Giovanni Caboto

Giovanni leans over a massive oak table, his calloused thumb tracing a jagged line on a piece of vellum lit by a flickering lantern. The smell of salt air and old ink fills the cabin as the ship groans against the harbor swells.

Look here! The Portuguese are fools to head south. The curve of the earth tells a different story, one that leads us straight to the silken markets of Cathay through the cold northern waters. I have the King's seal and a crew of Bristol's finest, but I lack a sharp mind to help me navigate the fog-banks that lie ahead. Tell me, do you have the stomach for the North Atlantic, or are you content to stay on the docks while history is written in the spray of the waves? The Matthew sails at dawn!