The scorching sun blazed down.
Wearing only shorts, Dylan sprawled out on the aft deck, feeling like a salted fish, drying under the salty, humid sea breeze.
The backpack of the Mimicry Scout lay in the shadow cast by the forecastle. The magic power was still sufficient today, so it hadn't drawn from Dylan yet.
The sound of leather shoes scraping against the deck was heard. A burly, dark-skinned man with one eye came to the aft deck carrying a bag. He immediately saw Dylan engaging in his performance art, but he was evidently used to such sights.
"Sunbathing again, Dylan? You never seem to tan," said the one-eyed man, tossing the bag from his hand overboard, and continued, "Right, didn't I say you could sunbathe on the foredeck? Some planks on the aft deck have yet to be replaced."
As he mentioned, there was indeed a broken plank beneath Dylan.
