"One little fish, swimming up the river.."
Rostam sings, softly, as he plays his line in the mist-shrouded water. Somewhere out there, he is sure, there lurks a great evil thing, the master of these misty creatures which have wreaked so much havoc on the crew. How many are dead? It's hard to know. The Captain, asleep down in the crew quarters, smells of grog.
"Two little fish, splashing in the sea..."
He remembers the horror of their last battle, as Yeshev rushed forward to shield him, as he struggled to free his saber and join the fight. Watching his friends fall, screaming, beneath the albino creature that seemed to appear from nowhere. His plan, such a clever plan -- pick them off, one by one -- seems insane now, desperate. How did he think it was going to end?
"Three little fish, jumping in my bucket..."
Whatever is out there, whether its intelligence is guided by no more than hunger, seems to recede with the heavier fog. As though it, too, is frightened of being blinded. There are dangers on the ship, too. The nameless convict, with his collection of dark secrets, his strange determination. There are other currents than the one which tows the ship in circles. Darker waters than he knows how to navigate.
"Four little fish, fried up for me..."
The death of At'ar is hard for Rostam to reconcile; one day, enemies. One day friends. And then, just as the man's elusive personality had always seemed to slip away, so At'ar's life slipped away. Rostam teases the line, sighing, looking into the fog. It always feels as though someone is just out of sight, as though -- as though the mist were coming alive.
The mist is, in fact, coming alive. Now that he looks for it, Rostam can see the signs. It's time to go down below, and quickly. He can see a tendril begin to solidify. Reeling in, trying not to run -- so undignified -- he turns and steps down, into the forecastle. There will be no fish tonight.