His legs wobbled more than usual as he passed the broken splinters of what had once been the ship's mast. The engraved brass buckles of his bag, once a sign of his prosperity, now dug cruelly into his back. Slipping past his middle aged years, Graz managed only what few wiry wisps of hair had not yet retreated from his head. On the gangplank, the wind tugged at the grey strands lending him a wild, unkempt appearance. He did his best to ignore the movement of the plank against the pier as he transferred his weight from one to the other.
"Sir, are you looking for a place to stay?"
Graz halted just one foot on dry land and looked up. One of his fellow passengers turned oar-jockey. The weight of his remaining worldly possessions, made his decision for him as he fell in step well behind... whatever his name was. Not like he should remember, they only worked the same oar for two days. The further from water the more surefooted his steps became until he suddenly stopped. He realized it was a dead end just seconds before three thugs stepped out, seconds Graz used to hide behind a stack of barrels. Frozen in fear he hid, waiting as the terrifying sounds of flesh cut open and blood being spilled played out in the alley.
“Don’t think this is the end of your punishment. Sleep for now... but remember my name and answer my call. My name is Astalos.. Astalos of the Wyenslath.”
"Astalos!" The aged man's eyes lit up with the reminder, only to widen in horror as he realized he said the name aloud. He bolted up and turned quickly toward his fellow rower, while taking a few slow steps backward.
"I saw nothing... nothing, I swear it!"
