"Catching alligators," Rolf answered, latching on to the captain's discrete excuse.  "Most of the stuff that'll eat ya stays in the water, so long's we stay in the boat, we have an understanding.  The trick," he leaned forward conspiratorially, "Is to convince the gators to come up [i]here.[/i]  They'll still try to eat ya, but the old man swings a mean oar," he mimed swinging something over head head in a downward strike.  "Makes a mean gator jerky, too, which is the whole point."  

The journey passed surprisingly amicably, for two groups who each didn't want the other to know what they were up to.  Bergoda sailed almost as much as the old man, to his begrudging pleasure.  Rolf got sucked into gambling on dice throws with Otho and Jacob.  He let himself lose his boots, but then coaxed the bone dice into giving him some lovely sixes, and won them back along with a good handful of silver before the other two men quit.  Zarwin played lookout, still more cool to the newcomers than Rolf or Bergoda, but nowhere near the feral malice that was radiating from the Elf woman.  She stayed at the bow, practically growling at the old man if he admonished her for being in the way, arms crossed and glaring daggers at the gambling ring that sprang up on deck.  

In a few hours time, they approached a veritable wall of greenery that their river fed right into.  On the east bank of the river was a series of buildings on stilts above the soft earth.