventurer's Guild is going to get your daughter back.” She looked over to the figure slumped on the bar. “Serem, get me a bucket of water.”

“I'm sorry about that,” said Oren. “About them accusing you of abducting and murdering children.

Serem shrugged as he lowered the comatose Palas from his shoulders.

“Osgoths are not a popular people. Thank you for defending me.”

“You're welcome. Now, can you just-- just like that, exactly.”

Serem had Palas by the arms over the barrel of seawater. Palas's jagged blonde hair hung limply over his boyish features.

Then Serem held Palas's head in the barrel for a few seconds, then pulled it out, water streaming from his face.

Palas mumbled something groggily.

Oren shook her head, and the Osgoth held Palas under again. This time, he began to thrash. Oren nodded, and the Osgoth pulled him up.

Palas gasped for breath, choking and coughing as he looked around.

“What's wrong with you?” he cried, then fell to the ground, coughing and spluttering.

“You told those people you would bring the child back,” said Serem, as calmly as someone who hadn’t just drowned someone in a barrel of seawater. “Do you know where she is?”

Oren resisted the urge to bite her lip. Instead she sighed and ran a hand to the back of her head, twisting a lock between her fingers.

“Don't you people ever touch me again,” slurred Palas, stepping uneasily to his feet. “Ever.” He put his hands to his ribs and winced.

“Are you still injured?” asked Serem, taking a step towards Palas.

Palas flinched. “I'm fine. Just give me some privacy.” He stepped further into the dark alleyway. Oren heard him make a couple of retching sounds, followed by a splattering, before reappearing.

“I don't know why you people felt entitled to drag me out of my celebrations, but I'm heading back to the tavern.” Palas began to walk away.

“As the Brightsail Guildmaster, I'm calling on all Adventurers in the area to help with this quest,” said Oren.

Palas didn't stop walking.

“That Rogue license must have been pretty expensive,” she said.

Palas stopped.

“Any Adventurer who rejects the call will lose their license.”

Palas turned on her, rage contorting his features. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

Palas looked from Oren to Serem, who shrugged. Then he shrugged.

“Fine. I saved you guys once before, I can save you once again. More good old swamper fun?”

Oren took a deep breath. “I think Balhook is behind the killings.”

“Balhook? The fat fish guy? I don’t think he’s behind anything - other than a big meal,” said Palas. He smirked at his joke, looking to Serem for support.

The Osgoth frowned. “Are you sure?”

“The markings on Misha Moorie are the same as the markings we saw on Balhook’s robes. The swampers evolving, the fish coming back. It all started when Balhook came to the island. I think he’s involved in some kind of crazy cult.”

Palas let out a low whistle. “OK. Let’s kill some creeps.”