It was the sharp cry of a drunkard that shook Xev’tan from his thoughts. He stood beside the open door of a typical haunt and rain spilled from a tattered awning, ran in straight lines between he and the storm. Gamblers and sellswords and pirates alike trolled the brothels and taverns there, this small corner of the isle gone polluted and infested by the most unsavory of sorts. It was sanctuary, though none would admit it. And it was there the Captain would brood, drown away beautifully penned and dreadful promises in the deepest bottle.