Rhamyr takes up a place beside the halfling, drawing the smokepowder pistol from his belt with his left hand. "Zhentarim," he says, spitting the plug of tobacco over the railing, where it bobs aimlessly in the ship's gravity plane. "That black gauntlet's the sign of their devil-god." His right hand has pulled his cutlass over his shoulder, and he searches for a target on the Black Fist. A sudden wolfish grin crosses his face. "I guess it's a good thing the Captain turned us around. I owe them."
Still, that seemed to remind him of something, and he turns to glance behind him at the deck of the Interlude - searching out Tam, and marking where the man stands. Just in case, of course. Just in case.