78

You're on a sailing ship, with nothing but gleaming horizon and gentle waves on all sides. A merry sky with several cheery suns glows above, with daytime constellations twinkling like lively chandeliers about them.

On the capstan before you is the same quill and stack of vellum sheets you just left on your desk at Westfenster. As you step towards it, you hear an oddly familiar voice hail you from behind:

"Well met, Bandochel."

You pivot to see a slender wraith of a man ascending from the hold, his tousled hair and slept-in clothes bespeaking one for whom creature comforts are unwelcome. His grin is brilliant and his pinpoint gaze is sharp as a fencer's foil.

Vatch, you think; nay, you know, the way certain facts in a dream are felt down to the soul. You hail your idol in return: