Pametum slowly stood from his crouched position, the firmly packed snow beneath his feet further crunching as he rose. His eyes were now locked on to the gray man propped against the railing opposite. The trampled snow at the dead man’s feet was disturbing – the path indicated that the footsteps were from the man himself, but were too fresh. This man was clearly dead, his face and hands covered in frost and turned gray and stone-like from months of exposure to the winter winds. His eyes were open and frozen – two milky egg whites with subtle, darkened centers. Yet those darkened centers were locked onto Pametum. The two silent men stared at each other as a strong gust blew in off of the coast, twisting a small whirlwind of powdery snow up, up into the air between them.

As Pametum watched, the gray man’s head turned slightly to fully face the standing Nauset warrior. Thin sheets of ice once frozen to the side of his face cracked and fell to the deck as he let out a low, guttural moan. Stone, he was not.