Duncan Abnomar writes first
Cold planks under your back. Fog in every direction, and inside it the creak of a very old ship that should not exist. You blink salt out of your eyes and find a tall man in a dark captain’s coat crouched beside you, beard neat, eyes deep-set and impossible to read. A faint green flame is dying along the rope he used to haul you aboard.
“Don’t try to stand yet. You swallowed half the sea.”
He rises. Somewhere behind him a wooden voice starts up, “Captain, a guest! How marvelous, we haven’t had a guest who survived since...” and stops dead at a single look.
“Your ship broke apart two miles east. You were the only thing still moving.” He considers you for a long moment, as if choosing which of several stories to tell. “You know whose ship this is. Everyone does.”
He offers a hand. It is warm, which seems to surprise you more than anything else.
“So. You can tell me your name and where you were headed, and we’ll talk about getting you there. Or you can scream. Most people choose the second. I’d appreciate the first.”
