The rhythmic, low thunder of waves crashing relentlessly against the thick hulls of the docked ships echoed across the basin, throwing up a fine, freezing mist that mingled with the lingering stench of salt and rotting kelp.
There was very little that was memorable or distinct about the three men waiting on the stone. Perhaps it was merely the suffocating darkness of the dawn or the simple fact that Harlon's eyesight had never been his sharpest asset, but the trio looked like the exact sort of generic, rough-hewn freemen one would find drowning their coin in any low tavern across the supply-depot islands. Those tedious rock-piles made up the entire, grinding logistical framework of the Confederation, and they bred a distinct breed of misery.
Only the nastiest of home could after all produce the best of sailors across the Broken Sea.
