The boat from Brightsea was a slow one, a transport ship heading to Valaniz. The captain gave them free passage, on account of his having an Adventurer son who worked out of Trevia.

The weather was poor, with frequent squalls that were endemic to the far Eastern region around Brightsail. Despite being from a fishing village, Oren had never been away from land this long. She’d never slept at sea before and found the constant motion of the ship unnerving.

And so Oren found herself up above decks, drinking brandy and playing Oracle and Whistles with Palas and Serem. Palas was a dab hand and never seemed to lose - she suspected he was cheating - and Serem couldn’t seem to make head or tails of the game, and thus played even worse than her.

If she stopped, memories of Brightsail came back to her. She tried hard not to think about it, about the killings that had taken place for years under her nose. It made her feel ill. She didn’t know what had caused the rise of Balhook’s death cult, and frankly she didn’t care - at least not yet. One day, she thought. One day I’ll go back.

It didn’t bear thinking about, at least not when a fire burned in the grate and the brandy warmed her stomach. She found herself laughing from time to time at Serem’s unbridled sincerity - he was not a natural card player, that was for sure. Even Palas’s wry comments were amusing to her now.

“To think, I left the gambling halls of Brightsail for this miniscule pot of winnings,” Palas said, scraping more of Serem’s gold coins into his lap.

“Give them back,” Oren said, laughing. “You’re cheating. I don’t know how, but you are.”

Palas gave a face of mock outrage, before sighing and chucking the coins back to Serem, who received them gratefully.

“Good practice for Valaniz, I suppose,” he said. “They don’t take too kindly to winners over there.”

There wasn’t time for Oren to ask about Palas’s oblique reference to the Floating City before a croaky voice cut in.

“You’re heading West?”

The voice belonged to a rangy looking man who had been sitting alone in the corner of the cabin. His eyes were red, and he wore a ragged beard. His hair was unwashed, and Oren got the distinct impression he was a man who hadn’t washed in a while.

“To Valaniz,” she said. “We’re Adventurers.”

“Good place,” said the man, nodding his head ferventing. “I ain’t never been, but… It’s gotta be better than things out West.” He shuddered.

“What is your name?” asked Serem.

“Halvert,” said the man. “You a long way from home for an Osgoth, aren’t you?”

Serem said nothing.

“I don’t no offense, but if I were you I’d have never left,” Halvert said. “Lots of land up there. No sea, right?”

“The Oroum Plain stretches for several weeks riding in either direction,” Serem said.

“Weeks?” said Oren. “Did you say weeks?”

“That’s on a mount. Much longer on foot.”

Oren shook her head. For someone who grew up on an island that was all of fifteen miles north to south, the thought of land so enormous that you measured it in time rather than distance was mind-boggling.

“I think I’m gonna go there from Valaniz,” said Halvert. “We should be there tomorrow, maybe the day after.”

“Not tomorrow,” Palas said. “Captain told me we’re doing a couple stops first.”

“Stops?” Halvert’s eyes widened. “Where? When? No one told me about any stops. He said Brightsail was the last place.”

Palas shrugged, not noticing the tension in Halvet’s face. “Some islands. Some supply stops. Book Creek… maybe.”

Halvert went pale, before dashing out of the room.

“Odd guy,” Oren said. “I wonder what was his problem.”

“One more game of Whistles,” Palas said. “Then bed.”

Before long, they’d forgotten all about the strange, agitated man. Once again, Oren was having fun, forgetting about Brightsail...

Then a scream broke the quiet night.

Oren didn’t wait for the others before grabbing her sword and dashing out to the deck. In the dark pre-dawn light, she could make out a figure standing on the deck, mumbling loudly.

“Halvert?” she called.

He spun around, facing Oren. He was holding one of the sailor girls in a headlock, something flashing in his free hand.

“I ain’t going back there. I ain’t, you can’t make me!”

Halvert was screaming now, a fishhook raised in his hand. His eyes were wild, darting around the deck. The rain had softened into a light drizzle. It beaded on the end of the spike.

