E V E N T ☆ 7

Two weeks after the Siege of Port Heritage

A tiny iron tea kettle whistles on the stovetop of the Dormouse household.

MAMA DORMOUSE rubs the sleep from her eyes with a furry paw, leaning on the kitchen counter. Potable water has been off-and-on for the past few days, so she plans to let it boil for longer than usual, distrustful of the fat droplet that squeezed from the pipes overhead to land in her pot.

Elsewhere in the mousehole, her large ears perk -- the triplets are stirring in their beds. They would normally be awake by now, woken by the deafening stamping and rattling of feet on the floorboards overhead. For weeks now, however, all has been silent.

Let them sleep, thinks MAMA. Careful to keep her skirt and apron far from the raging tea candle beneath the stove, she pours the kettle out into five tiny thermoses.

Her pink nose twitches, smelling PAPA DORMOUSE before she sees him.

"Good morning, sleepy-mouse," she murmurs warmly, loathe to break the eerie quiet, as if it was a mist that has seeped through the floorboards and settled over their moth-eaten furniture.

PAPA grimaces. "I didn't sleep a wink. This ghastly silence! No music, no footsteps..."

MAMA heads to the empty sardine tin they use as a pantry. Upon opening the lid, she squeaks with surprise. Inside: no crumbs whatsoever.

She turns, planting her hands on her aproned hips. "PAPA..."

He spreads his paws, embarrassed. "The triplets wanted a midnight snack..."

"PAPA!"

"They're growing girls!"

MAMA DORMOUSE heaves an indulgent sigh. "We'll shop on the way. Oh, I hope our rations will last..."

It isn't long before three little mice, all donned in pink silk nightgowns, ramble out of their hidey-holes, tugging on MAMA's skirt and swinging from PAPA's arms. MAMA wraps the steaming-hot thermoses in a scrap of checkered fabric and removes five tiny booklets from a dollhouse drawer.

Immediately, cries of woe rise from the mouselings.

"It scratches at my skin...!"

"I hate carrying it around...!"

"We didn't have to do this before!"

"Well, it's not before, now, is it," says MAMA DORMOUSE tartly, tucking the identification papers inside their wool coats. "These passports are for your own safety, so don't go losing them. We're lucky we got ours so early, or else we couldn't go out of the house today at all."

With three comically large pushpins, she pins the passports to her children's bodices.

"You too, PAPA," MAMA says warmly, pinning his in place as well.

Packed for their day's journey, MAMA and PAPA DORMOUSE nudge their triplets out of the house, ignoring their whines of protest. They step onto the cobblestone of the Port Heritage docks, squinting against the sunlight.

MAMA casts one long look up at the building: the silent, dark windows of the Dancing Spray Tavern, boarded-up and papered with wanted posters.

Before hurrying on after her family, she silently wishes it well.

---

As the occupation progresses, all is calm in Port Heritage.

Thanks to PRAETOR GENERAL HARTLEY's curfew, instated in the days following the death of ADMIRAL HYLAINE -- slain fairly at the hands of LOCHLUN, or so the news reports say -- Port Heritage comes alive promptly at 6 a.m.

Mostly.

As the night's curfew ends, only about every fifth doorway or so opens. MAMA and PAPA DORMOUSE keep the triplets close, ducking under the feet of citizens stepping hesitantly into the world, as if this isn't Port Heritage, but a foreign land. The docks feel eerily empty. Thinned-out. Much of the population remains boarded up inside their homes. Neighbors don't make eye contact, hurrying to their destinations.

And yet, more people are outside than there have been in days. Passports have been issued with impressive speed, given the logistics of sifting through the population of an entire city-state to root out its heretics, rebels, and fugitives. In fact, you fear that the city could be back to a tenuous normal in a disturbingly short amount of time.

"It's not right!" PAPA DORMOUSE mutters. "They expect us to just go back to our lives?"

"Shhh, dear." MAMA glances fretfully at the crimson-uniformed soldiers garrisoned on every corner. They smile, friendly enough, leaning on walls, peeling apples.

