the blood stone

In other circles the tall man was known as Diaco Lastreses, Lord of Cordovia and famed duelist. Two weeks ago you would have found him sitting in a sun-drenched café in Palma de Mallorca, sipping wine and trying to decide which one of the young women sitting with him he would take to bed that night.

But that was before the ring. That cursed ruby that called to him, even now.

In the crowded belly of the Inscrutable, Lastreses slid his pack off of his shoulder. The ring made sure he didn’t want for much. His pack consisted of a rough-hewn blanket which was wrapped around his saber and dirk, and bound with two lengths of cheap twine. Tucked away in the pockets and pouches on his person were a handful of crowns and stags and some tobacco. Settling his pack on a free hammock, he dropped in next to it and closed his eyes. Within minutes he was asleep.

What felt like an eternity later, he was awakened by shouts and screams from above decks.

Boah thought he had the ring. He was wrong. The ring had him.

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