To the side of the discussing group stood a young man. He wore a nondescript tunic and breeches, a turban like cloth around his dark curls, and simple sandals. On appearance, he looked like any other boy that would be seen around the town. All that marked him as different were the bright bracelets he wore around his wrists to signal his servitude.

He stared uncertainly at the group as they discussed which path to take. He wasn't sure where they were going, but he needed to know when, so he could alert his mistress. Glancing sideways, the boy spotted the hooded woman through the crowd. She sat upon a bench on a far wall, her face obscured, her hands neatly tucked beneath her shawl. She looked like any other waiting lady, from here.

Why she was participating in this journey, the servant Rory didn't know. But he was getting good pay to accompany her. So he wouldn't question it.

Rory put his attention back on the group before him, listening to the talk of boats and western roads. He'd never traveled far from Fort Washington in his fourteen years. The idea of doing so made him both nervous and excited. Another reason he wasn't questioning his mistress's desire to join them. In part, he hoped for a boat, as he'd never been on one. And it might be funny to watch his mistress get around on one. Rory smiled to himself for the amusing thought.

He heard the faint chime of a small bell, and Rory turned at once to walk towards his mistress. Guiltily, he wondered if she knew what he'd been imagining. She had a way of following his thoughts with unnatural accuracy. “Yes, Mistress?”

The head beneath the hood tilted ever so slightly. “What is taking them so long?”
“They're deciding which path to take, Mistress.” Rory said, his voice small. He didn't like when his mistress complained in public.
She scoffed, her sneering face unseen. “This is poor planning.” She muttered. “You'd think a faction working for the king would have the foresight to pick a damned road.”
Rory looked around nervously. Most were paying attention to the unit in the courtyard, and not the hooded woman. “Mistress, I cannot hear their decision if I'm this far from them.” The boy said. “Shall I tell the lord you'd like to take a boat to the east?”
The woman sniffed beneath her hood. “I take no preference.” She insisted. “But in any case, a choice must be made. Tell them I'd take the third option. The boat to Kebek.” Rory frowned, unaware his mistress could hear their talk from this far.
“Yes, Mistress.” He said, bowing politely before he trudged back to the group to offer her opinion.

Rhys had taken the Northern route leaving home, taking the route by land around the body of water. Had he gone across the bay instead, he might have arrived in town when the announcement was just being made about the assembly of a group to go to the west. Had he been delayed at all by the kingdom to the North, he might have missed the opportunity entirely. Rhys didn’t consider himself to be the most social of individuals, but traveling with a group into the West was certainly preferable to going on his own. The provisions and the coins would help too. Though Rhys had enough funds to get some dried meat and other foods, he wouldn’t be able to supply himself food for the entire journey. He had intended to forage off the land.

He wondered, when he arrived at the keep, if his brother had taken a similar route. Had fortune—good or bad wouldn’t be revealed for some time, yet—provided him with an entourage and food? Had he chosen the route by water or by land? Rhys thought land. His instincts were drawn to the forest of the third route, and he believed that his brother would have been as well. They were both very familiar with forests, hunting for food and moving among the trees. A faint flicker of concern crossed his face for a moment as he thought that the mule and cart might struggle with such a journey. But that was not his problem. The owner of the cart would determine its limitations. Rhys only had to consider the limitations of the weight on his back and the strength of his legs.

In continuing to consider the third option, Rhys knew that he had no cause to return expediently, nothing driving him back to his home village. The answers he sought were out there…out West. He waited until all of the options were laid out, not really wishing to be the first one to speak. He would have greatly preferred it if the other men simply chose the third option and then they could come to a consensus. But his patience grew thin, and he did greatly prefer the third option to the others. “I think…” When he began to speak, he could feel hundreds of eyes upon him. Perhaps it wasn’t that many, but a part of him was convinced that there were more people in this keep than were in his entire village. “I think that we should take the route to the North. We will be able to get food and shelter, and avoid potential ambushes on the main road. It may be slower, but I’d rather be slow and alive than quick and dead.”

His voice didn’t sound like a grown male, and there were likely a few who wondered just how many years he had under his belt. But Rhys wasn’t looking at the eyes of the merchants and the seamen. He was looking at the rest of his crew. There was an older, scarred man who might agree with the value of taking one’s time, but might instead be at the point in his life where he wants to be unnecessarily reckless. The man with the horse seemed to be armed for the woods as well, with his dark clothing and bow, and Rhys hoped that he, too, would prefer the cover of the trees. The other man he couldn’t gauge yet, and he seemed rather quiet. He waited for the others who mattered to voice their opinions, and in the back of his mind began to wonder what these people would think of him, with his worn brown and green clothing, and somewhat over-sized bag currently by his feet.

Amos had been staying by himself in an inn, just a hour’s pace from where Fort Washington stood, above the Potomac. It too nestled the rushing river, and it’s sound had lulled him into a deep slumber, in which he had remained until a knock came at his door in the early morning.

It had been another beggar child. Not that the their status had bothered him, particularly. But the fact that his namesake and his skills with the elements had spread so quickly among the poor bothered Amos. He was not a savior, but one man, willing to help those in need. He quickly gave the child a vile of a usual mixture; a green-tinted fluid meant to bring general healing to the body, and he was on his way.