As the Dormouses begin their steep ascent on the cobblestone streets, noises of construction ring up from the harbor. Red Dynasty ships are clustered like poppy flowers around the destroyed Jade Gates, heavy-laden with not only ruby-red stone for rebuilding the damage, but also conscription labor consisting of Port Heritage citizens, selected by random draw.

---

Up, up, up, through winding streets, beneath fluttering red banners, stepping respectfully aside for wagons full of supplies and servicemen with glue-brushes, papering over any sacrilegious signs on the walls.

The Dormouses are stopped once. PAPA's ears flatten, and MAMA nudges her thermoses further down into their kerchief.

"Where are you headed?"

"Just the temples -- it's Sunday, sir..."

"Which god?"

"Oh, only HARVEST -- only HARVEST! Nothing untoward..."

MAMA holds her breath. But the soldier only scans each of their passports before waving them on with a smile. He even somberly shakes the littlest triplet's paw.

She blows a raspberry at him behind his back.

Squeezing tight together, the family falls awkwardly in line at the nearest bread stall, pinned between Red Dynasty soldiers, chuckling and nudging each other, chatting about banal topics. PAPA DORMOUSE carefully counts out red ration tokens for the vendor, accepting five meagerly-sized sourdough crumbs in return.

Before exiting the lower districts, they stop at a family-owned viventia shop, slightly singed -- likely from the fights that broke out during the siege. The owner's son is hammering at the front door, nails balanced between his lips. When he notices his tiny onlookers, he gently lifts PAPA DORMOUSE up to the window to place his order.

If the elderly storeowner wonders why a family with no visible rattles is purchasing a bag of viventia bigger than themselves, he doesn't ask out loud.

---

.

Port Heritage priests and Red Dynasty soldiers mill about the Temple District. No civilians are in sight. Who, after all, would want to venture into the heart of the struggle for Port Heritage's soul?

If the Dormouse family were any larger, perhaps the soldiers and guards would have stopped them -- or perhaps they would have been let through anyway, being the meek, fuzzy little devouts they are. But although the atmosphere here is quiet -- no laughter, no teasing and ribbing between soldiers of different regiments -- the Dormouses are, if anything, less noticed. The silence from the city below seems to billow up in waves, plunging everyone stationed at the Temples into deep contemplation.

MAMA, PAPA, and the triplets scurry through the plaza. Once dotted with stalls selling candles and accepting alms, it's now empty. It feels as if the Temple District is a table set with a new tablecloth: the architecture is the same, but red drapery flies from the buttresses; certain statues have been pulverized into rubble.

Confidently, the mice head into the Temple of MOON.

---

"Come along now," whispers MAMA DORMOUSE, pushing her children forward. "Hurry, hurry. We want to do our business and move along; say a prayer while you're at it..."

The little family scampers deeper into the Moon Temple, only pausing to dutifully nod and make respectful pantheon gestures at the proper moments before various altars. They reach the kneelers, where supplicants used to leave their gifts. Today the only offerings are a dusty pair of liquor vials that seem to have been here for days, if not weeks.

"Oh, I hate to rush these things," says PAPA DORMOUSE, resting a paw appreciatively on a cabinet where ceremonial chalices are kept. "It just isn't proper."

"Now, my dear heart," chides MAMA, withdrawing their thermoses. "The pantheon expects our best in all circumstances."

In unison, the triplets jump, emitting an angelically harmonious squeak. MAMA and PAPA turn as the Temple door opens.

An enormous figure blocks the light.

"...disappoint me," says the quiet, slithering voice of AZZURRA, Traitor of the Siege of Port Heritage, Newly-Appointed Praetor Commander of the Red Dynasty's Army.

The shark-woman's heavy boots send vibrations, bouncing the Dormouse family with every step. She doesn't notice them, stalking into the room with a Red Dynasty soldier close behind.

"We have her blood." AZZURRA slides her rapier down the back of a pew, leaving a long, thin scratch. She inspects the tip and wrinkles her nose at the dust. "Locate her."

"We... we can't, sir." The soldier swallows. "I mean -- it's not that easy. You severed your bond to the fugitive LUDOVICA -- that means every bond. No picking and choosing... no using it to track her. But even if we could, sir, well... that would be blood magic. Surely you wouldn't want..."

