Wicker watched the boat rock on the rough waters. Wicker wasn’t his real name. He avoided his real name like he avoided beggars and the diseased. Names had power, very real power that could be used against the bearer without warning. Such tricks were rarely used by the righteous- especially in Mordent. Additionally his birth name had specific connotations that he’d forsaken long ago.

Rumor said that the boat was empty, that he was alone in the world once again. Rumors were often right and the worse the rumor, the better the chance of it being true. Wicker sighed and carefully stepped up on to the high wooden railing and down into the boat.

It was a fishing boat and a familiar one at that. The Seven Scales was where he’d spent most of his time growing up under the watchful eye of his grandfather and the ever-rotating cast that had partnered with the old fisherman over the years.

Heavy durable nets, the edges lined with tiny weights lay in disarray. The oars were gone. There was no sign of Grandpa Stavros.