The weeks at sea passed slowly and uneventfully, a fact for which Baltazar was thankful. Lustria promised enough dangers for a lifetime, and he had plenty of living left to do. To that end, he devoted his days to training, and getting to know his traveling companions. When there was nothing better to do, he would assist the ship's crew with shipboard chores, climb the rigging for a chance to stretch his legs, and gamble - as long as anyone would still take his bets. As always, he found himself in Ranald's good graces.

The fencing masters of the Estalian schools of fencing prescribed daily practise of each form, as well as keeping up with the latest scientific discoveries, to incorporate your understanding of the physical universe into your combat style. Baltazar had never been much for winding technical manuals, nor drawn out scientific discourses, and typically found the complicated kata of Estalian swordsmanship more trying than his patience could bear. With that in mind, he preferred the Imperial method, of sparring and physical exercise (the Tilean recipe for success, being heavy drinking and declaring vendetta on everyone you come across, was not very applicable at sea), and offered to teach his tricks to all comers. 

When the storm hit, he immediately joined the crew on deck, battening down hatches, trimming sails and making sure the ship was in irons. At the mention of the approaching longboat, Baltazar, spouting curses, flew down to get his sword. The crossbow would soon be useless in the rain; even stringing the thing would be a waste of time, and If the crew couldn't finish off the Norse while they still had dry powder, the ship would inevitably be boarded. Assuming they survived that long.

Coming back up on deck, he was just in time to fall flat on his face as the ship crashed into something in the darkness. From the screaming up at the bow, he had a faint inkling that the wizard's apprentice fallen overboard. What she was doing there in the first place, Baltazar couldn't guess at - she had no business on deck in the middle of a storm, and saving her would be as good as impossible. Naturally, the young Bretonnian jumped after her before Baltazar could do more than stare in bewilderment. He would have given up a few curses, as well, but the longship was already closing in on the [i]Wellenbrecher[/i].

Ripping out his sword, he ran and slid in behind the ship's railing - the Imperial ship had the height advantage, and the Norse would have to climb. In the chaos of the storm and the fighting, odds were good no one would notice a shadow stalking behind their lines, cutting ropes and hamstrings. Baltazar touched one finger to his golden four leaf clover, wrapping around him a cloak of darkness that dimmed his very presence. Sword at the ready, he listened for the sound of grappling hooks and Norse cursewords.