“You wi' th' face like a lemmin's arse! Lookin' fer a crew?“ The voice that cut through the din of the Astalicia’s decks belonged to a sour smelling roegadyn. He waved a beckoning hand as he drawled on.

“Them crews wi' their fancified names—Krakens, Sirens, Salt'ounds, Bloody Executioners—one an' th' same, I tells ye. They'll be quick t' use ye, and quicker t' toss ye into th' Deep.“

“But 'onest Rostnsthal, 'ere…'e can offer ye somethin' diff'rent. O' course, I'd be yer cap'n—what wi' me wealth of experience in th' noble trade—but ye'd be me first mate! Picture it! We'll take orders from none but ourselves! And 'eed the words o' none but the Navigator, sent to us on 'Er salt-scented winds.”

He flashed a lopsided grin. “What do ye say? Join ol' Rostnsthal an' there'll not be a dog on th' ‘Liscia that ain't 'eard yer name afore long!”