Isabeau found the Poison Storm largely intact. The grappling hooks had splintered some wood and the pitch-dipped arrows marred the upper deck, plus the lower deck was a bloody mess. Fortunately, nothing vital was lost. Several of the crew were gathered around the fallen shirldbearer.
He was a giant of a man, skin pale and hoary, an anamoly amongst sailors. Running from his chest down his right arm was a tattoo of a two-headed serpent; both sets of jaws locked around a star. Most unusual were his weapons and armor... for they had begun to melt in the sun.
Ewan stepped forward and muttered a gutteral phrase, wiping the last of the paste from Neil's abdomen. The amphibian flesh ceased spreading. "Well he is fixed! Wound gone, see?" The boy huffed, sounding more indignant than intended. "It will wear off... um... soon."
Ewan gulped. Well, he's sort of fixed. The boy used Neil's dissipating life force to fuel his magic. Now there wasn't any fuel.