All is not well with this one

What’s this on the horizon? The ships of humans have that specifically human smell, whether they be tankers or cruise liners or cargo.

Whatever you are, you have no smell but rust and oil. Absence set your course. There is a groaning and a sort of alien purpose, but no soul to speak of.

For lifetimes I have been the lonely King of Thorns, rooftop-lurker, leige of the recently deceased. From my perch, I watched the harbormaster, and he moves nervously. We share at least one thing, he and I: we can both sense when a storm is coming.