Rats. Rats with wings to laugh at the rats on the sea. It made a almost poetic and sadistic sense to a unknown god beyond the far dark reaches of the abyss. Jostled by the joke of a boat she gripped the barrel and crate cursing in the Drowish tongue. Zarriia swore again upon seeing the massive cliff side that was more a wall for a prison. She had seen prison walls and this had death and despair written all over it. Checking her weapons to be assured of their being in place and of her own safety. It was more than comforting to feel the familiar weight of armor and weapons against her darkened skin. Her pale hair didn't show the crystals of salt that was most assuredly there. Opening the barrel of water enough to drink a good few gulps of the water, satisfying her thirst. It was so very needed, the water spreading relief against her parched throat. Closing the lid back and making it tight against the oncoming mist of salt water. Her eyes stung as she spat on her hands rubbing the salt from them and her eyes.

The splash of her boots hitting the water seemed overly loud to her ears, and most likely the elf heard. But that was not her concern as of now. He was merely a elf, she was drow. Survival was her priority and she had the supplies and thus the power in the arrange of things. Water, food, and weapons as far as she knew was hers to hold and he was on the short end of the stick. Hauling the small dinghie onto the shore of the beach. Better to have it grounded than to let her rations and water sink and be spoiled. As she worked on securing her boat, she kept a sharp eye and ear for any danger. Especially that of the cliff and elf. Two dangers and unknown elements. If she was smart she would take a dagger and subdue the elf. But she wasn't like the other Drow, to cause him harm would do her no good. Not as of yet. So she would spare him, for the moment. Her first job was survival, then the rest would fall into place as it always had.