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Like Grumblejack, Soren's infernal heritage leaves her seemingly immune to the biting wind that sweeps across the deck. Despite her more unassuming appearance, the blood of fiends still kept her warm despite the chill. Still, however, the tiefling woman spent most of her time on deck wrapped up in her long cloak, seemingly lost in thought as the group sails onward; at the very least, she's certainly uncharacteristically quiet. The few times she catches Havelyn eyeing her she herself seems almost shaken, and as such quickly moves to sleep on the opposite side of the deck. The only sound she makes—other than the prayers she mutters under her breath, at least—are the sounds of her cleaning her pistol and the incessant scrawling of pen against paper in some journal she must've pilfered from the tower before the group departed.
He fills me with... confusion? Anger? No, something more akin to uncertainty. It fills me with questions; who is Havelyn to me and I to him? Perhaps a faithless fool might write off his wife's appearance as coincidence, but not I. Her infernal heritage and her worship of the God-Fiend is the connection—of this, I am sure—but what is this connection? Am I his dead wife brought back to seduce Havelyn to the Faith? Am I but a simulacra forged in her likeness, forged as a tool to be used decades later? If so, why would it seem Havelyn's wife took her last breath as I took my first? These are questions I have asked of Asmodeus, but these prayers have fallen upon deaf ears for the time being. When next we see the Cardinal, these are questions I must ask him. Perhaps he will hear the whispers of our Lord where I have not; only time will tell.
This is all the more troublesome as while I have vouched for the man, I cannot truthfully say I trust Havelyn's loyalty implicitly. Whether I am somehow his dead wife or not, such a thing will only carry his heart so far. After all, the last person who's loyalty I vouched for was killed by my and Morana's hand, her neck broken on the floor of the Cardinal's manse. Perhaps I have been too trusting, or perhaps she was just an ally of convenience. I cannot begrudge Havelyn his reluctance to kill the townsfolk—if nothing else, what good is Talingarde if we leave it a lifeless wasteland—but will his resolve falter when he must slaughter the men-at-arms that will no doubt be sent against us? Knights are on thing, but the poor sods that will break against us will be little more than farmers and conscripts, I expect. Perhaps by then I will know more of my connection to him, something more I can use to influence him. I feel some phantom affection for the man, somewhere deep within my guts, and I find it awkward and difficult to shake; I am unsure whether this is some vestigial love I feel from a former life as his betrothed, or something born wholly from my own psyche, but it is... worrisome.
I fear that if Havelyn's loyalty falters, it may not be so easy to put him down as it was Shalewigg.'