As the walked to the keep, his long, dark locks remained in his eyes from the crosswind blowing through the alleyways. Something about the morning seemed off to the alchemist. Though the thought of a long travel with strangers was not a comforting one, it was something more. Perhaps it was the spirit above him, reminding him of the import of this mission. How this coin would help fund a lasting store to bring some help to this world. Heaven knows there hasn’t been anything but pain in recent years.

Amos, after arriving, wasn’t sure what to make of his new traveling companions. There was a younger man among them, seeming built for the trip, or at least the inevitable hunts. His looming horse casted a stark shadow o’er both his owner and the surrounding travelers.

The opposite side stood a much older man, scarred and marred no doubt from war. It was best there’d be altered men among there group, and Amos was glad to have an experienced member among them.

The third was surprisingly sleeker and smaller than the previous two. His mouth opened and a lighter, higher tone arose from what Amos had expected. He seemed a child in a much harsher world than himself. Amos made a mental note, but chose not to speak a word of his thoughts till the time proved himself wrong. Or right.

The third man suggested the third route. Fitting coincidences aside, Amos found himself wondering if this was the best option.

“The trip northward seems safer, aye,” he agreed, looking to his companions, and the third man in particular. “I’d be pressed to take it, but there’s the reason we came together in the first place.”

Amos nodded a head to the merchant whose gold had brought the team together on the count of the king.

“I’m willing to take either the inland path or the northern,” Amos continued, “but I suppose an argument could be made for both. It’d be wrong to choose so quickly without considering.”

In the back of his mind Amos knew his suggestion had come from his own fear of the sea options. He hadn’t the stomach for such long journeys. But, in his own mind, he felt as if the third option was smartest. Still, as he suggested, it couldn’t hurt to consider everything in front of them.

Amos watched as a boy, not yet a man, trudged back to the circle the strangers had formed from a hooded woman. He wasn’t sure what to make of the sight, so he held his judgement, and watched as her apparent servant spoke on her behalf.

Heinz and Bear

Heinz had mixed feelings about being back in Ft. Washington. Earlier this year, Bear had bolted in the middle of the village square, having been spooked by a shopkeeper's falling wares. Bear had upended the carts lining the streets, and provoked the tethered pack animals, creating a riotous scene. When he had arrived this morning, some had recognized him and voiced their lingering bitterness. Heinz had pulled up his hood in embarrassment and rushed through the main street towards the keep where they were to meet and was forced to lay low as they gathered supplies and negotiated with merchants.

As the group discussed their next step, Heinz initially hung back with Bear. The keep seemed to be a friendly establishment, though many of the locals seemed on edge in the presence of the group. Understandably, the keep had refused to board the horse in their stables and Heinz was forced to remain close by Bear's side. He noticed the others eying the horse with vague concern, and Heinz regretted that his first impression would be over-shadowed by the foul-tempered beast. Wary of his surroundings, he observed the others. During the long day, as the group gathered supplies in Ft. Washington, Heinz managed to get an impression of each of them, and was reluctantly optimistic about their journey. They were all fascinating people from a wide variety of backgrounds, and Heinz - eager to vicariously experience the lives of others - was already anticipating the tales each of the had to tell.

He had already begun to trust the man named Cormac. Though he had a grim and gruff countenance, and a blunt mannerism, he had inspected the pack Heinz had haphazardly constructed for Bear and suggested multiple improvements. He also seemed interested in improving the mule cart - complaining that it was poorly designed for rough travel and encouraging the purchase of spare parts for repair purposes. The alchemist, Amos, was taciturn and Heinz had shared only a few words with him - certainly not enough to get an impression of him. However, Heinz was mystified by the supplies the man had with him. He had a limited knowledge of alchemy and medicine and so they were akin to magic in his mind. Rhys, who seemed younger than himself, had been initially friendly towards him. Heinz had heard him whistling to himself as he took inventory of his supplies, and Heinz had been impressed by his musicality. He'd have to remember to ask him to teach him to whistle later on. The woman was silent, and the servant, Rory, spoke for her. Heinz had been hesitant to approach her and felt awkward in Rory's presence.

At this time, the group was considering the three paths to take. He understood each of their arguments. He was wary of the sea route, considering an old aversion towards water. He had never forgotten the floods that overtook the city in which he was born. As the population fell to disease, maintenance of the levees were forgotten. Soon, murky and poisonous water was lapping at the feet of people on the streets, trickling into their homes, and - during the rainy season - becoming deep enough to drown a person. No, the sea was not a viable route.

"I don't think the sea route is a safe option. I have heard from the sailors that there has been heightened pirate activity. I have also heard word that ship breakers are common on the coast, leading sailors into the rocky shore and pillaging the remains of the wreckage." Heinz said when it was his turn to speak. "The roads west would be a better choice because the path is straight. It's dangerous though, and we've lost many couriers in the past to marauders," Heinz paused, remembering an event that still saddened him to this day. Hoping no one had noticed, he went on. "I have travelled Northwards and I believe this is the best option. The forests provide much cover for travelers, as well as shelter in the night and fuel for fire. Hunting will be prosperous as well."

