Your room at the Three Bone Inn

Time flies at land (and bends out at Sea). You pace your small room at the Three Bone Inn. Your last day of shore leave, of dubious relaxation, is nearly gone. The candles have burnt low, and the thick redolence of Rose incense makes the time drift by ever faster.

Outside, a few rays of orange light, the death-throes of the Sundered Sun, break through the unending cover of clouds. Workers, sailors, whores and drunks walk past on the boardwalks along the muddy road. Moans, laughter, and bawdy songs filter through the thin inside walls, and the din of the dirty town creeps through the seams by the window.