Oren took a step towards him, one hand raised in a placating gesture. The other rested on the pommel of her sword.

“No one’s gonna make you do anything,” she said.

Halvert startled. He tightened the grip of his arm, holding the sailor girl’s neck tighter.

“One more step and I stick ‘er,” he spat, raising the fishhook to the pulsing, exposed neck of the girl.

“OK,” Oren said. “Let’s just talk.”

“No more talking! Turn the Goddamn ship ‘round now! Now!” Halvert brought the spike to her neck, digging it into her flesh. She let out a squeal of terror.

Oren took a deep breath.

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“Delay,” she whispered.

“No!” cried Halvert, his eyes widening.

The silver cloud spread over him and his movements slowed, as if he was moving underwater.

Before Halvert could stick her, a blade slipped over his shoulder, slashing at his wrist. Unable to stop himself, the fish hook slipped out of his hand faster than he could save it. The sailor girl took her queue and pushed against him, his reactions too dull to stop her.

“NO!” roared Halvert. He spun around, seeing Palas standing behind him, blade wet with his blood. Halvert groaned and fell to the floor, scrabbling for the fishhook. Palas did nothing to stop him.

Halvert moaned with pain and crawled backwards, until he was back against the railings.

“You’re crazy,” he said. “I’m trying to save you all… It’ll kill you, it’ll kill everyone!” Tears streamed down his face.

“You’re not the captain of this ship,” Palas said, unmoved. “And you can’t do anything about it.”

Halvert pushed himself up to the railings, shaking his head.

“You might be. I ain’t going back there!” he said. “I ain’t…” He looked sad for a moment and then raised the fishhook up to his own neck. Oren began to sprint across the deck. With one heavy movement Halvert shoved the fishhook into his own neck and fell back over the railings.

By the time Oren reached him, he was long gone into the dark, choppy waters below.

“No!” she cried, looking at the waters for a desparate sign of life. She turned to Palas. “You could have saved him!”

Palas shrugged. “No point. He couldn’t have been saved. No spell for a broken mind.”

Oren hadn’t decided on exactly which of the oaths she was about to deliver on to Palas before the ship’s captain was on them, thanking them desperately.

“You’re welcome,” she said in a dull sort of way.

“You’ve saved us,” he said. The captain was a bald Elf with grey stubble. “You saved my dear Kaslyn… I am so grateful.”

The sailor girl that Halvert had accosted, stood awkwardly next to her father. She was a chubby Elvish girl of fourteen or fifteen, with freckles across her face.

“How about a drink?” said Palas.

“Of course! I have a little private collection, some Trevian wines of a good vintage--”

“Excellent,” Palas said. “Lead the way.”

“Of course, of course, Serrah…”

“What happened?” asked Oren. “What made him go so…”

“He boarded in Escrana. He was strange there - very drunk. Normally I would not accept such a passenger, but he was very insistent. And he paid a lot of gold. Kept asking if we were going West. Obsessed with it.”

“But we’re not,” Oren said. “We’re heading to Crow Hook, right?” She’d spent a lot of time studying the map she’d taken from Brightsail: Crow Hook was a small island to the south.

The captain shrugged. “Best route west takes you south first, then you pick up the trade winds south of Crow Hook.”

“It was when Halvert found out we were going to Crow Hook that he lost it,” Oren said. She looked into the horizon, as if for answers, but saw nothing apart from the endless blue of the Warm Ocean. “I wonder why he didn’t want to go there.”

“We’ll be there in a day,” said the captain. “Company tasked me with a supply run. You can find out for yourself.”

Oren didn’t accompany the captain and Palas to the captain’s quarters. She was sickened by their callous attitude to the dead man. She reminded herself, once again, to part ways with the brooding Elf as soon as they made it to Valaniz.

The sailor girl, Kaslyn, looked at Oren as if she was about to say something. But before Oren could open her mouth, she turned and vanished beneath the deck.

Oren sighed. She was beginning to hate this boat. The rain was picking up, so she went inside, looking for Serem. Not finding him on the deck or galley, she went and knocked gently at his cabin door.

