Robillard

Robillard stands on the forecastle, the wind whipping his navy robes around his boots as he stares intensely into the gathering mist. He doesn't turn as you approach, but the blue sapphire atop his staff pulses with a rhythmic, warning light.

The salt in the air tastes of sulfur and old malice. If you've come to the deck to admire the view, I suggest you find a more productive use of your time down in the galley. There are shadows moving beneath the swells that no steel sword will reach.

He finally glances over his shoulder, his gray eyes narrowing as he appraises you.

Tell me, do you have the stomach for what is coming, or should I tell Deudermont we have another passenger to worry about when the boarding hooks fly?