Orm wandered listlessly through the little port town known as Afton. Quaint place. More of a village than a town, really. It was a pleasant change of pace after the cramped conditions aboard the Valencia. While the ship was no shabby thing, Orm was no officer. Private quarters were a luxury he was not afforded, and a shame that was too. Though during waking hours Orm’s physical form was as fluid as his knowledge of the world’s fauna, maintaining a more animalistic shape through sleep required a concentration that he did not possess. After three nights cramped atop a cot far too small for a man of his height, the albino shapechanger could often be found pacing the deck at night, and sneaking in short naps during the day when and where he could snatch them. Orm was no true sailor anyways, his lack of presence likely only freed up space for those actually competent enough to crew a ship.

There were no illusions in his mind about why was was selected for the job. Officially, his role aboard the vessel was “lookout”, a job that anyone with a spyglass and a single functioning eye could fulfill. Indeed, various other crew members could and did take shifts in the crow’s nest in Orm’s place. He suspected the skin deep formalities extended to the majority of the landing party as well. Plenty of dangerous weapons entailed dangerous skills entailed dangerous people. The lookout wouldn’t be able to transform in a large polar bear and the cook [i]certainly[/i] wouldn’t be toting not one, but [i]two[/i] handaxes if Avoir didn’t expect trouble.

Eventually finding his way to the edge of town, Orm gently lay his satchel and other belongings on the ground in a tidy pile, before lying down on his back next to the rather unimpressive road leading out of town. Confident that the loaded firearm nestled in his right hand would ward off any would be thieves, Orm shut his eyes and attempted to rest.