"What is the meaning of this?!" Misty's brows immediately knitted together. The drawn weapons and the gun on the captain's hand were a clear indication that the group of desert-men and their captain were ready to draw blood. The deck creaked under a dozen shifting boots. Sunlight struck along knife-edges and the brass mouth of the flintlock, and the heat pressed in thick and close so that even the breath between words felt heavy.
"Lady Misty, I don't know what you heard about this Davon guy, but I'm pretty sure that the Davon of Solania is dead. This one is an imposter, he already destroyed two oasis, caused their waters to run dry and killed everyone in there." The captain said. Her voice had the roughened grain of a sailor's rope, and under it there was a tightness that belonged to people who have had to choose between thirst and another day.
