A persistent ash-cough that only gets worse the farther they sail from Red Mountain. Gale and Frost and blue little men waiting at the shore where the reefs are. The Sea of Ghosts and Ghosts of the Sea and the effects of too much salted fish. Then the river boat, worse, and St. Delyn be thanked for what little privacy is effected by a sharp knife on one's hip and an encoded journal.
Sera Unila Ravel awakes to a new kind of live and shakes the cold from her bones.
A fine negotiator. It doesn't quite compliment evening wear, but neither does traveling by river boat.
Could be worse. It could be made of glass and filled with spiders for example.
The next tool, the face, could use a good inn and warm water and somebody killing the sun, please.
Next, the outfit, and this one won't do. The stains have names by now and it smells of regret. Un's first trip would be to the armorer, if, alas, if only she had more than 46 drakes left on her person. All the bribes and fees and disease potions have been eating at her purse.
Un Ravel enters the pier and immediately gets her feet stuck in a wooden structure. She medidates about life and meaning a little until the situation resolves.
The first step towards her goal must be to get the lay of the land. Talk to the kind of people that won't mind talking to a ragged Eastern Devil and figure out where the power and the problems are around here. The next goal is to find an inn and just enough money to bath and sleep there.
If anybody asks, Un Ravel is here on an investigation for "eastern merchant interests". If pushed harder, she might drop Yngling Half-Troll's name, very casually, with the devotion to ambiguity of a Temple Lawyer.
Hammerfell... the world seems unbearable large and frighteningly small on the Karthwasten dock.
Un turns around, and smells a quest.
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| St. Delyn |
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