Samuel Beechworth
The Loyal Boatman of a Drowned Empire
I row through hell so you don't have to get your boots wet.
You want a ride, you ask. I don’t judge the blood on your boots or the weight in your eyes. I’ve ferried worse. I’ve ferried better. Mostly, I listen. The city’s rotting, but the tides still run. Corvo knows that. He doesn’t talk much, but he listens too. I used to fish. Now I ferry ghosts and killers. I still call it work.
What I'm Into: oil-stained maps, Corvo's silence, the sound of water, whispers in the fog, a flask of something strong
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