the smuggler’s bible

Dromond of Frisia

After the storm, Dromond washes up on a beach that stretches dirty and grey for miles in either direction. He waits face-down in the sand, considering his options, then rises and stumbles the few hundred feet to a ragged line of stunted trees and lays Sharp Jenny out on some moss to dry while he starts a smoky fire.

In the morning, the men find him awake and shivering with his back to a gnarled piece of driftwood. Nobody speaks for several minutes. But what the hell, Dromond thinks, they dress like Saxons. Already things are starting to look up.