Amos and Rhys- 1 week on boat

Rhys didn’t think he would take to the boat well. He knew that was one of the less pleasant parts of this whole journey. In the woods, he could feign needing to go off to his own place to do things like relieve himself. But on a ship, it was sufficiently more difficult. He made it work, however, keeping odd hours and waiting for others to pass before going. His body would never match what he knew he was meant to be, but this the most free he had been in a long time. It wasn’t like at home, where everyone looked at him sideways for wanting to be a certain way. Here, he was accepted—even if it was only because they didn’t know.

It took a few days for him to get used to the movements of the ship and its occupants. He found himself fascinated by the position of lookout, the person who climbed the ropes like they were as solid as the earth, and perched atop the ship, swaying in the breeze. There were two or three responsible for the duty, taking shifts, but they were all built similarly to Rhys. They were taller, but thin and lanky as well. It was something that he might be able to do, one day. Right now he had a mission, but he wouldn’t mind learning more about how to watch for dangers on the sea.

Though he didn’t pay much attention to the rest of the crew, he found himself rather interested in the various knots that were used on different parts of the ship. As a trapper, he occasionally used knots in the forest, but for very different purposes. Though the men were more keen on playing cards and drinking, he found that a few were willing to show him some of the knots, if it meant passing off some work to him as well. Rhys didn’t mind, it kept him busy, and he liked to learn.

He was taught the secure double overhand knot, which he recognized to be almost the same as a poacher’s knot he learned some time ago. That one he picked up quickly, and he moved on to another. One knot that he thought was particularly interesting was called a butterfly loop. It allowed for a loop in the middle of a rope that could hold weight, and pulling on the ends didn’t loosen it.

Rhys usually tried to depart from the room in the morning, since Amos usually sat in there and worked on his…whatever it was, but about a week in he found himself staying in the bunk as well. The weather was a bit dreary, and the deck was crowded, so he sat on the small bed, working with a small section of rope given to him by one of the crew. He sat quietly for a while before it occurred to him that Amos wasn’t really working on anything at the moment. As a matter of fact, he didn’t look terribly well. “Amos…are you okay?” Rhys asked after a while. They hadn’t really spoken much, apart from initial introductions and such. He had spoken with most of the others even less. He saw when Amos stitched some guy’s head after he got hurt, and found it rather interesting. The man seemed quite skilled, and he was glad to have the man on the journey. Consequently, seeing him ill was far from reassuring.

The sea wasn't kind to Amos, or his stomach. He had spent a lifetime on solid land. To have it ripped away from him for such a while was bound to wretch his stomach, but so far he had managed not to embarrass himself by a spilling his lunch over the balcony. Not just yet. In the meantime, he managed to hone his skills on a stomach-easing brew, but his typical recipes seemed to be rendered inert by the salt in the air. It was a grueling process to see which ingredient needed less than the others to account for the sea, and the man with the injured head was a great mental break from the process.

As he took one of his breaks and focused on calming his stomach, he heard Rhys' voice cut through the ambient sounds of the sea below them. Amos hadn't talked much to any of the other passengers, and hearing one of them was still a rare occurrence. Especially to reach out in kindness. Amos wasn't surprised it was Rhys, though. Out of the other passengers, he seemed the most open.

"It's just the sea," Amos said, sitting up and working once again at the concoction ahead of him. He only had a few more tries to get it right before he'd need to start conserving his resources. "I'm trying to fix it in a way I know how to...but, even alchemy has it's limits."

Amos turned his head and gave Rhys a smile. "What about you? You take to the sea well?"

Rhys lowered the knot into his lap and gave the man his full attention as Amos went on about his salves…or something. He didn’t entirely understand, and he didn’t expect Amos to launch into a tutorial. “Apparently.” Rhys replied with a nod. “I’ve never been on the sea. There were lots of rumors where I grew up that buying passage on a ship was really buying your own way into slavery, so I stayed away.” He explained. “But the view on deck is beautiful, when the weather isn’t dreary. And the knots are similar to ones I know for trapping.” He holds up the rope he had been messing with briefly as an example.

“So…what drove you to take this journey?” Rhys asked. “Looking for new herbs to make salves and things?” He was mostly making the suggestion in jest, but he was genuinely curious about the other man.

Amos nodded at Rhys' answer. He seemed...happy, in a way. Not that talks of slavery could ever be. No...it was body language. Rhys stuck him as someone willing to open up, and for that reason, Amos was appreciative--if, a bit hesitant.

"It's a much better knot than I could do," Amos said lightly as Rhys held up his handiwork to him. But as the conversation steered to his reasons aboard this ship--his reasons on this very crew, in fact--Amos could help but think of a time long past. The blurred memories of a once cherished bride, long faded by time.

Amos tried not to think of these things. And so Amos provided his inquirer with a half-truth: "New herbs would be great, but the money could go to some great use. I'm looking to establish a permanent shop to work among my things, maybe...help a few people along the way."

"And what about yourself?" Amos asked, "We both don't seem to look the part of treasure-hunters, I would assume."

As he awaited his response, Amos poured a green substance from his mortar, helping it move into the main mixing bowl with his pestle.

