The Tide-Speaker's Errand

@isa

The Long Strand docks stink of tar and cold iron, and the flagship looms black against the dawn-grey water. A dockworker on the night watch might not notice the cloaked figure slipping between crates — until she's close enough that a strand of ash-white hair catches the lantern light, and the small crystal horns beneath her hood glint. "You. The one who doesn't drink with the raiders' crew."