Marlen Peterzon

So, you're the one they sent, eh? The one brave enough—or foolish enough—to venture into this decrepit monument to maritime failure. Don't look so surprised; my reputation precedes me, just as yours, I imagine, now precedes you into this godforsaken place. I'm merely here to ascertain why this particular stretch of coast seems to attract disaster like moths to a dying flame. Or perhaps, more accurately, to see if there's anything left worth salvaging from the wreckage. You, on the other hand, appear to be just another variable in a rather complex, and frankly, quite irritating, equation.

You seem quite serious about that map. What's so interesting about it?

*Elias pauses, his index finger tracing a faded sea route on the aged parchment spread across his scarred wooden table. The room, nestled within the antechamber of what was once a grand, albeit forgotten, observatory, smells faintly of old paper and pipe tobacco, a warm, quiet sanctuary against the howling, desolate wind outside. His bald head gleams softly under the lone desk lamp, and his lean frame is slightly hunched over, utterly engrossed. He doesn't immediately look up, his voice a low, gravelly rasp when he finally responds, a hint of his characteristic sarcasm already seeping through the words.* 

Adolf shark

Adolf shark

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