The Pickle Barrel lay quietly moored beside the outer jetty of Pier Three.
The ocean-going freighter had a high hull and dwarfed the fishing boats and coastal merchant ships around it. The sails on its three masts had been furled, and its mooring lines tightened and slackened in the night wind, giving off dull creaks.
The ship rode high in the water, and seaweed and barnacles covered most of its waterline, leaving its original color almost impossible to make out in the darkness.
The flag of the Kingdom of Marispan hung from its bow. Soaked by the sea wind, it clung heavily to its rope, only occasionally fluttering to reveal the proof of paid taxes upon it.
The deck was deserted. The gunports had all been sealed from within, and not a glimmer of light escaped.
A portal abruptly opened, spilling billowing dark green mist formed from negative energy. It spread across the jetty's planks before quickly dissipating.
As the magical gateway closed, a Necromancy Mage stumbled onto the jetty.
The Necromancy Mage was holding his left hand over the empty space at his right shoulder, making his way toward the Pickle Barrel one step at a time.
Waves of agonizing pain sent cold sweat running down his temples and dripping onto the exposed muscle around his collarbone.
His right hand was completely gone... More precisely, his entire right arm had been shredded along with the shoulder, leaving bone fragments mixed with minced flesh. The sleeve of his mage robe had been torn away from the shoulder down, with only a few scraps hanging beneath his collarbone and fluttering in the sea wind.
Yet the blood vessels near the wound had constricted unnaturally. Dark green negative energy covered the torn surface like a thin membrane, preventing blood from continuing to