Rhys got the feeling that Amos…wasn’t being completely genuine in his reasons, but those were his own, just as Rhys’ reasons were his. “I’m not sure…Answers?” Rhys said it in a questioning tone, because he wasn’t really sure what drove him here. He grew silent for a minute, fumbling a bit to undo and redo the knot as he thought about it.

“My brother….” He began the subject hard for him to share. “He left home, going west, looking for answers. He always thought there was more out there. I don’t expect to find him. But… I think I would like to find the answers he sought.” Rhys said.

He wasn’t sure if it made any sense to the other man, but it didn’t have to. They just needed to both be vested in keeping the other alive. It might not go both ways, but he certainly wanted to keep the alchemist alive through the journey. And the first step to that was possibly relieving his sea sickness. “Would you like me to ask the crew if they have anything they know of to help with your sea sickness?” Rhys asked, hopping off of the bed. He felt like he needed some fresh air, despite the dreary weather.

Amos finished the last of his mixing as Rhys finished his own answer. As a man living in solitude for so long, he was surprised as how candid his traveling partner had managed to be, and felt a tinge of disappointment within himself for not being able to do so as quickly.

"Well," he said, setting down his tools. Further action proved to be of little use in this case, "I do certainly hope you find your answers." He watched as Rhys moved to leave, offering to ask around for help.

"I'd be very grateful," Amos said, "thanks for offering."

He felt compelled to say more, but held his tongue for now. The journey had just begun, and it may be best to remember that not every man or woman aboard the ship appreciated further pestering.

Rhys nodded to Amos and grabbed the rope of the bed as well. “Course!” He smiled brightly for a moment and went over to the door. “After all, keeping you healthy now will keep us all healthy later.” He said. Rhys walked out of the room and went up to the deck, looking for someone to ask about sea sickness. He thought he heard someone mention the other day that ginger was used, but he wasn’t sure if that was true, or if they even had any on the ship.

Rory returned for his mistress when the group had decided on a path. She rose gracefully from her seat and walked slowly, but without hesitation, after the party. There were so many unfamiliar smells for Eve. Foremost was the odors of the others around her. The horse, most notably. While Eve had been in carriages before, the beasts that led had often been well groomed and at least smelled decent. This one was offensive to her nostrils. The beast and the man who brought him.
The same could be said for another of the party. The one with the heavy, uneven steps. He reeked of alcohol, and while Eve could appreciate a good whiskey, it burned when she breathed him in.

Not all of them were bad. The one she'd heard called Amos smelled of plants. And the soft spoken one hardly smelled of much at all. Body odor, if anything, but it wasn't invasive. This one, Eve was confused about. By smell and sound, Eve would have assumed the young adult was a woman. But no one addressed her as such. Deciding it was a disguise to remain unmolested, Eve made no comment on the matter, but it bothered her in part. It was no business of a lady to dress like a man and parade around donned in lies.

When they neared the docks, Eve's feet were sore, but she offered no complaint. She had volunteered for this, afterall. But even as she reminded herself of that fact, she regretted her daring as she boarded the ship. As if being unable to see weren't hard enough, now the ground rocked and swayed beneath her! How cruel. And instead of being offered the captain's chamber for being not only a woman of stature but a woman, Eve found herself in a small closet that reeked of salt, fish, and mold.

“Can I get you anything, Mistress?” Rory asked as he pushed her small pack beneath the bed at out of her path.
“Off this ship and back home.” Eve snapped. There was a moment of pause as Rory looked up in anxiety. “Not literally, boy.” She heard him exhale and continue about his tasks. “Find my bag and retrieve the satchel of petals from within. At the very least we'll make this hole smell a bit better.”

The journey wore on. Eve couldn't see the days roll by, but she could sense them. The smell of dinners, the sound of snoring, the calls of the birds that followed the ship. As she found it incredibly difficult to maneuver the boat on her unsteady feet, she remained alone in her room the majority of the days. Often, when she did depart her closet, it was evening, when she'd find fewer crew members creating obstacles for her. And always with Rory. The ship rocked too often, and she was overly, though rationally, worried about falling into the sea.

Upon receiving the invitation to dine with the captain, Eve did her best to wash. Beside the comfort of a bed and still ground beneath her feet, Eve found herself aching to be clean the most. It was disgusting, being so soiled. She could taste salt each time she licked her lips, and she could smell her own sweat drowning her nostrils each morning. Rory, too, was in need of a wash, but he seemed to care much less than she did. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying himself. There was a tone of excitement in his voice and Eve partially wanted to squash. Why should he enjoy this?

Regardless of the difficulty, Eve used a cloth to wipe herself clean. She removed a dried and long aged rose petal from her potpourri sachet and tried to get its faint scent to linger on her skin. Rory brushed her hair, and once she had retied her blindfold (and Rory assured her her scars couldn't be seen) she went to eat.

Eve sat stiffly in the chair, facing the captain. The food before her smelled much better. Rory stood behind her to wait on her. He explained where each of her items were on her plate for her using an imaginary clock face, then he retreated and waited. Eve chewed delicately on the meat presented for her, glad at least to have a taste of a decent meal. Their talk is small; the captain is a quiet man, and Eve is too polite to say anything rude after being extended such a courtesy. When he pointedly asked about her reason for being on this journey, Eve was quiet. She finished chewing her bite, swallowed, and gently lay her fork down on the table. She'd been wondering this herself often the last two days. She had been struggling to keep herself motivated, but at least it left her prepared for this.