At the look in AZZURRA's eye, the soldier clams up. Many a soldier has regretted presuming to tell AZZURRA what she "surely" ought to do. But this time, AZZURRA's gaze fixes somewhere beyond him.

"You there," rumbles the woman, voice rumbling through her serrated teeth. She looms like a mountain above the miniscule quintet of mice. "Why are you outside your homes?"

PAPA DORMOUSE stutters. It's MAMA who squeaks out:

"Miss Commander! We are just followers of HARVEST, here to leave our offerings... please, we'll be on our--"

"Papers," barks the Commander. "And turn out your pockets."

For a moment, there's stillness. Cast in AZZURRA's long shadow, the mice shiver. Slowly, with MAMA murmuring directions to the triplets, they pass the identification papers up for inspection. AZZURRA examines them only briefly before growling, "Legitimate."

As AZZURRA picks up his pouch, PAPA fidgets. "Please, Miss Commander," he says timidly. "We didn't mean to be any trouble."

Her cold, black eyes seem to bore through him. "There are fugitives loose in the Godsea," AZZURRA says softly. "The entrances and exits to Thieves' Cove are constantly shuffling. But they cannot put us off their trail. We will find their signs. Break their codes. Completely and utterly --"

The sourdough crumbs fall through AZZURRA's fingers, discarded and forgotten on the dirty floor.

She stares deeply into the velvet pouch.

"Miss Commander...?" says MAMA DORMOUSE.

"Did you know," AZZURRA said softly, "that, because the gods have punished so many thieves and fugitives with rattles, viventia robberies have been breaking out en masse over the last two weeks... trafficked to support the rebel cause?"

The silence in the Temple is thin as a thread.

AZZURRA's eyes flick upward, tracing the stained glass portraits of MOON in lavender, cobalt, and cerulean.

Her gaze lands back on the mice.

"Didn't you say you served HARVEST?" she says softly.

When the Praetor Commander's hand moves toward her weapon, several things happen at once.

Three tiny dormice release battle screams that would be envied by any warrioress. Drawing the pushpins from their wool cloaks, they spring forward and sink them deep into AZZURRA's big toe. As the woman howls, PAPA DORMOUSE hurls his own pushpin like a javelin. Soaring through the air with a stray thread tied to its end, PAPA's entire sweater unravels, leaving him bare-chested -- but his aim strikes through, piercing the bag of viventia in AZZURRA's hand. With a Herculean pull, he yanks the pouch right out of her palm.

As her family fights, MAMA DORMOUSE whips around, unscrewing the top of her thermos. She hurls its contents onto the nearby cabinet.

The amethyst-purple liquid inside is not tea. The moment is makes contact with wood, a symbol sizzles onto the cabinet door.

"Run!" MAMA screams.

The mice scatter. AZZURRA swears, bringing down her massive boot a hairsbreadth from the slowest of the triplets. MAMA yanks open the cabinet door. Inside is...

Thieves' Cove.

It's a straight drop down through the cavern, into the water. MAMA hovers at the threshold.

"Fugitives!" AZZURRA bellows.

PAPA DORMOUSE hurtles through the door. The triplets follow. And just as AZZURRA dives to the floor, hands outstretched --

MAMA DORMOUSE leaps inside and slams the door.

The sizzling symbol disappears from the wood. AZZURRA yanks the cabinet open.

Rows of ceremonial crystal chalices glitter back at her.

No water. No cavern. No Thieves' Cove.

The star of the Red Dynasty armada roars. She drives her fist into the rows of glass, heedless of the jagged shards piercing her hide.

All is not calm in Port Heritage.

By almost every normal measurement, PRAETOR GENERAL HARTLEY's occupation of Port Heritage has been a glowing success. There are, in fact, few authorities in history who have executed the Red Dynasty's precepts in such a swift and well-organized fashion:

1. Curfew was instated at once and withheld with an iron fist.

2. Identification papers were A) demanded for all, to allow the Dynasty to quickly root out any dissidents in the population, and B) issued at an impressive pace, for minimum disruption to innocent citizens' routines. (Disruptions still occurred, of course -- in two weeks, at least half the city still awaited their clearance to return to daily life.)

