[ You know what's not fuckin' cool? Dragging a man butt-naked outta the water. Seriously, he thought he was drowning again, and this time, a merman wasn't even gonna save him. When he comes to, he's surrounded by a bunch of old guys in robes. A very large bearded man taps him on the shoulder. Ed jumps with a Jesus Christ! and might've accidentally-on-purpose thrown an elbow.

Long story short, he's now wrapped up in a thick shawl (it's pretty soft, he'll give them that) as he pokes around the snow-covered meadows.

He's never been so goddamn cold in his life. You know what he does when weather happens where he's at? He sails away from it. That's the thing about being at sea, you just...sail away from weather. Especially bad weather. Cold weather. Except last he knows, he wasn't at sea. He was on a small island with a shitty little inn they were gonna make nice, and no one can explain why he's not there anymore. Nobody can explain why Stede isn't with him. Or, like, anyone he knows. It sucks. This sucks.

A clump of snow tumbles off a branch and thumps him on the head. What the—

He flails. ] Fuck off!

—And then, we were gonna put up, erm, purple curtains. Lavender, actually, 'cause periwinkle, as it turns out, is more blue, and Stede thought it might clash with all the green stuff around us. Yeah, right? That's what I said. So, what d'you think of this one?

[ Ed holds up the woven blanket. It's knitted in shades of brown, mostly, so who the fuck knows what got him onto purple (certainly not Ed himself), but hey, that's where they are and he thinks he's got pretty rapt attention from his audience. Who is his audience, you might ask?

Well, Billy Bramble right here, who's staring at him and chewing on grass, probably, or whatever lambs eat.

(It is not a lamb. It's very much a goat, but Billy isn't exactly capable of telling him what sort of animal he identifies as, so a lamb it's gonna be.)

The lamb bleats and wanders off, disinterested. Which, c'mon now, that's fuckin' rude, right? Ed turns to the nearest soul in his vicinity. Around Ed's feet are a collection of blankets, a basket of fruit, two tins of tea, and like, at least four jars of tiny red fish. He's obviously been assigned a bunch of shit to do, none of which he's successfully accomplished. ]

You see that? Spend all that time pickin' something nice out for someone, and they don't even want it. None of these farmer guys told me how picky these fucking things are. Anyway, what about you? Any luck? Or fashion advice for wool-less sheep?

[ He'd come here in hopes that it was gonna be warmer, but it's not. If anything, it's even fucking colder. Luckily, some grandma took pity on him, so now he's got a fur cloak that's doing a surprising job at keeping out the icy air.

Thanks, Mr. Wolf, you were butchered and skinned for the charitable cause of helping a man not freeze his dick off.

Of course, now he's wondering if he should, uh, feel weird? Is this weird? Is he offending the wolf people by wearing a dead wolf draped around his shoulders? He's pretty sure the real question is, why are people telling him the werewolves are real, but that's digging far deeper than his brain wants to go right now. He's already been told to shove off when he tried to step in and out of the little circle door just because the whole...sunlight then not-sunlight thing was so trippy. How do you wrap your head around that?

He wanders aimlessly towards the stalls. Reminds him of the Republic of Pirates, if you were just sat in darkness forever. He ends up peeking into a tavern. They don't kick him out for not having a single doubloon to his name, but they also won't spare him a drink, so he's just...gonna sit right here, alone, and feel sorry for himself. He deserves to feel sorry for himself for at least a day or three. ]

I bet you'd love it here. [ He rests his chin on his arms, which are folded over the beer-stained table, the picture of melancholy. ] You'd say, "Chin up, Ed! Look at all these new faces you could talk to! A man could get inspired in a place like this, don't you agree?" And you'd be right, I guess.

[ He sighs. The candle snuffs itself out. Oh, great. That's excellent. Even the candle hates him. ]