“The Rutherfords have always been a prominent family.” Eve started easily. Afterall, how many times had she reminded herself of that lately? “Our linage can be easily traced back to the founders of the First America. We've survived everything. We adapted and we thrived.” Eve exhaled. “Look at me.” She added less easily. “I am something people avert their eyes from. I keep myself hidden away. I hardly use the brain my father ensured I would have. And to what end?” Eve shook her head softly, thin wisps of her air swaying before her face. “I won't be a disgraceful end to a Rutherford line. I agreed to this journey to honour my father's memory.”

She halted her little speech there, growing worried that she would insult the captain with some comment on the terrible environment or discomforts. There was no need to be rude to the man.

“I would rather fall to the earth attempting to do good than hide away until I am withered like a weed. Rory,” She added softly, and Rory stepped forward silently to refile her wine glass. He stepped back, and Eve took a small sip. It wasn't as full as the wine she used to have at home, but it wasn't awful. “And you, my Lord Arlington. What fulfillment do you receive as a captain of a cargo ship who carries around a blind woman and her misfit companions?”

Cormac sat on deck with a mug of ale pressed against his lips and stared up at the mast for not the first time.

It was a shoddy piece of work to say the least, and Cormac found himself regretting more each passing day that he hadn't voiced his opinion that the land route was the better route. He understood the want to avoid combat, but a blind girl, a man with a wooden leg, two mules and a horse made poor seamen, so he thought. The others certainly had no experience sailing. Cormac wondered how many nautical terms the band knew together. But the choice was made, and it was his own damned fault for letting the youths make their choice...

With a grunt, the old veteran took another swig from his mug. The corners of his mouth twitched downward in notches until they formed a grimace. Cormac growled.

"Oi, Porky!" he called over to one of the sailors. The man he picked out was a fat fellow, and Cormac had coined the nickname over a game of cards. "What's the captain doing at this hour, eh?"

"He's keeping the blind wench company, he is," answered the sailor with a chuckle. "Suppose his druthers is to make a pass at a girl what's half-dead than to sweat with the rest of us."

Cormac guffawed, then pushed himself on up to his feet. "Right," he grunted. "I've a piss to take. Let me know when the games are started again, will ya?"

"So you can beat me again?" Porky grumbled. "Fat chance of that, ya lame duck."

"The only thing what's fat here is you, baconbuttocks." And with that, Cormac hobbled on over to the a distant corner of the ship, straightened himself up, and emptied his bladder into the ocean.

The situation seemed simple enough, so Cormac felt. The mast needed repair or a replacement. It seemed to be made from multiple smaller poles, so it was possible that the ship had a spare mast somewhere... but then again, the captain had the air of a skinflint, so the damned miser might have opted to risk his crew and his ship in return for a little extra room for valuable cargo.

Cormac thought about how he'd approach the captain. Punching him was out of the question. Threatening him was, too. That meant sweet-talking him or being blunt and up-front about the problem, and Cormac knew very well that the captain had little love for him. Normally, Cormac wouldn't care, but when it came to convincing him to fix a mast before it came crashing down onto the crew during a storm...

Cormac heaved out a sigh as he pulled his pants back up past his unmentionables. "Need me a mouthpiece," he grumbled. That was it: he needed someone who didn't make paint peel by walking into a room to do the talking. He needed someone like... Well, any of his adventuring partners would suffice, but the two that seemed most likely to be able to convince the captain were Amos and Eve.

Heinz was a good lad, that much was certain: quiet, honest-seeming, and fairly direct. However, he was young and relatively inexperienced, so Cormac concluded; he'd not win the captain's favor easily. Rhys... Now, that was an odd boy, and he gave Cormac a funny vibe. The squeaky-voiced kid was probably sixteen or seventeen, and he struck Cormac as a bit too soft. He wouldn't work.

But Amos was an older man, and a learned one at that. Words from him would probably seem wiser than most. And the wealthy woman... well, the Captain clearly favored her enough to take her into his cabin. Presumably that meant he favored her.

So, after some deliberation, Cormac hobbled on back to the group's sleeping quarters and fished out some paper and a bit of charcoal to draw with. He made a quick picture of the adjustments he had in mind for the mast, though he couldn't write any words what with being illiterate and all. All that was left was to find his mouthpiece.

---

Amos had long since given up on his salve to save his own stomach. Now, the goal was simply to keep the other crew members healthy. After news of Amos helping a sailor with a head injury had gotten around well enough, two or three stragglers would wanter into their sleeping quarters, asking for a common fix to a more common problem. It was truly no issue, especially since Amos had prepared for such injuries, but he couldn’t help but admit helping these sailors, while good for this journey, was taking away from helping the members of his party once their time on this ship had passed on.

As he churned out another drink, this one to clear the body of any natural toxins within, Amos decided to give one final effort to a solution to his nausea. He could only hope he would be so successful.

