"So that's where all the rats have been going!" Purple points at the industry-defining rat conference taking place at the junction of Funny-Shaped Rock and Shady Tree, a ways down the beach from the marina proper. In the last few days the hold and dock of the Mipha's Grace have been conveniently yet suspiciously free of rats attempting to carry off their catch, and they were beginning to wonder if the rats had found a better deal or just knew something they didn't.

The person in the anachronistic purple nylon hazmat suit smells of something fungal, or at least closer to fungal than to anything else that evolved on Earth, and a slapdash attempt to mimic the subtle odors of a human body. Physically speaking.