3. Ration tokens were issued to citizens of all economic backgrounds, to safeguard the city during the economic disruption caused initially by occupation.

4. A diplomatic HQ was established at what used to be known as the Red Oak Inn. (The Red Dynasty rearranged the living arrangements in nearby neighborhoods to provide the civilians who were previously residing there with new domiciles.)

5. Warrants for questioning, arrest, and execution were publicized immediately, and implemented without mercy or exception.

But success on paper is not success in practicality. In all the world, one fact is forever true: Port Heritage is stubborn.

This stubbornness can be underestimated only at one's own peril.

Before, there existed a great number of social classes in the vast and diverse city-state of Port Heritage. Dock-workers and potion-peddlers from Spellster's Lane; Magi and orphans of the Rattles; Navymen and thieves and academics, and so many more.

Now it seems that the city has been cleaved into two pure distinctions:

Us and them.

No matter how HARTLEY tries to sell it, the truth remains. The fugitives of Thieves' Cove are not the Dynasty's only enemies. Heritigians who would otherwise never associate with the seedy underbelly of the city have, in the last few weeks, found bravery within themselves that they never knew they had -- topped with a healthy dollop of seething indignation.

Whisper networks have been formed; malicious compliance reigns supreme. It seems like everyone in the city has at once been struck with an affliction rendering them unable to count properly, given that numbers on every official record have been scrambled and transposed seemingly at random. Take the laborers forced to rebuild the Jade Gates at minimum wage: skilled builders every one, yet suddenly with such slippery hands that at least three dozen valuable tools have dropped to the bottom of Heritage Cove.

One exception mars the rather heartwarming face of this newfound Port Heritage solidarity.

The Goldhands.

No one has been more handsomely rewarded for the betrayal of his home island than LORD TENTACLINO -- or, according to his new title, PRIME MINISTER TENTACLINO. Though HARTLEY remains the leader of Port Heritage under martial law, it's not the Red Dynasty's way to instate the military general as a colony's new leadership. No, there are always new seas that require the general's attention.

But there could be no more willing -- or unfortunately, capable -- squid than TENTACLINO for the job.

The economy is, of course, in shambles. Port Heritage is a trading hub. Not only did trade grind to a halt during the siege, but it continues to operate only at the barest trickle: due to the tenuous situation within the city, in which a rebellion could flare up at any moment, HARTLEY has been obligated to order that every ship entering the harbor is thoroughly searched.

That is, of course, the ships that even want to come to Port Heritage at the moment. A giant squid just ripped down a pair of 5,000-year-old stone gates. Things seem dicey.

Despite all of this, those in-the-know report that PRIME MINISTER TENTACLINO is thrilled. He has lived for a century, after all. A momentary dip in revenue is nothing compared to what he has gained.

The promise of unyielding political power at this tentacle-tips.

Taxation and trade laws moments from bowing to his every whim.

Complete amnesty granted by his new patron nation, with promise of zero interference in his future policies and business dealings.

It's safe to say that spirits within the Goldhand Guild are at an all-time high. All Goldhands were granted pardons from HARTLEY, expunging any potentially unsavory anti-Red-Dynasty sentiments from their records -- a clean slate, and an opportunity to start anew at the top of the world's pecking order. They received their passports within 24 hours of the Red Dynasty occupation, granting them freedom of movement. And to the simmering fury of the rest of the city, it's an open secret that through TENTACLINO, the Goldhands have all received lavish allotments of ration tokens.

Of course... just because the Goldhands are safe from HARTLEY... that doesn't mean they are safe from TENTACLINO.

There is no proof that certain Goldhands may have been aiding HYLAINE's effort to bring forth the apocalypse in a rain of hellfire and demon blood (as the Red Dynasty puts it.) TENTACLINO has not approached anyone from the party regarding the matter.

Any conclusions to be drawn from this are hotly debated in the dining halls of the Guild. Only one moral is sure:

Given all that he has won, PRIME MINSTER TENTACLINO is unlikely to smile upon anyone who might jeopardize the Dynasty's occupation efforts.

For now, he keeps a watchful kraken's eye through the walls of the Guild, and the Goldhands continue to reap the benefits of his protection.

Viventia theft, toe-stabbings, and minor acts of rebellion can only do so much.

