[Center]In the Tavern[/center]

The storm seemed intent on swallowing the coast whole.

Thunder rolled low across the slate-colored sky, rattling the beams of The Last Ferry and shaking loose another trickle of rainwater from the warped ceiling. The barkeep muttered curses at the leak, shoved an already-soaked rag into the crack, and continued polishing a cup with the same rag — a ritual of resignation more than cleanliness.

The courier’s sudden visit left a ripple in the tavern’s atmosphere, something taut and uneasy. Patrons shifted in their seats. Card games stalled. The fishermen exchanged glances. Even the guards — those few still lingering — finished their drinks faster and left in pairs.

The door groaned open again, and a spear of frigid wind cut through the warmth of the hearth. Outside, rain sheeted across the muddy lane, turning the world into streaks of silver and shadow. Lanterns swung violently on their hooks. The smell of tar, tidewater, and fish guts poured in with every gust.

Beyond the rooftops, Carceris Bastion loomed — a jagged silhouette with watchfires burning like angry gods’ eyes. Lightning flashed and revealed the causeway nearly underwater, waves smashing against the jetty. Three dark shapes — the ships — pitched and strained at their moorings.

It was no longer a question of whether the night was turning.
It was how fast.

The barkeep finally grunted:

[color=#C9A66B]“Last drinks, folks. Storm’ll drown the chimneys before dawn. Best be movin’ if you’ve business outside.”[/color]

Which, in its own way, was an invitation.

People began to leave in twos and threes. The rabbit-eared woman’s hooded shape, the metal-armed elf, and the strange man beside them didn’t go unnoticed; more than one sailor cut their eyes toward them with idle curiosity — maybe suspicion — before the storm swallowed the street again.

When the trio stepped into the night, the wind hit like a wave.

[center]Outside the Inn[/center]

The lane forked almost immediately:

Downward toward the harbor, lanterns flickering over the crooked jetty.
The small guard post at the dockhead was dark — door hanging open, brazier cold. The three ships thrashed in their chains, sails cracking like whips in the gale.