---

The day dragged into evening. It seemed everyone was busy doing something on the ship, which was better than everyone doing a whole lot of nothing. There was still a fellow perched in the crow's nest, and some of the sailors were gambling again. Cormac opted to stay out of those games for the time being. He wasn't going to wait a moment longer; the mast was bothering him more now that he'd had a good serving of whiskey. He had to find his messenger.

Cormac noticed the blind woman's servant first, but he decided against sending him to fetch the lady. Chances were, he reckoned, that the posh madame would take offense to being interrupted from whatever she was doing, and chances were he'd say something that'd turn into a sort of grudge. Besides, that Rory boy seemed to be having a grand old time watching the sailors. Cormac left him be.

But then the mercenary spotted just the man he needed: Amos Breckenridge, the good and respectable alchemist. He was precisely the man Cormac could trust to make a persuasive case. At least, he hoped he'd be the right man.

So, Cormac made his way over, his wooden leg distinctly thumping against the ship's planks as he went. When he was several feet away from the seated physician, Cormac cleared his throat.

---

Hours had passed, and still no solution to his ailment. By the time evening had come, the churning within him had subsided slightly, but if the previous nights were any indication for the next, there wouldn't be much rest for him.

It was then that Cormac had entered, his thumping leg giving away his entrance long before his sight. Cormac and Amos were two men who would most likely relate the most. Cormac was only slightly older than Amos, but both men had many years over the other members. Amos had hoped to get a word out of Cormac before, but his time was spent with the oarsmen on on the deck, where Amos had spent his time with his herbs and on his cot.

He nodded as Cormac entered the room. "Evening," he said, briskly.

"Aye, so it is," answered the bigger fellow gruffly, wiping his hairy hand across his face. It was hard not to notice the missing middle finger on that hand, and harder still to miss the bottle he was holding. Yet he seemed rather sober and composed. Curious.

"Look, I'm not one to mince words," the maimed warrior continued. "And it's for that reason I be needing a hand. The damned captain's risking all our lives, and I need you to light a fire under his sorry ass." He pointed down at Amos as he spoke in a relaxed manner, then jerked his thumb behind him. "I'll show you. C’mon."

Amos couldn't help but take a quick glanced at the man's injuries. The missing middle finger and leg were the obvious wounds, but the scars along his face were less direct, but just as telling. The two men were experts in their fields, but their fields...they were vastly different, safe to say.

The alchemist set down his tools as Cormac motioned for him to follow. He appreciated the quick conversation, and could respect a men that'd cut straight to the point with him. Besides, the walk may do him good. He hadn't tried a good pace for a few days, and seeing a potential danger to the party was enough motivation for him to do so. As he stepped out into the open air, and saw the sea stretching out beyond them, he was already glad he had gotten out.

Amos' companion seemed a little less glad, however.

"Here," he said with a wave of his hand, motioning up at the mast. "Watch her. There's a wind about, and the sea's rocking the ship. You'll see the trouble in a moment."

What was obvious to Cormac was less obvious to Amos. The mast stood straight and tall like a tower above the sea. The sails were full and unfurled. If there was a problem, there was naught evidence of it to be seen. It...

Was the mast swaying?

"There, I see you see it," Cormac noted with a snap of his fingers. "How she moves! That's shoddy work, and it's going to topple on all our heads if we go through a storm.”

Amos strained to stare above them, spreading his legs slightly to account for the swaying of the ship. Between that swaying, the clouds above them, and the setting sun, it was hard to tell exactly what the veteran had been talking about. However, Amos knew he was no master of the sea. Cormac surely had the knowledge here that Amos did not, and while his gruff exterior seemed ill-suited for convincing the captain of the issue, the man had knowledge of that shortcoming and had sought out Amos to pass this message forward. Regardless of Amos not fully understanding the issue, he decided it was best to trust his fellow man.

"Aye," he said, looking back down to Cormac and slowly growing accustomed to his sea legs. "I'll seek out the captain. Let him know. Although I've not got the technical knowledge here. If I convince him of the problem he'll surely head to you to figure out just how we get this mast fixed.”

"That's good," Cormac grunted, nodding at his compatriot. "You're a good man, Amos. Just make sure he understands we're doing him a favor, not the other way around, and he ought to remember that when the time comes. I won't be surprised if the cheap bastard offers us naught in return.

"And..." Cormac looked the alchemist over with a low rumble in his throat. "You seem a good man, even if you do look like you'd throw your back out lifting a bucket of water. You let me know if there's aught I can do for ya, aye?”

Amos couldn’t help but laugh at the man’s statement. It was honest, and it was true. Giving him a nod, Amos turned to be off.

“I’ll be sure to,” he said, making his way across the deck.

The Captain was supposed to be somewhere around the other side of the ship or so he thought. He walked with a renewed confidence in how own legs as he crossed the main section of the boat, giving nod to the sailors that passed him by. A few thanked him for his remedies, and Amos would respond with a curt “Aye” as he passed.

He knew somewhere around this part of the ship were Eve’s quarters. He hadn’t seen much of his party members, and he saw both her and her aide far less. There was a large question in his mind about the use of a blind woman upon their journey, but it was best not to mention such things before one even knew a person. He wondered where she and her Rory had been, and how they had been.