“Come in,” came the reply.

Serem sat cross-legged on the floor, his eyes closed as if he were in prayer. He opened them as Oren came in and smiled. His skin surprised Oren, as it did everytime she saw him. It had the same texture as Human or Elvish skin, but it was the colour of gravel. On top was the light purple markings, an irregular tattoo covering his whole body that conveyed some deep meaning in Osgoth society. Other than that and his prodigious bulk, he looked like a Human.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Of course,” Serem said. “Why would it not be?”

“Because I saw you during that confrontation with Halvert. Or didn’t see you, rather.”

Serem flinched as if he had been struck. “You appeared to have the situation under control.”

“We did,” said Oren. “Palas and I-- well, we don’t see eye to eye on just about anything.” She thought about his cold reaction to Halvert’s suicide. “But we fight well together.”

“You both seem to possess a certain… instinct.”

“Is that what’s troubling you?”

Serem let out a deep breath. “Since Brightsail… since we killed those swampers and those fishermen…” He shook his head, overcome with emotion. “The violence sickened me. To kill beings like that. The swampers had a god. They prayed. They were conscious, living things. They were not wild Beasts, and yet we cut them down as if they were.”

Oren felt a pang of guilt. She hadn’t thought much about the swampers, but it was fairly horrible. They’d killed them all in an unprovoked attack - and in the service of Balhook’s cult, no less.

“I don’t feel good about it either, now that you say it,” she said.

“And yet you persist. Will it stop you from fighting in future? I do not mean to insult you, Oren, but… I have felt terrible ever since.” He ran one enormous, strong hand through the other. He looked tired, and she wondered if he had been sleeping. She recalled that he hadn’t seemed to after the battles on Brightsail, but she’d been too wired herself to notice. “I do not think I have the stomach for violence.”

It was Oren’s turn to be lost for words. She didn’t relish violence herself, but she understood it as an unavoidable part of being an Adventurer - and that was what she valued above all else.

“What are you going to do?”

Serem pulled out his Adventurer’s license - a small piece of card no bigger than a human hand - and ran his finger over the Brawler stamp.

“When I left Oroumia, I chose this license simply because I was strong and it was free. But now, now I have some gold pieces. You can change your class, can you not?”

“Yup. At any Guildhouse. You could have done it at Brightsail.”

“Do they have a Guildhouse at Valaniz?”

Oren nodded.

Srem gave a wistful smile. “There I will change my license. Something peaceful.”

“Maybe a Caster,” offered Seren.

Serem frowned. “What's a Caster?”

“It’s a Class. Or rather, a bunch of classes.”

“You’re a Caster,” said Serem.

“Right. My license gives me certain strengths, weaknesses and abilities.”

“I remember the time spells you cast,” said Serem. “Can you cast healing magic too?”

“No. Offensive casting and healing casting both come under the Grey Caster class. There's two paths of Casting and I…” Oren bit her lip, deciding on her next words carefully. “I chose the other kind - Blue Caster. Within that, there are also two types of casting you can specialise in, Chronocastery or Mimeocastery. The time stuff is all Chronocastery. The other is Mimeocastery - that's all about copying the abilities of other people and stuff. The only downside is you"ve got to get hit with it to pick it up. That's how I got that poison trick from the Swamper King.” She winced at the memory - she could still taste it going up her throat, and it was not pleasant.

“You can do both Chronocastery and Mimeocastery?”

“Yeah, but usually Casters specialise in one thing.”

“What do Grey Casters specialise in?”

“There’s Pyrocastery,” said Oren. “Offensive magic, like fireballs and lightning bolts and stuff. Then there’s Hydrocastery. Defensive spells, healing, recovery. All of that good stuff.”

“That sounds good. Hydrocastery.” Serem smiled again. “I’ll change my license to Hydrocastery, I think.”

“Awesome,” said Oren. “They have all kinds of temples where they train Grey Casters in Valaniz.”

She didn’t mention that the Temples were restricted to Elf or Human only. Some of the older prejudices died hard.