The sun had long since set by the time Druth von Elsanhide reached the outskirts of Blacktide. The city loomed before him, its towering walls silhouetted against the starlit sky, their jagged edges cutting into the darkness like the teeth of some ancient beast. The salty wind carried the distant clang of metal, the faint calls of sailors, and the ever-present hum of a city that never truly slept. The air was thick with the mingling scents of salt, smoke, and something faintly metallic—blood, perhaps, or the lingering tang of gunpowder.


    To his left, the docks stretched into the darkness, a forest of swaying masts and tangled rigging. Ships of every size and design lay moored side by side, their hulls scarred from past battles, their decks manned by wary crews who understood that in Blacktide, even the calmest waters could betray you. Among them, the black flags of the Free Captains rippled against the wind, tattered but defiant symbols of those who rejected the chains of any empire.


    Druth moved like a wraith, his glowing violet eyes scanning the area for patrols. He couldn’t afford to be seen—not with the bounty on his head. Reaching into the depths of his power, he whispered an incantation. The air around him shimmered, bending light to his will as he vanished from sight. The invisibility spell was a dangerous luxury—it drained his strength—but risk was a currency he was willing to spend tonight. His feet barely made a sound as he slipped through the city gates, weaving between throngs of people who never even knew he was there.


    Even at this late hour, Blacktide was alive. Taverns spilled laughter and music into the streets, their doors swinging open to reveal gamblers hunched over dice, sailors singing off-key, and mercenaries watching with wary, predatory eyes. Merchants peddled exotic wares beneath lanterns, their voices rising above the murmur of the crowd. From the alleyways, the desperate and the dangerous lurked, watching, waiting for opportunity.


    Druth moved swiftly, ducking through the shadows, his senses on high alert. He passed a group of city guards, their helmets gleaming under torchlight. One of them froze, frowning.


    "You hear that?" the guard muttered, his hand drifting toward the hilt of his sword.


    "Probably just a rat," another said, but uncertainty laced his words.


    Druth stood perfectly still, his breath held, fingers twitching toward the hilt of his hidden blade. The guard took a step closer, squinting into the darkness. Then, after a tense moment, he turned away.


    Druth exhaled, slipping deeper into the city. That was too close. He needed to find shelter. Now.


    He found his way to The Drunken Kraken, a modest, run-down inn on the outskirts of the city. The wooden sign above the door depicted a Kraken clutching a bottle of rum, its edges worn by time and salty air. Inside, the smell of pipe smoke, sweat, and stale ale settled thick in the air. The floor was sticky underfoot, the kind of place where a man could disappear—if he knew how.


    However, before he entered and was noticed he let the invisibility fade, still in his Eidolon—a spectral psychopomp, clad in tattered robes and bone armor—encased around him like a shadowy cloak. A ripple of unease passed through the room. Conversations faltered. Eyes lingered on him longer than they should. The innkeeper, a tall, muscular woman with sharp features and a weary but calculating gaze, looked him over from behind the bar.


    “Can I help you?” she asked, voice rough but not unkind.


    Druth inclined his head. "A room for the night, if you have one. I am a traveling priest of the Raven Queen, here to help the lost find peace."


    A few patrons shifted uncomfortably, muttering amongst themselves. The dead were not a topic most liked to linger on. The innkeeper studied him for a long moment before finally sliding a key across the bar.


    "Five silver."


    Druth looked puzzled for a moment but as quickly as it appeared it vanished, he then placed the coins on the counter and took the key. As he ascended the stairs, the weight of a dozen eyes followed him. Let them stare. He needed rest.


    Morning came with a sky of shifting grays, the sun barely breaking through the mist rolling in from the sea. The streets were slick with last night’s rain, the air heavy with the mingling scents of salt, damp wood, and frying fish from early-rising vendors. He left the inn before most had stirred, his Eidolon withdrawing into the recesses of his soul. He needed to blend in.


    He found a dimly lit tailor shop, its faded sign reading Garrick’s Garments: Fine Clothes for Fine Folk. Inside, dust and mildew clung to the air, bolts of fabric stacked precariously, mannequins standing eerily still in the dim light. The shopkeeper, a wiry man with a patch over one eye, looked up as Druth entered.


    "Lookin’ for somethin’ specific?"


    Druth smiled, light and easy. "Something forgettable. But not too forgettable. I have a reputation to maintain."


    The shopkeeper smirked. "Aye, I’ve got just the thing."


