The steady pounding of rain against leather kept time to the slapping of soft boots on wet cobblestones as Jormand Derran charged around another corner, barely looking before him into the sheets of rain threatening to reveal walls in his path at any moment. He squinted into the gloom with eyes only kept somewhat dry by the broad brimmed hat hardly keeping on his head, muttering a soft curse as he made out the indistinct shapes that seemed to be flowing towards him in the dim light provided by a sickle of a moon. Scrambling against the cobblestones, he managed to turn around, his coat flapping in the wind as he desperately flung himself out of the alley back onto a broad thoroughfare echoing with the sound of feet and hooves. Across the way a shadow seemed to be creeping over a storefront, lit ever so slightly from within by candlelight, flowing across the roughly barred windows quickly enough that it must have just been a trick of the light. Pausing only a moment to peer down the street in either direction Jormand turned to dash down the slick stones away from the sound of feet as best he could, dodging side to side in an attempt to confuse any pursuit. The pavement seemed to slide beneath his boots as he searched desperately through the darkness for any vacant alley or a door left open by some unwitting fool, but there were none to be found, not even a fool would leave a door unbarred, much less open in the rivvens, especially at this time of night.

The dreaded sound of hobnailed boots on pavement seemed to be growing ever louder as he ran, clanging from every cross street, every alley, and even the few canals he passed seemed to be swarming with armed men, given away only by the rough grating of metal plates grinding against one another. Bobbing points of light began to make their way out of the torrents of rain, lamps atop long poles that did little good in the downpour but did much more to heighten Jormand’s already taut nerves. As he crossed yet another bridge, this time over a seemingly empty canal, Jormand heard the telltale swish of bowstrings quickly followed by muffled scrapes as arrows bounced off the stones behind him. As he twisted in mid stride to look over his shoulder, Jormand felt a wave of cold fear and shock flow through him, his next step felt nothing below it but thin air. A choked gasp was all he could manage before plummeting into the murky depths beneath the bridge. He felt the air rush from his lungs as he slammed against the surface of the canal with a splash muted by the ever increasing rain, he floundered helplessly as the rough currents of the overfilled canal pulled him under the dark water, then out again, his heavy coat pulling him deeper and his filled pockets deeper still. Fumbling with the remaining buttons did little to help but he clawed at them anyway in a feeble attempt to tear off the garment before it pulled him to the silt covered canal bed, he had heard tell of the creatures that lived there, lizards with jaws big enough to take a man’s leg and fish without scales that would just as soon eat a wayward child as the other fish, though he did not believe half the stories he had heard, half was still enough to send chills to his very bones.

His head began to feel fuzzy and his eyes seemed to lid themselves of their own accord as he was dragged deeper, his lungs screamed for air with a fury and he kicked relentlessly towards the surface. His kicking began to slow and his hands barely shifted the buttons anymore, his head felt full of cotton and he took a breath, filling his burning lungs with the foul tasting canal water. He tried to scream but all air was gone, he tried to kick but his legs would not move, as his hand jerked away from his coat he felt a small disc between his fingers, the last button had come off. The heavy coat was torn off his arms, whipping them back behind him as his limp body meandered down the waterway.

***

Galier Caerest lounged against the tavern door, lazily looking around the room. He held an ornately designed goblet of wine in wavering fingers. It was raining outside, raining hard. The sound muffled the tavern’s incessant buzz ever so slightly. Everyone inside made noise. The bard on a table at the end of the room played a raucous tune and grated his bow across his fiddle’s strings painfully. The patrons shouted or sang or mumbled to each other in their drunken voices. The serving girls stepped loudly on the wood floor. Even Galier’s wine swished around in his cup noisily.

He liked the Captain’s Cat well enough. It served the purpose of a tavern. The one large room was precariously balanced atop a warehouse near the edge of the harbor district. Close enough that it made sense though near enough to the palace that it still attracted a more affluent clientele. It was designed with that in mind. The walls were bedecked in ropes, nets, even a small anchor. A few hats, a rough axe and a plethora of stuffed fish or other sea life. But it didn’t take a trained eye to see past the decor.

