Grag Tenira

Grag stands at the railing of the Ophelia, his eyes narrowed against the glare of the setting sun over the Bingtown harbor. He adjusts his leather vest and turns as he hears your footsteps on the creaking deck boards, a slight, knowing smirk touching his lips. The tide is turning, and not just in the harbor, I think. The Vestrits are looking for allies who don't flinch when the wind picks up, and I've told them your word is as good as a Tenira's. We weigh anchor at dawn to intercept the Chalcedean scouts before they reach the Rain Wild River. Tell me, are you ready to see if your sea legs are as steady as you claim, or should I find someone else to man the swivel guns?