Giving the captain's two daughters a goodbye hug, Kraseawei gave the captain and his family a wave as she walked down the gang plank only to catch the guard's curt commands as he pointed to the booths across the way. On the Golden Griffin, the ship would remain anchored in the harbor as goods were ferried over on boats and barges for them to stow below deck. Only the officers and senior crew would venture ashore.
“Kraseawai, why is the ground still moving?!” the dwarf priest asked. Was that a hint of alarm she heard in his voice? Still, in his mannerisms, he reminded her of the Sisters of Photia.
"Father Harth," the sailor said, bowing her head and holding her hands up in prayer, but unable to remove the grin, "Your legs have learned the way of the sea and the shifting deck, now they must remember the way of the land and the still ground. They should remember soon enough."
Still, she frowned at the rough treatment the men at the table gave to the gruff dwarf, but the other two had little problem. As Druuk stepped past the table, she stepped forward, eyeing the man curiously. A landlubber, to be sure. She reminded her of something though. Or of someone...
"Your ah... your name?" the clerk asked, still a little rattled.
"Templar," she replied coolly. "Kraseawei Templar."
"Kra what?" he demanded incredulously.
"Kra-sea-wei," she repeated slowly. "It is the name Mother Shadeleaf gave me when they found me at the Blessed Fountain." She bowed her head respectfully, then looked up.
"Uh huh, just how do you..."
"Kay, are, ay, ess, e, ay, double-yoo, e, eye," she nodded, long used to spelling it out.
"It sounds made..." the clerk said, squirming in his seat.
"Mother Shadeleaf said it was Elvish," Kraseawei frowns, a glint in her eye harder than the jewel Father Hanth had. "Are you calling her a liar?"
"Certainly not," he stated. "Are you here for business or pleasure...?"
"Why not both?" Kraseawei shrugged, then said, "I am here to hunt monsters."
"Business, then," he said, glancing down as he scribbled that into his book, then steeled himself. "Have you anything to declare?"
"Just the tools of my trade," she replied, raising one eyebrow before lifting her seabag onto the table. "A cutlass, a dagger, my ditty bag, some spare clothes, and of course what I am wearing."
The bag was opened and poked around, but it was as she said. He stared at her, then his quill pointed at her waist. "Those pouches, what's in there?"
"What little coin I have left, and my thousand-year-old eggs."
"Your what?"
"My thousand-year-old eggs," she said, opening the other pouch and pulling out a black egg then handing it to him.
The clerk stared at it doubtfully, the shell gray where the black egg had rubbed against the sticks of chalk she kept between them.
"What's this for, do you eat them?" Despite the paint, it was clearly a chicken's egg. He handed it back, gingerly. Who knew what sort of stench might come out if one broke.
"For luck," Kraseawei replied, tucking it back inside her pouch.
He gave her a look as if to say, 'somebody saw you coming,' then scribbed down 'thousand-year-old eggs.'
"Next," he sang out, waving her past.