    Druth haggled him down from ten silver to six, shifting his demeanor effortlessly between an affable traveler and a disinterested buyer. He chuckled at the right moments, played at mock offense when the price was too high, and praised the shopkeeper’s “keen eye for practical fashion” just enough to soften him up. He left with a hooded cloak, tunic, and travel-worn trousers—clothes that would let him fade into the crowd. But anonymity required more than just a change of clothes.


    His next stop was a cramped alchemist’s shop wedged between a fishmonger and a pawn dealer. The place smelled of crushed herbs, acrid potions, and something faintly metallic. Shelves lined with glass vials and dried reagents rattled slightly as he stepped inside. A hunched old woman, her fingers stained with various tinctures, peered at him over a bubbling cauldron and narrowed her eyes. "You don’t look like the healing potion type."


    Druth’s expression shifted in an instant, trading his easy charm for something more urgent—something anxious and raw, laced with just enough desperation to make him seem vulnerable. "Got into some trouble," he admitted, voice low, rubbing the back of his neck like a man burdened with too many regrets. "Need to make myself… less recognizable. A bad debt, you understand."


    The alchemist cackled, sweeping the few silver he set on the counter into her palm. "Ah, a vanishing act. I’ve got foxroot extract—darkens hair to brown with a few applications—and mirrormoss drops to make those eyes more blue than green. But it ain’t cheap."


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    Druth hesitated, weighing his options as if he were a man forced to part with his last coins. He sighed heavily. "You’re bleeding me dry, but fine. I’d rather keep my throat intact." He left with a small satchel of disguise aids—dye, a tiny brush, a vial of perfume-laced oil to mask his scent, and a thin strip of false scar wax should he need to alter his features further.


    A few streets down, the air thickened with smoke and the rhythmic clang of hammers on steel. A squat, barrel-chested blacksmith pounded away at a glowing horseshoe, barely sparing Druth a glance when he approached. "If you ain''t here for repairs, speak fast." Here, Druth adjusted his approach again. He leaned against a wooden post like he had all the time in the world, his voice slower, more confident.


    "Ain’t lookin’ for anything fancy. Just a dagger—something plain, unremarkable, and sharp enough to make a man regret his choices." That earned him a sidelong glance. The blacksmith wiped sweat from his brow and grunted.


    "Got one of those. Two gold."


    Druth clicked his tongue, rolling his shoulders as if contemplating walking away. "Two gold? That’s what you charge a lord’s son who’s never held a blade before. I’ve seen work like this go for less."


    The blacksmith scoffed. "This ain’t a butter knife, lad. One gold and nine silver is as low as I go."


    "One gold and seven, and I’ll pretend I didn’t see that pile of ‘scrap metal’ you’ve got set aside to resell at double price."


    The blacksmith paused, glancing at the cluttered corner of his forge before letting out a gravelly chuckle. "Fine. But you keep that sharp wit of yours out of my business." Druth left with a plain, well-crafted dagger, its weight familiar and reassuring at his belt.


    The marketplace was already thick with the sound of haggling voices and the scent of fresh bread, grilled fish, and overripe fruit. He made his way through the crowd with the ease of someone who belonged nowhere and everywhere all at once, keeping his presence unremarkable. At a dried goods stall run by a weathered woman with strong arms and a sharp eye, he pointed to a selection of foodstuffs.


    "Dried meat, some hard biscuits. Dried fruit if you’ve got it."


    She barely looked up as she filled a cloth bag with provisions. "That’ll be five silver."


    Druth didn’t argue this time—food was always a necessity. He dropped the coins into her palm and tucked the bundle into his satchel, adding a small bag of salt and a waterskin from another stall before moving on. He might have been finished quickly, but his way was blocked by a long, growing line of people crowding a stall off to the side of the market. From within, a voice boomed over the excited chatter:


    "One at a time, one at a time! If you want to try Chef Chevy’s Grand Fried Pepper Crab, you’ll wait your turn!"


    Druth barely caught a glimpse of the stall itself—a brightly painted wooden cart with a massive iron wok set over a roaring fire, steam rising in fragrant curls. People murmured excitedly about the limited-time dish, how the chef had only set up here for the day before moving on. It smelled incredible, a mix of fiery spice, butter, and something rich and almost intoxicating.


    For a fleeting moment, Druth considered pushing his way through to try it—after all, a man on the run didn’t always get fine dining. But the line wasn’t budging, and he wasn’t about to waste time waiting for food when he had other business. With a quiet sigh, he slipped around the crowd and disappeared back into the city streets.


