The waves crash on the shore. After a full month at sea, my crew is restless for a good tavern and the comfort of warm beds and bodies. I've let them take shore leave in shifts, keeping a few aboard the Adrestia to safeguard our most recent hoard. It'll be enough to build a new port on the island after the Royal Navy demolished it fighting bandits. Those arrogant bastards have no idea we'll be fixing their destruction with gold stolen from their very own outposts.

I've spent a good half of the evening making minor repairs to the ship with my remaining crew, and I'm starving for a warm meal. The tavern on the docks is awash with loud voices and lantern light. I can smell the roasting meat from here. Aching and ready for a pint of ale, I make my way down the gangplank.

It's a modest tavern fitting for the small merchant port hosting it. We've docked here and helped out the locals enough times to convince them all to ignore our fearsome reputation. So when I enter the tavern and find a seat to myself in the back, the barkeep gives me a respectful nod. I take a look at the people here tonight while I wait for my drink.