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It had been a hard winter. The otters of Lone Isle had had a hard time of it, as if it wasn't hard enough to force a meager crop from the unyeilding ground, a sickness had swept through, covering the land and taking with it most of their strongest otters with it. The otters were the offspring of galley slaves who had been cast here when the ship they were slaves on was wrecked on the rocks near the ruins of the ancient corsair fortress. Seasons had passed and they had managed to squeeze a small amount out of the earth, barely enough to live on.
In the crumbling ruins of what had once been the stronghold of the infamous corsair, Gabool the Wild, Fort Bladegirt, otters huddled trying to keep away the cold. The sick and dying littered the ground, bundled in rags and anything else that could be found to keep the slightest bit of warmth.