The whole ship awoke at the break of dawn with an exuberant new energy. Zoe and Michelle hollared themselves hoarse calling to the ship in the distance, and Sage joined in waving madly, catching a pleasant warm breeze in fingers red from the elements. There was a serenity to the water as the rising sun crept across it, turning the waves into shimmering golden treasure. The sea could be beautiful again.<br/><br/>With a catch in her throat Margaret Hotspur loaded the musket. The powder was as soaked as every inch of the ship, and it was only by Corinne's magic that the weapon had any chance of firing. Hurried, limbs tremulous on spent adrenaline, Margaret invested her hope in a handful of powder and pulled the trigger to scatter it to the breeze.<br/><br/>The musket's crack was deafening, louder than any combined sound eight passengers could make. There was silence, panting, sobbing, and sharply the caravel's sails snapped full of wind and surged to intercept the ragged tender boat.<br/>"We're saved," gust Zoe. "Praise Ezra!"<br/><br/>For fifteen weightless minutes the caravel drew nearer. A name,<em>Mercy, </em>bore in milk-white paint across its prow. Dark sailors, richly tanned men of low breeding, called undisciplined greetings from the caravel's deck. The language of it was unfamiliar, throaty and harsh with guttural clucks, but someone aboard must share the Common tongue. Someone had registered that ship, not so long ago that the sea air had stripped it away. A named ship had history.<br/><br/>There were kisses to go around, with the end of this ordeal in sight. Michelle pressed a kiss to Jacqueline, full of gratitude and asking no reciprocation at all. Her heart was all aflutter. It was quick, and done, while a kiss from Zoe to Corinne mired in frustration, jealosy, anguish. Sage granted a kiss to Danae and one to Aloisa, while the moment was bright, but these were torrid and self-serving, each a promise, a secret compact.<br/><br/>A rope net fished the tender boat from the water, and on straining, juddering winches, brought its eight passengers up to the caravel deck. Moving from cramped benches onto the caravel's open deck made unreasonable demands of the legs, and yet, however the body may stumble, the<em>Mercy </em>remained blessedly solid.<br/><br/>Through the crewmen stepped a dark woman in the flashy cosmopolitan style of Darkon, sweat-stained jacket over powerful frame and feathered cap over hair tangled to a feral condition.<br/>She gave an order to the crew, curt and clearly understood, as she appraised the net's catch. Then she made a difficult switch to Common, the inflection of her words corrupted by the language of her crew, wielding the trade language as though dusting off an old heirloom. "I am Captain Baykur. You come to the Mercy. We welcome you from the deep's jaws."<br/><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Baykur</div><div class="spoiler_body">(https://i.imgur.com/BlZUYhF.png)</div></div>