Thule woke up feeling very odd.
"By the seven whores of Mazaran!" he gasped, sitting up and wiping beads of sweat from his bald head. His memories of the recent past seemed confusing and unclear in his mind - possessions gained, adventures had; but all as if Thule had been another person, another character. Was it all a dream?
He staggered to his private bath and washed cold water on his face. The person staring at him in the mirror was familiar enough, though it was not the face from his dreams. He recognized his surroundings - the ornate bath lined with marble, the opulent private quarters. This was his ship. His home.
Relieved by this, Thule checked the status of the Void Wolf: in dock. Fine. Then there were things to do. And even if he was in a muddle and felt a bit shaky, there were responsibilities at hand. Always time for trade and profit. Once he was dressed properly he would feel better, certainly. And armed. He never felt right without his personal weapons.
Now, where did he leave that sword and gun...