Everyone in the city knows that Port Heritage is a basket of dry tinder, ready to ignite at the tiniest spark; everyone feels the energy thrumming through the very air... but without that first flame, there is nothing.

Nothing will happen without a catalyst. This is HARTLEY's greatest fear at this critical, tender moment. This is what keeps him up at night, visions of LOCHLUN's last moments flashing beneath his eyelids. This is the only way that this incredible victory, pursued over the decades and finally brought to fruition by him, could fail. Any sort of organized, capable rebellion -- any sort of leadership -- must be avoided at all costs. It must be crushed.

And to that end, there is only one question on the mind of every single citizen.

Where are the fugitives?

Where is the team that HYLAINE, in her infinite wisdom, is rumored to have been assembling for a moment such as this?

Where are you?

12:00 a.m.

50 miles away

Godsea Bermuda Triangle

Inside the mouth of a giant turtle (magnus asinus turtur) inexplicably named NICKELAS

You've never devoted time to imagining the texture of a turtle's tongue beneath leather boots, but all in all, it's drier than you would have expected.

Like an awkward houseguest, you linger awkwardly at the mouth of the cavern (or... is it the cavern of the mouth...?) while PIRATE QUEEN MAYTHIAS strolls inside, exuding the aura of a real estate agent.

"Given I am so thoroughly sticking my neck out for you lot," she drawls, "there are a few key things you must abide by to stay within good favor at the Royal Docks."

To punctuate her point, she points. You glance up, although there's nothing there except a disturbingly veiny uvula. You'd followed in MAYTHIAS's footsteps to arrive here, threading through the pirate city that lay atop the turtle's shell: the Royal Docks.

"For one," MAYTHIAS continues, neatly sidestep a gob of saliva splatting to the floor right where she'd stood, "keep your head low and eyes peeled. While I’m certain many of you have never stepped foot outside your ivory towers, that level of naivety and lack of awareness will not fly here. The population is rather… unruly. Much of what is illegal in your fair Port is not in these waters: gambling, boozing, and even the occasional playful jab with ones knife.

"Second: acquaint yourself with the territory early. Think of this like if Thieves' Cove expanded topside. There is rows upon rows of merchant stalls with items you would not dare find elsewhere, the makeshift homes of those with enough treasure to settle, the docks where their ships are tethered, a church or two if worship is your Vice of choice… and of course the bars. I would advise dressing the part should you decide to venture forth. Show a little skin, as it were. (Or scales, feathers, and fur. We do not discriminate!)

"And last of all..." MAYTHIAS turns smartly on her heeled boot, heaving a dramatic sigh. "I am not the leader of this island. While I have tried in vain (oh have I tried!), many of my constituents unfortunately seem to prefer democracy. As such you will meet many Black Flags here... but also other riff raff that do not fly under my banner, and will not hesitate to turn you in -- or worse. There are gangs of HARVEST devouts that trade secrets via flower petals, exiled Magi that now enchant the deadliest of blades, and even the odd rogue Goldhand or two who deal with NICKELAS'S financial investments.

"All this to say, if you get sent by these pirates to an untimely end within this turtle's mouth, I will not be saving you." Her eyes scan the room. "Is that all clear?"

The party voices their affirmatives, with varying levels of enthusiasm and misery.

The inside of NICK's mouth is shockingly comfortable.

The cavernous space has more than enough room for privacy; after setting up bamboo partitions, everyone has personal room and bunks to themselves. You set up tables and chairs, and even a word-burning stove for cooking. (STANCLIFF DUKES immediately rolls up his sleeves and starts pumping out gourmet-quality meals at an unbelievable pace; you figure this is his method of working through some stuff.) You purchase a Persian rug from the Royal Docks that really brightens up the place.

The Royal Docks are full of their own wonders to explore, and over the last two weeks, you've grown more and more comfortable traversing the complex warren of streets and buildings anchored to NICK's shell.

All in all, no one really seems to be taking it harder than ARCHMAGE ISAK, and you don't really have any idea how to approach the guy.

"Archmage...?" someone in the party might venture, creeping nearer to the man (you know, it occurs to you that he looks something of a withered-up turtle himself), where he and AOIFE have set up a long wooden table covered with flasks, burners, crystals, and glowing dust of dubious origin.

