Night, at Omdur Harbor.
The briny sea breeze carried the smell of rusted iron and rotting fish through the gaps in the Black Anchor Tavern's creaking wooden door.
Grimy oil lamps swayed beneath the low ceiling, casting the hunched shadows of a group of Raitelian sailors across the mottled walls.
These sailors-or rather, naval servicemen-had long since worn the gold thread off their uniform epaulettes. Their cuffs were stained with soot and salt, and they sat together around a barrel of sour ale, cursing under their breath.
The sailors were filthy, living up to every stereotype of medieval seamen. The pretty serving girls kept well clear of them; although the girls offered more than one kind of service, they were reluctant to approach these men.
The Raitelian sailors had no money, and they liked to invoke their status as conquerors to get laid for free, refusing to pay afterward.
With no girls around and several rounds of drinks already down, the sailors had begun their drunken political commentary.
"Those Minisian bastards... they're like a sea monster's tentacles. Once they latch on, you can't shake them off!"
An old sailor with a face covered in scars pounded the table, spilling ale from his wooden cup.
"They've got more ships than a swarm of locusts, and their cannons might as well have eyes. Fuck, we hadn't even set all our sails before a cannonball smashed through the Iron Spine's side..."
Old Smoker huddled in the shadows, pulling his coarse hemp cloak lower as he idly toyed with a Bagnian silver dollar between his fingers... his ticket into the harbor.
The Raitelians at the harbor seemed to have no counterespionage awareness whatsoever. Slipping in had been absurdly easy for Old Smoker: he merely claimed to be one of the Bagnian Mercenaries looking for