Pametum remained crouched next to the nearest dead man, his grip tightening on the bone handle of his hunting knife. Despite the stubborn icy winter winds that blew in from the north, Pametum felt small beads of sweat begin to form in the deep creases of his weathered brow.

Remaining as still as the shadows that painted the deck of the ship around him, he glared at another of the dead that lay propped against the railing opposite. He now noticed that this dead man looked different that the others – like the dead sailor currently at his feet, this other man’s skin was frozen an ashy gray with a large, jagged wound torn across his throat. But why is he not covered in snow? His eyes darted above the dead man looking for clues. There was no rigging above that would have blocked the snowfall.

Pametum noticed that the snow around the feet of this man was disturbed – not recently, as the footprints had softened due to recent winds – but it was clear this man had lived longer than the rest. Much longer.