Behind the bar were some of the finest liquors, wines, and brews to be found in Maerin. The cups were silver and gold instead of pewter, the servers were picked for their beauty. Galier made sure of that himself from time to time. They wore elaborate makeup to increase their exotic allure as did the bartender though his was more mysterious, evoking the wildmen of the islands out past the Phoenoan straits. If nobles wanted an escape from the familiar sights of Maerin, they came to the Captain’s Cat.

The musician that night had come in on a boat earlier in the day claiming accolades from all across the empire. Galier was beginning to seriously doubt his claims. He was competent, good even. That was before he had begun to drink though. The already drunk patrons did not seem to notice as the music began to degrade but he could see the grimaces of the waitstaff as they passed too close and his own ears had long since become tired with the repeated tunes. Across from him on a bench on the far wall he spotted a pair of noble ladies who occasionally shot displeased glances at the bard too. Galier would have to find some new entertainment soon.

He got up with a prolonged sigh and pulled his chair away from the door. As he crossed the room, he left his cup on the bar. He pushed off a support pillar with his left hand half way across to keep him on course. Perhaps he had drunk a little more than planned.

He took a seat at the table and smiled at the ladies across from him. The one on the right gave him a quizzical look, propping up her chin on the back of her left hand. She took a sip from her cup, the drink had begun to wash away at her lips’ coloring. She was slightly flushed, he could see it through her makeup and she made no attempt to speak to him. Her friend seemed a little more straightforward and addressed him instead of expecting an explanation.

“And what do they call you?” She asked in a voice that indicated she was just as intoxicated as Galier was.

“I suppose you could call me the captain.” He said with a grin, resting his elbows on the table and leaning in.

The lady who had asked leaned in as well, placing her cup on the table precariously. She met his eyes intensely, her jaw going slightly slack.

“Captain of what? Do you have a boat?” Her eyes were wide with fascination. Her friend just sat to the side and giggled, still sipping from her cup.

“Oh not quite a boat no, it has a lot in common with a boat though.”

“So it's made of wood!” She exclaimed as if finding some well hidden clue. “It’s wood and it floats!”

“I suppose it does at that, you see this is my tavern. It is wooden and I suppose you could say it floats over the street.”

She sat silent for a moment, thinking, and then a smile spread across her face and she let out a snatch of laughter.

“That’s funny!” She said as she leaned back unsteadily on her bench. “You’re a funny captain man.”

With a convulsive hiccup, she sat back against the bench, chuckling softly. This one might be a touch too drunk, He thought to himself. Sure enough, even as she laughed at his comment, her chin fell forward against her chest and she let out a soft snore. This prompted a giggle from the lady to the right who had set down her cup now and gently repositioned her friend so she lay on the bench on her side, near the edge.

“Excuse my friend, she must be dreadfully tired.” She patted her companion on the shoulder, still giggling at her current state.

“I have rooms up above,” He said, motioning to a narrow staircase next to the bar. “If you think she’d be more comfortable...” He trailed off, leaving her to complete the thought.

“Why that would be wonderful!” She replied. “Would my lord perhaps lend me a hand? I would be most grateful.” She gave him a sultry look as she attempted to pull her friend up onto her feet.

Galier of course sped over to accept the burden of the unconscious woman. Together they bore her towards the stairs, one unsteady step at a time. The walk was arduous, the stairs even more so, the spiral staircase proving quite the obstacle for Galier’s addled mind. The climb was thankfully short and achieved without bumping the poor woman’s head on the low ceiling too many times. The upper floor was much more cramped than the common room. Still, it bespoke the innards of a ship with its small, round windows and narrow halls. It also conveniently saved on space. They entered a room on the left halfway down the hall where they deposited their load on one of the two narrow beds in the room. Galier always kept that room empty, except on exceptionally busy nights, he enjoyed the chance for privacy among other benefits an empty room could provide.

He meant to at least enjoy himself that evening, even if Jormand was running exceptionally late.

He turned to find the other woman sitting on the unoccupied bed, her dress sitting loosely on her shoulders now that the buttons had been undone. She gave him a coquettish grin, perhaps he had been mistaken as to her intoxication, she seemed more able than he. As he plopped down on the bed beside her and began to unlace his shirt, he noticed that what he had mistaken as a drunken flush before was in fact a carefully applied dusting of rose on her cheeks. It was a style now gaining a foothold with the nobility, he certainly approved.