[center]The sun is high on the horizon by the time that the party finds itself on the riverbank. The king was not particularly enthusiastic about the proposal to take a long path westward, and some of the group members themselves are not entirely sold, but after some time spent negotiating all involved have been convinced that it is better for the group to return late and laden with treasure than to die quickly on the wide roads.

At the docks, the castle's steward travels from ship to ship, offering an impressive amount of coin to any captain that will ferry the party northwards. Eventually the owner of a medium-sized cargo boat accepts, and the process begins to transferring the group's goods -- including two mules, a cart, and a very ill-tempered horse -- across the gangplank and below-decks. While the ship contains ample room for cloth and wheat and dyes, it has less for human inhabitants -- in the end Amos, Rhys, Heinz and Cormack are made to share a larger room while the more affluent blind woman and her servant are treated to a smaller, but separate, chamber.

The journey downriver is a slow one, as the cog maneuvers clumsily around shallows and small islands. By the time that the sun sets on the horizon, however, the wind is blowing northwards and the ship is afloat on the open seas.

The captain himself is a wiry man of tan complexion, with a thinning head of black hair and a scraggly beard. He says but little, only moving from the helm to goad the rowers into putting their backs into the oars. Beneath the deck, the three animals whinny and bray nervously, but they have been seen to well enough. Soon the days begin to fade into one another -- the captain has promised a twenty-eight day trip to Kebec, assuming that the winds are neither particularly favorable nor nonexistent.

[b]Heinz[/b]
You spend much of your days in the hold with Bear, calming the horse as the boat rocks back and forth. Within a few days, the stallion has taken to the boat as a fish to water, though it is restless for lack of space to move. You find yourself excited to strike up conversations with your new traveling companions, though some of them seem less than savory.

[b]Cormack[/b]
The captain has not taken with any particular warmth to you, scarred and maimed and rude as you are, so you have begun to spend most of your time getting drunk on ale with the oarsmen. Within a week, you find yourself telling crass jokes and passing bottles from bench to bench with the best of them.

One day, you note as you walk by that the ship's main mast seems to be swaying a bit too much in the wind -- perhaps it is nothing to worry about, but with your knowledge of engineering and construction you cannot help but feel as if the mast is not entirely sound. Perhaps you'd best speak of the matter with the captain, if he'll listen.

[b]Amos[/b]
While the others travel constantly out and about aboard the ship, you are content to remain in your bunk for much of the days, sorting through your inventory of herbs and salves and spices. At one point, four days in, you stitch up a sailor who split his head open on the railing after a particularly large wave hits. Other than that, the quiet is calming, and allows you time to reflect on the journey ahead.

You find yourself growing restless on the ship, however, a feeling not at all helped when seasickness sets in about a week into the journey. Perhaps you'd best take your mind off the rise and fall of the boat by taking a look around, or striking up a conversation with the captain or one of your party members.

[b]Rhys[/b]
You are . . . less than thrilled by the ship's sleeping situation, though it is a necessity. Nervous at the best of times, you cannot help but feel at almost every moment that someone will catch on -- but little enough happens. Perhaps everyone is too occupied with their own pursuits.

Regardless, you also feel a sense of freedom, of [i]adventure[/i]. From this point forward, you may write whatever you choose in the book of your life. Perhaps that will begin with endeavoring to learn a bit about the companions with whom you will be traveling for months westward.

[b]Eve[/b]
Your accommodations are more than the other party members have received, but they are still in your opinion entirely unsuitable for such a person as yourself. In addition, it is incredibly precarious for a blind woman to navigate a swaying ship -- even after a few days, you feel as though without your attendant you would have fallen over the railing a dozen times.

The captain attempts to extend a small courtesy to a lady of your status in inviting you to dine with him one night, two days into the voyage. As you munch on fare orders of magnitude better than the swill that you have smelled the oarsmen consuming, he asks a pointed question: "Exactly [i]what[/i] is a woman of your station, and of your . . . situation, doing journeying west towards almost-certain death?"[/center]