In Tress’ opinion, the ship they had charted to Academos Vynte was not particularly impressive. Certainly, she had been aboard larger vessels over the course of her adventuring career, and she’d slept in more spacious cabins with more comfortable accommodations. But regardless of how impressive they were, the thing about ships—and she had always despised this fact—was that no matter how nice they happened to be, they were never, ever, steady.

Being out on the deck helped, at least a little bit. Seeing the waves pass by gave some mental context to the constant rocking and back-and-forth motions of the vessel. Her stomach was always so much queasier when she was below-decks. But even out in the open, sea breeze in her face, watching the rolling waves, she felt only the smallest of reliefs in her poor gut.

“You look kind of green,” her brother told her.

Tress turned her head away from the water and frowned at him. Truss responded with a smile that might have passed as innocent had she not known him so well. “And you look like an ass,” she replied.

He shrugged and held out his hands. “Sorry. Just trying to make conversation.”

“Well go make—make—” Her stomach heaved, and Tress spun around to hang her head over the railing off the side of the ship. “Oh,” she muttered when the feeling passed without her throwing anything up. “I hate ships.”

“We’ll be in Academos Vynte in a day or two.”

“That’s a day or two too long.”

Elsewhere on the ship, someone barked out orders to the deckhands. They were too far away for Tress to clearly hear what was said.

Their little group had booked passage the day before, and they had boarded this ship at noon today. Now it was the beginning of dusk, and soon Tress would have to settle in for a night of tossing and turning and trying to put off how sick she felt on this awful thing.

“How are you so damn calm?” she asked.

“I have my sea legs,” Truss told her.

“As do I.”

Tress almost jumped. Almost. Between her brother and her struggle not to lose her lunch, Tress hadn’t the attention to spare to notice Seahawk’s approach.

“Well, with a name like Seahawk…” Tress muttered.

The taller woman regarded her with an unreadable expression. “There is a healer on board,” she told her. “You should go see him.”

“I’m sure that he has more important patients…” Tress began.

“No,” Truss interrupted. “Don’t do that, Tress. Go see the healer.”

Tress glared at him. Then she glared at Seahawk. Neither seemed to care all that much.

“I am not a child,” Tress informed them. “I am a strong and—AURGH!”

She threw her head over the side, and this time she did retch. Fluid that looked utterly disgusting and smelled even worse excised itself from her stomach, up her throat, out of her mouth and into the water below. Tress spat after it, trying to remove all traces of the awful taste from her mouth. Her brother gently patted her on the back.

“You were saying?” Truss asked.

“Damnation take you both,” Tress said. Her voice sounded whiny, even to her ears, as much she wished otherwise. “Fine. I’ll go see a healer. You two can just stay out here and… canoodle.”

As she turned away from the ship’s side, she was gratified to see that Truss’ cheeks had turned a bright red. He tried to sputter something out about how nobody was canoodling with anyone else, but the words didn’t quite form correctly and he looked away from her. Seahawk didn’t seem to care one way or the other about anything that had been implied.

Tress walked slowly across the deck, clutching her stomach as she did so. She pushed her way through the door to the lower decks, and she stumbled down the stairs.

“You alright, ma’am?” asked a sailor. He was an orcish man, with red and black tattoos all across her bare gray-green chest and biceps. He helped to steady her as she reached the bottom step.

“Just a little bit under the weather,” Tress told him, trying to flash the orc her most winning smile. She was worried that the effect was a bit spoiled by how gross she felt. “Which is the way to the healer’s cabin?”

“I’ll show you,” the orc sailor said. His touch was surprisingly gentle, despite how large her was and how rough he seemed. His muscles put any human’s to shame, and he stood a full two heads taller than Tress. She allowed him to hold her arm and guide her down the moving, creaking halls of the ship.

“My name is Urahk,” the sailor said. “I saw you and your party board the Menelen. You and… your brother, I assume? You are adventurers?”

“Guilty as charged. I’m Tress. My brother’s name is Truss. And the lady with the scar is called Seahawk.”

“She is a strong-looking one,” said Urahk. “Sturdy. For a human, anyway.”

Tress chuckled. “I probably look like a twig to you, huh?”

“Well…” Urahk smiled, showing off his sharp teeth, and rubbed a finger against his right tusk. “I wouldn’t say that.”

Surprisingly diplomatic for an orc, Tress considered. I’m used to his people being more blunt. They don’t typically care about causing offense to others. Usually get along great with Truss though.

They turned down a hallway and reached a door that, as far as Tress could tell, was utterly indistinguishable from any other door on the ship. Urahk pushed it open.

“Torla, I have a patient for… you…”

The orc’s words died on his lips, and Tress could see why. The cabin was a mess. A table had been flipped over, and various metal tools were scattered all about the floor. Blood, red and fresh and wet, covered everything, and in the center of it all was the still body of an old man, his throat and chest slashed open. He lay on his back, blank eyes staring up at the ceiling, a pendant in the shape of a star lying on the floorboards next to his head.

Above the dead healer stood a humanoid figure, shrouded in shadow. The darkness clung to it like smoke, wrapping itself around the murderer and obscuring all their features. It held a sword in its hidden hands.

The shadow-thing’s head turned to look at Urahk and Tress, and it spoke with a feminine voice:

“Witnesses. How unfortunate.”

It moved toward them, raising its blood-drenched blade.