Their ruckus was attracting some attention, it seemed. Camhanaich had been invited, and the word passed on to any itinerant loners. But some of these folk were strangers.

Good! Lyra thought, scarfing down another mouthful of sour fruit and licking blue-stained lips on the swallow. They'd tell the whole world what you could find at the Howff. Which meant custom, and crew, and most importantly — coin. Or this world's equivalent anyway.

Fuck the end of the world, they were going to have a party!

Welcome, all, ye scurvy bastards and bitches! 'Elp yerselves t'a good time! She cheered, greeting most new entries with a gaptooth grin and a wink. Until one particularly caught her eye.

Or her nose, really. Saltbrine and sargassum, as if the ocean itself had come to call. Lyra turned her head to the door, emerald eyes appraising the stranger. Looked young. Walked like a man who knew the deep — nothing young at all about their stance. Curly hair, grey as the morning sea with foamy waves down his back. Gorgeous. Unnatural.

She looked back to Will-o'-Wisp on the stairway, brow cocked in silent asking, You know this guy?