I’ve always said I’m just the guy who keeps the wine cold and the ship floating. Right now, the wine is spilled, and the ship is the only thing in this gods-forsaken realm that isn't currently on fire.
I asked for heroes. The Fates sent me a tiefling who thinks he’s a firestarter, a druid who treats toxic sludge like a buffet, and a crew that spends three hours tied together with a rope in a wet hole while the forest is on fire.
The scent of salt and cedar doesn't mask it anymore. The Deep Rift is breathing. I can feel the vibration in the soles of my feet, a rhythmic thrum that matches the pulse in my own scarred neck. The others at the Agora spoke of "Order" and "Freedom" like those things could feed a starving belly or stop a blade. Fools. The Gods are nothing but thieves in golden chitons, sitting on thrones built from the bones of their betters.
So, the new crew arrived. I asked for heroes; the Fates sent me a traveling circus. But hey, they got the job done. Mostly.
Things got off to a "great" start at the docks. Captain Dexios took one look at this group and decided they looked more like drifters than demigods. He was about two seconds away from throwing the lot of them in the holding cells until Vulpes stepped up. Somehow, the guy convinced the Captain he was a local resident of Ephyra.
Is this thing on? Right. Ink’s wet. I’m sitting in the hold of the Talaria, and the air is so thick with the smell of cedar pitch and salt you could chew on it. Outside, the shipyard is a cacophony (the rhythmic thwack of hammers against bronze and the shouting of guards).