At the prow, a gaunt figure traced his hand across the frostbitten rail. Old wood, splintered and salt worn from decades of sail up and down the coast. They used to ply the open sea, ships like these, pushing back the boundaries of the known world. Clear skies, open waters, trade with distant lands. Spices, silks and marvels beyond words came back from across the sea. He was a scholar once, the figure, the old man.

His was a lifetime of learning, of reading and transcribing the tales of old. He watched the rocky coast sail past, he had once longed to see those days, the golden age of sail, to know firsthand the wonders of the past. Instead, he knew too well the horrors of the present. Above him, the rigging creaked and cracked, old rope against older wood. A sharp gust from the north sent a handful of icicles skittering across the deck. The bitter cold had already begun to seep into his bones, making his joints feel thick and sore.

Too old, he thought. Too old to do this again.