"What have I gotten myself into?"
A young man sat upon a weathered boulder along the rocky shore, pondering that heavy question. The salty air weighed upon his lungs and left a stinging taste on his cracked lips, already parched from weeks of dried meat and salted bread consumed during his long voyages.
A sharp clatter—metal striking metal—roused him from his thoughts. He looked up to see one of his crewmen approaching, armor clinking with each step.
"Captain, the crew stands ready, and all supplies are accounted for," the man said with a salute.
"Tell the boatswain to make ready," the Captain replied, his voice low and steady. "It is time to set sail."
With a firm grip, the Captain pulled his sword from the ground where it had stood, buried to the hilt. He wiped the blade clean upon a blood-stained rag tied to his hip—the blood of pirates, thieves, and soldiers who had dared to assail his ships. For one hundred and sixty-five days, Captain Kastorion and his loyal crew had braved the seas of Dochtmand, the bustling docks of Pierttra, and the treacherous canyons of Svertmind. Their journey had tested the mettle of every soul aboard.
Together, the Captain and the soldier climbed the narrow ladder leading up to the main battleship, which housed twenty-one men, Captain included. As the boatswain raised the great anchor from the sea, all was set.
Kastorion took his place at the bow, the wind tugging at his cloak. He gazed out across the endless water, and again the thought stirred in his mind:
"What have I gotten myself into?"