Finally, Amos came upon where he had been told to go; where the captain said he would reside. He thought he saw the man amidst a few other of his seamen, and approached quickly.

“Evening, Captain,” he said briskly. “May I have a word?”

[center]Eve and Rory
The captain seems to be significantly less introspective when it came to his own purpose. After a long sip of his drink, he begins to speak. "I am a simple man with a simple purpose, Ms. Rutherford. I am being paid excellently to ferry you and your misfit companions to Kebek, and so the oars move northward. When you are safely back on land, I will fill my holds with cargo instead of donkeys and be paid even more excellently for it.

"You must know, however, that your journey is doomed. No man has traveled to the west and back, no matter what some fool merchant trying to curry favor with a king may claim. The roads are rife with bandits, and the forests are full of predators -- and not all on four legs. And you will forgive me when I say that the company you keep on this mission will not serve for such a grueling journey. Quite frankly, I must say that I will be surprised if you make it a week out of Kebek."

The captain returns to his usual demeanor after a few moments, remarking in a gruff tone on less serious matters until the last of the food has been cleared. As you leave the cabin, he offers a few more choice words. "You'd best know when your friends will bring you more harm than your enemies, Ms. Rutherford."

Amos and Cormack
The captain is, as you might expect, entirely opposed to the idea that "some drunken soldier knows my own ship better than I do." He seems to take the claim that the mast is near to collapse as a personal affront against his ability to maintain the cog that he captains. Nonetheless, as the conversation progresses, he moves from anger to brooding silence to a begrudging desire to see this so-called issue for himself.

Within a short time a crowd has gathered around the mast, with Cormack and the captain at the center. It takes nearly an hour and the lowering of the main sail to determine the exact magnitude of the issue -- a number of hairline fractures, only noticeable with the captain's spyglass and a keen eye, littering the mast from top to bottom. While it does not seem that the mast is likely to collapse any second, the captain refuses the mere notion of ignoring it for even a moment longer. "There are pirates on the seas," he explains, "even this far north. If we get caught in a storm and that behemoth of a sail topples, we might as well ring the dinner bell for them."

---

A few days later, you find yourselves pulling into the modest harbor city of Falmouth. The town itself is nothing remarkable, consisting primarily of long rows of stone-and-timber buildings surrounding the occasional crumbling concrete facade. The harbor, however, is somewhat renowned for its shipwrights, who the captain predicts will be able to repair the mast enough to ensure that it remains solidly attached for the remainder of the journey. Regardless, it will be a number of days at the least until the ship is ready to set off once more.

In the meantime, the city sits tantalizingly on the shore, eager to be investigated. Just next to the harbor are a number of brightly-painted merchant stands, advertising all sorts of wares -- well-worn weapons, hauberks of chain mail, rations of food, trinkets of all shapes and sizes. One merchant is selling solely boots, but quite well-made boots nonetheless.

Perhaps even more interesting than the plethora of goods for sale are the two individuals who approach the party a short time after the ship arrives. As they explain it, they are two adventurers who would like to enlist themselves on the journey to find great treasure in the West. One, a certain Jorrick, is an artificer -- the other, Viktor, is a bit more secretive but carries a noble air about him. The news of expedition brought itself to their ears too late, it seems, but as luck would chance it they have both found themselves in Falmouth at the same time as the party.

Rhys

Finding out what might help with sea sickness was relatively easy. Though there weren’t any people on the crew who suffered from it (as working on a ship would be a pretty awful career choice for someone who grew sick from the motion), there were a few recommendations. One crew member suggested a stiff drink, though Rhys didn’t lend much credence to that suggestion. The two that he took more seriously were peppermint oil, and ginger, in the form of the root or the tea. A brief conversation with the chef revealed that men don’t drink tea, so he had to settle for the root.

He could have paid for the ginger root, but Rhys was more keen on offering himself to take a position around the ship to earn it. It didn’t waste his wages, and allowed him to stay busy. Since he had asked the cook, he ended up working in the kitchens, cleaning pots and helping ration their food for the journey. Rhys wasn’t a pro in the kitchen, but it was a good experience, and he was small enough to stay out of the way of the rather rotund cook the majority of the time.

Rhys delivered the ginger to Amos when he had finished, unsure if it was something that the man had already tried. “I don’t know much about ginger, but it was recommended by some of the crew. They said you can grind it into tea, or just cut off slivers and eat it.” He gave a small shrug, unsure how sound the advice was. There was about a tablespoon of ginger in the hunk that Rhys got, and after passing it off to Amos, he reminded the man to let him know if he needed any more, or anything else. If Amos questioned his kindness, Rhys’ response would be simple. “Keeping you alive and healthy now keeps us all alive and healthy later. You are arguably the most important person in the crew.”

The next few days on the ship passed rather calmly. Rhys stayed busy, moving around and learning the things he could. He liked how…different the ship was. Everything was new, even though some of the things were old, and the people…well they hardly looked twice at him. Rhys heard about the issue with the mast a little while after it transpired. He had been taking care of his own business at the time, and so wasn’t present when they lowered the mast and evaluated the tiny fractures along its length.

