The Puerto Rican beaches of Pandemonium are a tropical paradise. Towering clouds scud across the horizon, driven by the balmy breezes that sway the palm fronds. Salome's chosen campsite is secluded; far enough away from the public beaches to avoid locals and tourists. The mermaid looks human enough from a distance. Only the supernaturally sensitive can pick her out, now.

Lucatiel of Mirrah lies with her back propped against a palm tree. She's cast off her armour and hat, stripping down to the silk tunic, leggings, and mask. The tunic's been unfastened at the throat, sleeves rolled up past the elbow and hem tied at the waist in concession to the oppressive heat.

She turns something small over in her sword-callused fingers. It's a tiny object the size and shape of a coin, gold where the light glints over it. Every so often she flicks it into the air to catch it again. It flips deftly between her fingers, marching across her knuckles from one side of her hand to the other.

The mask stays tilted to regard it. Beneath it, mismatched eyes half-close. She's not even paying attention to her own sleight-of-hand. Facing the undead aboard the ghost ship had rattled her. Far more than she might like, at that; she's found the subject unusually intrusive in her thoughts, of late.

Is she so different from them? She'll become like that, a beast driven by mindless hunger. The curse has already begun its work. Her earliest memories have begun to dim. What colour were her mother's eyes...?

The coin leaps again. It rings loudly as her fingernail flicks the edge.

Soon, she'll forget her purpose. Her mission will fall by the wayside. She'll forget her past as her most cherished memories wither. She'll forget even her own brother, the other half of her soul, the only soul in the world who truly understood her.

Imagining a life without him is bleak, even for her.

In time, she'll even forget her own name, too. All her achievements, her accomplishments, all the things that matter to her... they'll mean nothing.

The coin leaps again in a flash of red-gold.

Has Aslatiel already fallen? Did his own humanity fall by the wayside? Does he roam the countryside even now, slavering like a rabid beast?

Or, is there still time? Can she still save him, and herself?

The coin flashes through its arc. As it falls, Lucatiel snatches it in practised gesture, tucking the memento back into a pocket. Her arms fold behind her head as she settles the back of her head into cupped palms. Some unseen wound causes her to wince, grunting in unladylike pain. The mask turns back to the mermaid by the campfire.

"Troublesome child," she breathes, wearily, with no real animosity. She's been nothing but kind to the girl in spite of her gruff exterior. The shadow of bandaging beneath her silk tunic suggests she's already taken wounds for the girl's safety.

After all, Salome had purchased the services of an Elite Knight of Mirrah. There is no possibility of failure. The child will live. End of story.

She only wishes she could be so confident about her and her brother's fates.

Lucatiel reaches up to adjust the lay of the mask. A forefinger nudges it into place just so, and behind it, the woman closes her eyes in weary relief. She's so tired it's a physical ache. For now, even an enchanted flute couldn't sway her from her well-deserved rest. Exhaustion drags her down.

The answers will come to her, in time. She'll find them.

Or she won't; in which case, she'll have to make her own answers.

"Lady Highscribe." Lucatiel's voice is a distant murmur. "Wake me in time for first watch."