They don't usually get to finish talking. "HEADMASTER!" AOIFE will usually call, perhaps pulling a comically stereotypically skeleton out of a gap between two of NICK's molars. "I found a new companion to add to our cause, headmaster!"

ISAK's eyes swim with emotion. "Your boundless innovation in times of crisis is inspiring AOIFE!"

You sense a certain level of midlife crisis from them both.

As for LUDOVICA... though the shark woman almost perished from her wounds, she survived those first uncertain days, much to the thanks of the party's HARVEST devouts. But despite her fever breaking, she has rolled over in her cot to stare at the fleshy inside of NICK'S cheek. She hasn't yet spoken a word to anyone.

As for MAYTHIAS, you're not naive; you know her warnings were far from empty. While nursing your wounds and returning to your full strength, you spend your time studying the pirate code. If you're going to get yourself killed here, you might as well know why.

(Not to mention, it's full of incredible tips on winning at Blackbeard's Blackjack.)

But as your bruises fade, your wounds scar over, and your exhausted psyche is nursed back to health... troubling reports continue to flow in from Port Heritage. The curfews. The rations. The flurries of bloodshed, as brief and quickly hushed-up as they are.

And all the while... your hand continues to glow.

O

New!

There's a peculiar mundanity to preparing a ship for a voyage.

Coiling ropes, hammering lids onto crates, setting up hammocks, hiding in the pantry to pretend like you weren't snacking on chestnuts when STANCLIFF DUKES strolls into the kitchen with his clipboard...

Any of this could have happened on any average day at the Port Heritage docks, which in your imagination are now strung roof to roof with red banners, every corner manned by guards (and your imagination isn't too far off.)

But instead of a bustling port with the aroma of simmering octopus curry in the air, you're anchored outside the mouth of a giant turtle who's seemed to have caught the flu.

Despite the prospect of a dangerous mission ahead, you can't say you're remorseful about leaving the Royal Docks at this particular time; as a cold front has rolled in, NICK's sneezes periodically shake his shell so badly that entire buildings have fallen off, and big globs of mucus occasionally fall from the roof of his mouth. MAYTHIAS has encouraged you to coat pony-sized grubworms with Vitamin C powder and roll them down the plummeting tunnel of his throat, which again, is not what you signed up for when you became a fugitive.

It's only now, as the ship finally pushes away, and AOIFE throws tearstained handkerchiefs overboard as ISAK waves goodbye to you from NICK's mouth, growing smaller and smaller in the distance, that you have any time at all to contemplate the voyage ahead.

Sailing into Red Dynasty territory with only the slim information ISAK provided isn't the craziest thing you've ever done, but it's close.

Thanks to ISAK, you know:

• He and the Admiral had conferred about the lead on a magical island that could be the source of the Dream Key -- yet another moment in what appears to be the long and mostly-hidden collaboration between HYLAINE'S administration and the Magisterium.

• The island is Denemore, a place just past the Southern Isles, filled with DREAM devouts seeking refuge.

• The village houses a "cistern of dreams" -- whatever that may mean.

• Thanks to the history of fear and oppression toward DREAM devouts, the people are cagey -- and would likely not take kindly to your intentions to steal the Key.

• And oh, yeah: Denemore is occupied by the Red Dynasty.

An 18-day journey.

Past Solstrake.

Deep into the Red Dynasty.

What could go wrong?

The beginning of the voyage is the hardest.

The seas within a week's journey of Port Heritage are swarming with Dynasty vessels. You spend a great deal of time either belowdeck, or abovedeck trying to look like busy fishermen as the crimson ships knife through the water, sleek and sharklike, sometimes within a gunshot's range.

You're stopped just once, by a galleon that dwarfs you in size. Your heart leaped into your throat; your pulse pounded. Your hands strayed toward your concealed weapons, and bloodshed likely would've broken out if STANCLIFF hadn't stepped quickly forward and invited the captain to sit and enjoy some honey-grilled sardines. Any tension was forgotten in the wake of the meal, and as the Red Dynasty ship finally pulled away, waving goodbye, STAN's eyes simply flashed as he said, "I'm not going back in a cage."

