The sun has set a few hours ago. The tavern and the company of men within have gotten louder as the fires burn brighter against the starry sky and the dark grey crested waves of the sea.

The Fisherman’s Haul, it’s barnicled planks weathered more than a Captain with many cross Atlantica voyages under his beard.

Tonight there are three ships down in Bridgeport, the British Merrywyne, the Dutch Fernbo, and the Commonwealth’s own Earnesta. The combined crew count number between 40 and 50, rough men who have refreshed the smell of seaweed and pipe tobacco in the Haul.

But for those of a more discerning palate, the three Captains have sequestered themselves and their drinks to a back room. At all times, one of the first mates cycle close by, detouring the would be entrace.

One by one the crew members are easy pickings, yet their sloshed state and cankerous lifestyle may not be the most appealing. But in the Haul, the lot of them are friendly enough and willing to engage another traveler, even a land lubber, in conversation.