It was, however, a good excuse for them to make a quick stop in another city, and they would have a few days here. Rhys, for one, didn’t require getting a room off of the ship, and didn’t mind sleeping there while they maintained port. During the better days, he wandered to the shops, looking at the various trinkets. The armor didn’t catch his interest much, and would have surely slowed him down. Neither did the boots, but mostly because his feet were rather small, and the boots he had now fit fine. There were a few foods he considered spoiling himself with, and one or two trinkets he debated purchasing, though he saved those for the later days, to give himself time to consider his options. He had more gold provided to him for this trip than he had seen in his entire life, and though a part of him wanted to go out and have a grand time, he knew that would penalize him greatly later.

The first day in port was a productive one for Cormac. He had a walk around the market, noting a few things that could always prove handy to have more of: extra rope, pitch, tar, a tinderbox, some oil, and a good lantern to boot. He also bought a small keg of mead (a shit drink, but it'd do in a pinch) and a sewing kit for keeping his armor in shape.

"Let the yanks and those who ain't been on a march say what they will," Cormac growled at the first sailor to question his purchase. "A good soldier keeps a needle and thread. Ain't nothing unmanly about it."

The mercenary took stock of his belongings again that night, noting his mule's relative discomfort with his surroundings. The beast was itching for a stretch, so Cormac obliged the animal's desire and took it for a walk. It was a smart beast - most mules are - and needed to be reminded why it trusted its owner.

The second day was a rather different sort of fruitful. Cormac played cards with the seamen and finished with a big win, so to celebrate he grabbed the two most amiable of the bunch and dragged them off for a night of boozing. The nearest bar only served that honey-rot they called mead, but the next had ample supplies of all the good stuff: whiskey and rum and the darkest of ales. Before long, Cormac's coinpurse was a few gold coins lighter.

How the fight started, Cormac didn't remember. It was his eighth mug of ale. He remembered someone saying something to him, and him laughing it off with a few choice words of his own, but then he'd felt that someone's fist smash into his jaw. Everything blurred together after that: a few more punches were thrown, the other man drew steel, and before long Cormac had wrestled the smaller man to the floor and knocked the weapon from his hands, though not before getting a gash across his shoulder and having his wooden leg kicked out from underneath him. In fact, it was very possible he'd fallen onto the sword-waggling man.

Whatever the case, no real harm was done. Cormac found himself being asked not to come there again, and he was helped out the bar with the help of the sailors who'd accompanied him, his wooden leg in his hand. He laughed the whole way back to the ship.

'Your journey is doomed.' The words echoed in Eve's head as constant as the waves against the ships hull. She sat alone in her cabin, her knees folded to her chest as she sat on the bed. So the captain had his doubts. So what? Eve had her own. How could she expect that a journey such as this would go well? The party consisted of misfit volunteers. A drunk, a horseman, an alchemist, a man-woman, and a blind fool and her servant. None of them were professionals. None of them were prepared for what was out there.

Their group spelled disaster no matter what task one placed them before. But Evelyn had to pretend not to care. Her only other option in life was so remain hidden away like a folk's tale of mystery. The blind woman with the odd collection of knowledge, who only appears at the mention of relics. No. This was better. This way, at least her name will go down in the history books as something more than a pariah. This way, she could, at the very least, be an explorer. If they succeeded, great. There would be honor to the Rutherford name again. If not, well, at least Eve could meet her family in the next realm with her head held high.


Rory inhaled deeply to soak in the smell of the port. He let out an excited gasp, his eyes bright as he looked around at all the merchants and vendors. He could run around here for days and probably still see only a portion of it all. How exciting!

As if sensing the boy's mood, Eve cleared her throat softly, which drew Rory a step closer to her. “I will give you coin to shop later for items we'll need. And only items we'll need.” She said more sternly. As it was, she'd been correct with her assumption of the soft spoken male. He really was a she. Confirmed when the lass came to Eve's room to bashfully ask about supplies for her monthly bleeding. Eve had said nothing, offering the items out of courtesy, but strained her ears to listen in on more conversations. The girl was referred to as a male, by others and herself, so Eve decided to play along. Now, Eve had to add such supplies to the list of requirements. “No dallying. Behave yourself and I'll offer you a bit to spend on yourself for a good meal.”

Her ears caught the sound of approaching footsteps, and from where she stood, her hood hiding her face, she heard the introductions of the two strangers, offering themselves up for the journey. Both had an obvious tone of education in their voices, but in different ways. One, Viktor, spoke like a high born, the way he formed his words and sentences told of his richer background. The second, a Jorrick Anderson, spoke like someone who had clawed his way up into the higher tiers of learning. Upon over hearing that he, too, was an artificer, Eve frowned. That put her position in danger. If they took on a second artificer, surely they would see no need for the blind one and let her go. It was the only reason she was being dragged along. She was simply too much of a risk, having no ability to see. This fool could displace her.

"Oh!" Rory exclaimed with excitement. "My mistress is an artificer, as well!"
Eve cleared her throat again, and Rory shuffled his foot on the ground. “Yes mistress?”
"No need to bother the man." She scolded softly. Deciding to see about the matter later, Eve put on what she hoped looked like a smile. “I am long over due for a bath, my lad. Which of these inns looks the nicest? We might have to walk a bit. I need to get my legs back, anyway.”