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After the action ended and left its place to allow for arguing to take the spot, Sadri chose not to partake in it, and instead thought about the words of the bard about the snakes on the ship, disregarding the Dunmer priest as the fellow looked at him and the Khajiit for help. Then, as the argument continued, Sadri heard the mer clarify that the ships that came during the disaster weren’t the same as the Kamal ships. Snakes, wooden ships… the information sent his head working, and the conspiracy theorist hiding between the crevices of his brain, asleep since Windhelm, woke up and started rummaging through Sadri’s memories, sifting through pages of books read in the past. Of course, Sadri had no idea what was actually happening in his brain, and simply bit his lip as he watched Dumhuvud.

‘’Tsaesci,’’ Sadri hissed under his breath, silently, as the Orc decided to get everyone back on the ship. Sadri figured it was a wise decision, as he felt cold enough to get shattered by a stray cough. He slowly walked back towards the boat as his good eye locked on Leif, who was too busy apologizing to Orakh. Sadri did not care much for the lad, save for his latent dislike for handsome men (for Sadri, you did not have to be handsome to be beautiful, and certainly, for Sadri, handsome wasn’t beautiful either – he thought of handsomeness as a masculine trait, and beautiful as things he felt attracted to, and masculinity was only attractive when a female had it), or just his subconscious hate for good looking things in general. Or perhaps his dislike for the lad came from the fact that he reminded Sadri of his younger days, and having a constant reminder of those times was certainly not pleasing for his aging personality.

His eyes then turned to the older sailor, who was on the ship deck, and not on land (Sadri could feel the guy calling them idiots for getting off the ship in the first place, but on second thought, realized it was his own conscious). He breathed air out of his mouth to warm his nose as the Orc walked back onto the ship, his arm in bad condition. Sadri was cold, sure, but so was the Orc, and at least Sadri wasn’t bitten by ice come alive. As he had thought of before, it really could have been worse. 

Sadri walked back up the ramp, his calloused feet familiar with the feeling of wood beneath them, and handed his torch to some random sailor who obviously did not expect it, then sheathed his sword as he made his way through the top deck, hoping to get to the berth, where he could outfit himself with something that kept him safe from the cold, such as his battered coat. Before he went down, he looked back, and watched the Nords cover up the Dunmer priest and the cat singer with blankets. ‘’Bastard’s making sure they’re well taken care of,’’ Sadri thought to himself. Food, and ale, and care, they were going to get all they needed. As always, the sight of strangers enjoying things he couldn’t ignited the coals of hatred nested in Sadri’s belly, but spite and jealousy were nothing unfamiliar for the old Dunmer, and he just sighed as he turned his head back and walked down to a much warmer and much more cramped space.

-

Having left the wondrous cold outside for more suitable temperatures for his Breton lineage and milquetoast character, Marcel stood in the Hall of Elements dashingly, brushing off snow that had nested upon his head and shoulders like a bad case of dandruff. He thought of the faint shout he had heard while in the Courtyard, just before he had entered the Hall – Marcel was a man who trusted his senses, and thus he had a nagging feeling in his gut that what he heard may have not actually been an illusion caused by the wind. He sighed, and dusted off the cape of his greatcoat, and then adjusted his gorget with his index finger momentarily before walking by some of the apprentice students. They seemed oddly agitated whenever he was around, but Marcel felt this was because of his eccentric profession and its connotations, rather than sheer dislike – after all, he had been making sure to avoid anything taboo. Then again, the same had happened with the Synods in his youth, so perhaps it was something else. 

‘’Excuse me, have you heard anything outside while we were talking?’’ Marcel asked as he approached the mage he had introduced himself to earlier, Mme Duboisse. He voiced himself to be concerned, rather than charming, for he did not want to make the wrong impression on the lady who had shown her vulnerability to his appealing personality earlier. The tired Breton woman turned her head to Marcel. ‘’I’m afraid not, could you please-‘’ Anne began, but was cut off by Marcel.

‘’That’s all too odd, I’m quite sure I heard something,’’ He sighed, and then smiled. ‘’Ah, well, we shall see, shall we not?’’ Marcel said, trying to be as reassuring as possible while trying not to sound intimate. Anne was nice, after all, but Marcel’s heart was for now occupied by the grace of his life, Theodora. Such a strong, caring woman she was! Almost untouched by age, with her broad shoulders, perfect curves, pale skin, piercing, almost belittling gaze and raven hair… Marcel felt carried off, and indeed he was. But, he assured himself, it was only normal to be carried off while thinking of Theodora.

‘’Mister Gawain, could you give me a moment please? You’re making my hea-‘’

Before poor Anne could finish her sentence, she was cut off by a loud shout, emitting from a Breton woman, whose size made it hard to believe she had been the source of the sound. Marcel, being the curious person he was, and also not wanting to disturb the obviously lovestruck girl any further, immediately made his way to the source of the commotion, where he saw newcomers, who certainly did not look like mages, at least, not all of them. The mages had brandished their offensive skills after seeing the newcomers, whom they probably thought were hostile, at least for a moment. 

‘’I am Ariane Fontaine, mystic of the College of Whispers,’’ the lady leading the newly arrived group said. Marcel thought if he had seen the woman before, but could not remember. He watched from a distance as the group made its intention clear and began talking to the head mages. It seemed that they came for a rescue – an attempt that Marcel found dashing, and certainly noble. Such brave men and mer these people were, that they would face the treacherous waters of the Sea of Ghosts in these troubled times. And considerate too, they were, as he watched them listen to the head mage, Faralda. Eventually, Faralda sat down, exhausted, and the group also dissipated in the Hall. Marcel felt intimidated by the other members of the rescue party, however, and thus decided to introduce himself to Ariane, rather than the others.

‘’Mme Fontaine, I must say I am astonished by your daring rescue attempt,’’ Marcel said as he offered a hand to the lady. He was apprehensive, but then again, he always was when meeting new people, especially women. ‘’I am Marcel Gawain, a visitor of the College. I am delighted to make your acquaintance.’’
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