Isabeau finds herself in a row boat. The water is calm, but a shroud of cold mist obscures her surroundings. She presses forward because its the only thing to do. But if she squints hard enough she can make out figures in the haze; they're male and female, frail and emaciated, old and young. They eye her with timid hunger, like an urchin boy uncertain if he's getting a handout or a beating.
A cold hand strokes her back. Another combs through her hair. A third grips her arm, this time it won't let go. Teeth rake over exposed shoulder. Another bites her forearm. It draws blood this time...
Ewan awoke at dawn in a tangle of blanket. He slept pretty well, all thing sconsidered. Across the cabin Isabeau was tossing and turning. The boy was tempted to wake the young captain. It seemed the right thing to do as the crew was stirring outside. But he wanted to sleep in, especially with the realization it was probably his job to clear the table last evening.
So instead he plucked a book on Yoreiqi gods from one of Isabeau's shelves. Ewan didn't know what sort of fur the blanket was made from. It was wonderfully soft.
