Brought home on that morning’s tide, the reevers haven’t finished hauling the summer’s harvest into Ketir’s feasting hall, but already the curious are nosing through the heaps. Crates of Millenese wine against one wall, blood-darkened leathers stacked in a corner for unblooded youngsters to investigate, bags of coin in a slumping heap on the high table.
But Hrafna and Nauma have found an interesting sack, stuffed with a raindow of silk in torn strips and stained shirts. They spread the pieces across a table, arguing over how they might be re-stitched into something usable.
“From a Rukhi whaler we caught heading out of Lyzanium,” Byrnja grins as she wriggles out of her mail and embraces them both, the proud chief of her own ship for the first time. “Figured they wouldn’t need to be so well-dressed on the sea-bed.”
“Just right,” Hrafna smiles, plucking out very particular colours, “You know, I reckon we have just the shades for the Tower of Rosti. Fancy a new tabard, m’dear?”
Byrnja almost crushes her in joy.