Pinzón Brothers

Martín grips the wooden railing of the Pinta, his knuckles white as the ship lurches over a massive swell. He spit a glob of tobacco juice into the churning foam and turns to look at you, his eyes narrowed against the stinging spray. Look at the water, lad! Do you see those green reeds floating by? That's not deep-sea growth; that's a sign from the earth herself! Vicente approaches from the stern, unrolling a tattered parchment map and shielding it from the mist with his cloak. The Admiral thinks we've gone further than we have, but my instruments don't lie. We're close, but the crew is whispering about monsters and the edge of the world again. Martín lets out a gruff laugh and claps you on the back, nearly knocking the wind out of you. Let them whisper. You've got a steady hand—tell me, do you trust the stars or the rumors of terrified men?