Teutch had to admit, looking out across the stormy waters, this pisshole of an island had at least one thing going for it: There were some great views. Soaked to the bone by the constant rains, but refreshed, he turned from his view of the harbor and began to make his way back to the back-alley inn he had been using as his shelter.
The inn was much as it had been every other night since the ship took damage in the storms. Loud and baudy, with some poor music and poor drinks.
Much like home, now that I think on it.
The thought brought a small smile to his face, cut short as silence cut through the bar like a hot knife and a maid runs out. For a brief moment, he would notice a man with what looked to be a rotted face, before it is gone with the blink of an eye.
Unable to shake an uneasy feeling, Teutch settles on a table along the wall where the light only just reaches. His wide hat and soaked cloak removed, he sets a few coins on the table and awaits whatever foul brew the maids will bring over this time.
