Moonlight draped the Archimedes Estate like a funeral shroud.

Saltmarsh slept, restless in its dreams, while the Basura Swamp exhaled its secrets in thick, perfumed mists.

Inside the estate, only one room defied stillness.

A flickering candle cast soft light across a cluttered desk. Crushed herbs scented the air. And Vargan — the orc druid of stars and silence — bent over parchment, his broad back hunched like a tree in mourning. Beside him, Verdigris, his staff, leaned in quiet vigil, its glow dimmed to the pulse of memory.

He wrote no grand farewell, no speech. Just truth.

“You were my pack. My strange, stubborn, brilliant pack…

But the roots have spoken. Something stirs in the far places — beyond even your shadows…”

A note. A wooden frog. A final breath of river wind.

And then he was gone.

No goodbyes. No footsteps echoing in the halls. Only the faint shimmer of starlight on his white hair as he vanished into the swamp, a silhouette swallowed by mist.

By dawn, only the scent of riverwater remained.

And silence.

 “Ghosts on the Water”

Grief set aside like a blade returned to the scabbard — the fight was not over. The Sea Ghost, a smuggler’s vessel, moved beneath a salt-stained moon, and the party moved to strike.

Their plan was bold. Fluid. Simple in theory, chaotic in practice.

Roto, silent as a shadow, slipped into the water, his Cloak of the Manta Ray folding around him like a second skin. The others — Happy, Overhaul, and M — rowed toward the rendezvous, flanked by a decoy skiff laden with false cargo.

Fresh food. Poisoned rum. A peace offering laced with malice. Even absent, Vargan’s herbs stirred the weave of this trap.

The signal came — a single lantern blink in the dark. They answered.

Roto climbed the Sea Ghost’s poop deck like smoke, his presence a breath between worlds. There — two pirates. A deck wizard. And Captain Sigurd Snake-Eyes.

He waited.

And then — struck.

With the grace of a serpent and the ferocity of a storm, Roto vaulted the railing and slammed into the wizard, sending both tumbling overboard into the black embrace of the sea.

The deck exploded in confusion. Swords hissed from sheaths.

Happy and M feigned composure — for a moment.

But Overhaul could not resist.

He drew Embermark — and let the light speak.

A blast of searing radiance punched into the captain’s face. Sigurd dropped, blinded and bleeding, his curses lost in the salt air.

Below, Roto held the wizard beneath the waves, dagger flashing in the darkness. Above, the party drew steel and spell.

Three tried to intimidate the pirates.

All three failed — gloriously.

Confusion, not fear, reigned. And still, the party pressed forward.

Overhaul, with maddening calm, secured his rope of climbing, casually summoning Chair, his steel defender, to the deck. The metal hound landed with a clang — and immediately blocked a blow meant for his master.

Happy drove her sword into the fallen captain — another grievous wound — but still he rose.

M floated upward, levitating like an angel of judgment, and repositioned herself into a sniper’s perch from the boat below, spell already forming in her fingers.

Roto sank deeper into the sea, strangling the life from the deck wizard until nothing but bubbles rose.

Back aboard, Happy sparred with the captain — blow for blow, steel against steel, radiant vines coiling around her blade. M was wounded by a pirate’s arrow, but her armour caught the worst of it. Overhaul defended her flank with Chair at his side, forming an unmovable wall of steel and resolve.

Roto climbed back up unseen. He strolled across the deck — then attempted to shove a pirate overboard. He failed, but barely paused, slashing again before slipping back into the shadows.

Belowdecks, reinforcements surged.

The First Mate and Bosun joined the fray — but to no avail.

Happy cleaved through the First Mate with a counterblow of righteous fury, cutting him in twain. M’s Magic Missiles danced like angry stars, striking down another pirate. Overhaul’s Embermark spat another shot, and the Bosun fell, chest smoking.

Roto returned — again — and ended another pirate with grace and silence.

The Captain, wounded and snarling, faced Happy one last time. Happy’s sword was true and with ensnaring strike Sigurd was held fast by magic vines that glowed with a verdigris sheen

But her vines tightened — radiant green strangling the breath from his lungs. She whispered an oath through gritted teeth as he fell.

Three pirates remained.

They dropped their weapons.

The fight was over.

The Sea Ghost belonged to the storm now — and the storm bore four names.