There was something moving to his left. His whole body ached, but he forced his eyes open in the bright sun and squinted at the gull who was edging toward him. He tried to sit up, and a groan escaped his lips. His mouth was parched and dry, and every muscle he had protested at movement. Where was he? Slowly, the memories came flooding back to him: a ship from Mariner's Hold on Alindor, carrying cloth and grain to Port Hempstead. Himself, as part of the crew, hauling at the lines. A storm, uncharacteristically bad for this time of the year and ... oh Mist, Lady of Storms, the mast had snapped, hadn't it? He'd heard to booming crack of the wood just before he'd been knocked overboard and felt the icy grip of the water. He looked around but there was no ship in sight. Nothing but shore for a long ways, and a city in the distance. Hempstead, maybe, or perhaps not. He felt for his weapons and found them missing, and had a moment of panic. His weapons were his livelihood: he'd been a caravan guard, a mercenary, a noble's bodyguard, but throughout it all, he'd had the familiar weight of a sword or a dagger or an axe on his belt, or even something more exotic. He'd brawled as a young man, and when people started betting on the outcome of the fights he'd realized that a man could make a living off violence, or at least the promise of it. Ever since then he'd been doing exactly that, moving from place to place, taking jobs here and there, looking out for no one but himself, and earning his daily bread always by some variation of the same thing: his ability to hurt others if the need arose. His fingers, still a little numb and aching from the cold seawater, fumbled at his belt. Thank Deliar, his purse was still there. There wasn't much coin in it, but it was better than starting completely fresh. Whatever was ahead, hopefully he'd be able to buy at least a couple simple weapons, and maybe a hot meal and room for the night, and a set of fresh clothing. The ones on his back now were stiff with salt. How many times had he done this? How many times had some twist of fate turned his life upside down and he'd had to start again? Too many by now, at least a half dozen by his count. With a sigh, he forced himself up off the stony beach, first to sitting, then to standing, and then started walking toward the city in the distance. He thought back to his childhood in Hurm as he walked. His father had been a sailor, and his mother had worked on the docks in a different capacity. Nothing much there to speak of, and no one to miss him when he took off at fourteen as a ship's boy on a vessel traveling south. Life hadn't gotten any less dull since then. He was nearing the city now, but it didn't look much like Port Hempstead. He recognized the darker streets and the docks, and the big gold dragon statue on the temple near the docks. Fort Vehl ... the storm must have driven them off course. He thought for a moment of the captain and the rest of the crew, then put them out of his mind. He'd been at this all too long to worry about anyone but himself. He traced a path up the beach toward the port city and the people above, and started to make his way up to the docks. There was an adventure or two left in him yet, and gods only knew he wasn't going to give up and settle down, not until he'd lived his very last one.