    By nightfall, Druth had changed into his new attire and sat in the shadows of The Salty Mermaid, a rowdy dockside tavern where fortunes were won and lost in a roll of dice. The walls were decorated with rusted anchors, tangled fishing nets, and the glassy-eyed head of a Kraken mounted above the bar. This time, he wore his disguise like a second skin. He slouched like a man who had seen too many sleepless nights, kept his eyes half-lidded like he was nursing old wounds, and nursed a tankard of ale he had no intention of drinking. His ears were tuned to the conversations around him.


    Sailors boasted of their latest hauls, mercenaries whispered of easy coin, and smugglers spoke in hushed tones about shipments best left unrecorded. Somewhere in this haze of rum and bad decisions, someone would have the information he needed. Druth ran a hand through his now-darkened hair and took a slow breath. He felt good—unnoticed, unknown, and unbothered for the first time in a while. Now, however, was the time to pay attention as he did his best to listen in on the conversations around him. One particular exchange caught his ear.


    "The Harrition Pirates struck another Verdanian ship," one burly sailor slurred, his thick beard stained with drink. "Third one this month. Got bold, they did, takin’ on a merchant carrack with barely a dozen men. Slaughtered the crew and took every crate of spice and silk aboard."


    "Aye, and White Beard Edward’s fleet is gathering in the south," another sharp-eyed man in a tricorn hat muttered, fingers drumming against the table. "The old bastard’s getting ready for something big, and it ain’t just to chase down common brigands."


    Druth shifted subtly, his ears finely tuned to their words. The air of tension in the tavern wasn’t just from the usual drunken scuffles—it was deeper, a simmering unease beneath the revelry.


    "Word is, the Free Captains been stockpiling weapons, taking on new crews. Even saw a few privateers get conscripted into their ranks," a third voice chimed in, lower, quieter. The man was older, his salt-streaked hair and lined face marking him as a veteran of the seas. "Looks like they’re readying for a war."


    "With White Beard Edwards?" Tricorn Hat asked, leaning in.


    The old sailor took a slow sip of his rum before exhaling. "Aye. Word from the western Isles says Edwards ain''t too pleased with the Free Captains trying to set up their own little empire. He''s calling in favors, gathering forces. When two kings claim the same throne, there''s bound to be blood."


    Druth felt like he finally found his marks in this den of ignorance as he whispered an incantation, letting his magic skim the surface of their minds. The first man’s thoughts swirled with flashes of burning ships and drowning men—scenes he had no doubt witnessed firsthand. The second’s mind was filled with greed, gold, and glory, visions of plundered riches, and the promise of promotions among the Free Captains. But it was the third man, the veteran with the faraway look in his eyes, whose thoughts stopped Druth in his tracks.


    "Ajax Jaggerjacks... escaped from White Beard Edward’s fleet. Got a bounty on his head. He’s recruitin’ bold souls for something big. Probably just another fool with a death wish and a dream."


    But beneath those words, his thoughts carried something deeper—a fleet aflame. Warships bearing the white serpent banner clashing against the ragged, defiant sails of the Free Captains. Blood on the waves, cannon fire splitting the night. And deeper, below the thoughts and memories, something darker—an unease, a whisper of something far older and more dangerous lurking beneath the conflict.


    Druth let the spell drop, rubbing his temple. Ever since he left his home in The Elservale, his magic had been leaving its mark far stronger than before. The whispers, the images—they lingered longer, held more weight than they should. But now he had what he needed. A name. A feel for the local powers. A better understanding of his environment.


    Now all he needed to do was wait for the appointed day and for the meeting with a certain man.


    Druth spent the next day in his rented room, watching the city from a small, dust-streaked window. Below, Blacktide pulsed with life, merchants barking prices, thieves slipping between crowds, the smell of spice, salt, and danger thick in the air. But something loomed beyond the horizon. A storm of opportunities, an ocean of problems, and no clear ship to sail through these with. A sigh leaves Druth as he pulls up a flyer and scrutinizes it intensely. "I guess step one will be meeting this Ajax fellow, then seeing if what he''s offering is worth the risk of trusting others to not sell me out at the first opportunity… I think I''ll just remain in my Eidolon till they have proven to be trustworthy…. What am I talking about they’re fucking pirates…. oh grandmother what have I fallen to…"