Fair enough.

The second week calms down. Soldier-laden war vessels are replaced by Red Dynasty merchant ships, mostly absorbed in their own business. You could almost relax.

If it wasn't for the moon.

No matter what, night always comes. At the beginning of your 18-day trip, the heavens are almost entirely-black sky -- but that doesn't last long. The moon appears, at first a slim, glowing sliver, but widening to a crescent, and then a silvery half-dollar... and finally, in the last day approaching Denemore, it widens to 99% of a full moon, so bright that it shines through the clouds even in daytime.

Nothing happens. No malevolent god appears. But the weight of that silvery glow makes your skin crawl. You can feel it, like eyes on the back of your neck.

The moon gazes on.

Clear skies turn to patches of clouds, the sun replaced by misty rainfall at dusk and dawn.

It's time to don your disguises: you've found Denemore.

A light pink mist closes in as your vessel glides into Denemore Bay. Despite the dampness and low visibility, it's a light and bustling little area. Sailors and soldiers tightly cinched in thick wool cloaks go about their business. Beyond the little bay, you see the faintest shapes through the mist -- the roofs of the village of Denemore, deeper into the rolling hills and forest with its sinister, reaching branches.

You were warned that the Red Dynasty port control is intense here. A rather sizable stop, Red Dynasty merchant ships stop here to have their ledgers checked, military vessels stop for supplies and to allow soldiers to walk around and stretch their sea legs, and traffic is intense. You feel eyes on you as you drag stinky barrels of fish onto the deck for your fisherman alibi -- a Red Dynasty agent stands at the edge of a dock, clipboard in hand... waiting to receive you.

“I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for our people during this time of strife and hardship. Many of you put your titles and lives on the line, but your continued support brings hope to our cause.

That said, I think you have earned a much needed break after the events of the last several weeks. The Port may fly red banners after its capture, but there are still fires to be put out that keep me here until further notice. And you all have been standing near the flames for long enough. Your involvement in the former Admiral’s schemes - your Red Dynasty colors - and your marks, if you have them - puts targets on your back amongst our new, acclimating citizens.

Which is why your next assignment will take you outside of Port Heritage to an island town in our allied zone. I’d like you to check on the locals. Speak to them. Even warn them of what’s happening on nearby horizons. And more importantly, spend some time away.

Come to High Hall in the next few days to get your assignment in full. You'll get more information then."

---

"Denemore" isn't the first word that came to mind when you heard "spend some time away," but at least the journey was smooth.

Aboard The Arbiter, a gallant military ship, life is great. With no patrol stops and the ship's impressive operating speed, it only took you 14 days to travel from Port Heritage to Denemore.

You can't say that being surrounded by Dynasty citizens again is unpleasant -- in so many ways, it's just the opposite -- but it is... strange. Many of the sailors on The Arbiter took special interest in your recent escapades, and although outwardly they seem nothing but excited to hear whatever tales you're willing to tell, it's... unsettling.

HARTLEY was so difficult to read as he briefly conveyed your assignment. Surrounded by aides at High Hall, his mind seemed perpetually... elsewhere. It's like he looked right through you. His father's helmet cast shadows that further concealed his expressions. And you can't help but wonder...

Is it a coincidence that you've been sent to an island populated by mind-reading DREAM devouts? Would HARTLEY really send you away just at the moment of the Red Dynasty's victory to protect you?

Or does he not trust you in the city you've called home for the past six months and more?

There's just no way to tell.

Your mark, if you have one, itches.

For the last four days in Denemore, you've tried to put it out of your mind. There's no use tormenting yourself with those questions, nor the other ones that flood your brain -- such as where the fugitives you once called friends might be now. No, best to chat with the locals, collect your easy paycheck, sample the local food, and try not to overthink it if you feel the resident DREAM devouts looking at you for too long.

The atmosphere in town with the strange, moody locals is awkward enough that you've found particular pleasure in taking long walks around the bay. Here, after all, are other Red Dynasty officers, familiar faces and familiar dialects.

And there's always interesting sights to be seen. Look there: an impressive fishing vessel, packed with barrels of seafood, laying anchor right before your eyes...