Darel's shack stood at the very edge of the Dragon Sea, along a beach where only hardy tufts of salt grass could grow. The old sailor sat on the stoop, casting weatherwise glances at the clouds over the water to the north. Cured and seasoned over the years by the wind and water and salt, he looked like a cast-up sea creature that had somehow sprouted a human head.
Pretending to repair a net, Darel carefully marked the progress of the three people approaching along the shore from the west. Behind them in the haze, the city of T'jet was strewn across the hills, near enough that on days when the wind poured off the continent, the reek of open sewers and crowded humanity would wash over Darel's shack, and he would take to his boat for relief. He had long since vowed that when his fortune was made, he would move to a better place perhaps across the gulf to Anrahou, where the sand was stark and clean, and the shoals full of fish.
The clothing of the strangers radiated the sheen of fine quarn silk. Embroidery lavishly decorated every cuff, lapel, and collar. He would have assumed they were all women, if not for the beards on two of the faces, one full, the other sparse with adolescence.
Nobles. What did they want out here? Let them keep to their palaces and statehouses. Darel bent his nose to his work, beginning to mend in earnest.
The newcomers stopped a few paces away. "Are you Darel?" The man's voice carried easily over the crash of the breakers. Despite his intention, the old sailor looked up.
The man was short, his black hair dusted with a few traces of grey. Despite the elegant garments, he carried himself like a warrior.
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