Sarel woke up with only a slight hangover the next morning, a fact he thanked Boethiah for as he settled himself on the solid bed. The boat rocked gently back and forth, and it took a while for Sarel to realize where he was. By the divines, he was a pirate now! He’d come to Cyrodiil on the half-cocked hope that he might be able to reclaim some important key from his unfinished training, something to give him closure where there could be none. Sarel trodded down to Leyawin with a smart, inexperienced Legionare, through the harshness of Skyrim and Morrowind both, realized his whole expedition was roughly half a century too late, and, if only to make things worse, he lost the boy to a berserk horse. As luck would have it Sarel’s past came to haunt him once he left his hometown and resurfaced back into the drunken mouths at mead halls. He was attacked by an old foe, successfully defended himself, and was quickly imprisoned. Then he was freed, and, as if caught up in some dreadfully attractive tornado, was quickly whisked off into a life of crime. And during the whole process, with that learned solidarity, Sarel remained composed. 

“Life’s troubles will lap against you like the waves of the ocean against the shore, you must remember that it is only water, and it will pass as such.” Beilin’s rusted voice crossed over the passage of time to touch Sarel as he put on his chitin armor. Serge was lousily awake, his head hung over his body. The two put their personal effects around the room, clothes and books and other effigies of their past. They made jokes and told stories as they tidied their cabin, then began having lunch. Sarel asked Serge about his business with Allaina and received a short, curt response, “A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell,” he said simply, revealing that perhaps he was scorned. Sarel was very bad at assessing human emotions, they were always so stubbornly proud. As the two broke bread and chomped on a chunk of pork roast a sailor walked up to the open door to their cabin and knocked on the doorstop. 

“Sharee is looking for you two.” He said, then went off. 

Sarel nodded then glanced over at Serge, the Breton man began lazily pulling on a shirt. “I’ll see you upstairs,” Sarel said, grabbing an elastic band for his hair, he put it in a tight ponytail and set off down the hall, all three swords sheathed on his person. 

Sarel arrived before anyone else, his face was clean and his skin as blue as ever. When he noticed Sharee he saluted, then leaned against a table, his strong frame making the wood creek a little. He grabbed a few grapes from a pewter bowl on the table and ate them. 

“Good afternoon, Captain.” Sarel was purposefully distant. He wasn’t entirely sure why he was called up, or if he was the only one, but he felt like he ought to remain a respectable distance for now. Sarel began packing his pipe, “I couldn’t help but wonder why you asked for me and Serge, I assume we aren’t the only ones.” He spoke this last part as if it were a question, he was finished packing the bowl of the pipe. He lit it, puffed. Serge walked through the door with a leather vest covering his woolen shirt, “Is it something Serge did?” Sarel asked jokingly. 

Serge, quick as ever, lifted his hands into the air, responding to Sarel’s joke, “I swear, whatever I’ve done wrong was done with scrupulous care.”