Winston had been preparing his gear for the mission. He always packed light. He didn't care so much for armour. He didn't need it. All he brought with him was his old axe, his regular clothing, and a small vial of black powder. He kept it in one of the pockets in his pants. He looked around his room; it was still barren. Barren wouldn't really be the best word, though. It seemed like the room was waiting for something, or someone to come. It had been so long that it was safe to say that nobody was coming to fill what the room was missing.

Winston had left his room, looking back to the two smoldering joss sticks. They were almost burnt out. Winston had a rather forlorn look in his eyes. He closed them, clenching his fists. He closed and locked his room, walking out to the deck. When he got out there, most of the crew were waiting for them to get close enough to the island so they could push off and go to the main island on their boats. Winston leaned against a nearby wall. He didn't speak. It was unlike him to not speak to others, but Winston was feeling alone.