Abasi had stout distaste for pirates. Though his brother often dabbled, he steered away from it and devoted his day to praying and thanking Allah for his savior, Omorose.

Much to his chagrin, Papasi was making gestures to him, ones he knew that translated to “Kill him”. He subtly shook his head and steadily nursed his flagon, occasionally drinking in the sight of mezzanine in addition to his ale. A woman was flitting about, changing vantage points as often as patrons came and left.

Before Abasi could continue, he felt a palm rest upon his shoulder. It was her.

Her presence was cognizable, always. There was something warm and matronly about it, but, in the same sense, frightening. He rose in the most obsequious of manners and retreated to a half-rotten wooden column where he could spectate in the darkness. Omorose sat in his stead, crossing her spindly fingers with a look of pure discontentment splashed across her face.

The first thing she said to him was in the most guttural of Arabic dialects, understood only by Abasi and Papasi. They both knew it to be an insult of the crudest nature, though it was not unlike Omorose to be profane. “Tell me what you want,” she said curtly. Her accent rode the breadth of her words from beginning to end, wavering like the sweetest of melodies, “And why you dare throw around Subira’s … as if it were playing dice.”