[center][b]Noon, Last Seed 5
[i]Kyne's Tear[/i], Solitude Harbor[/b][/center]

The crashing of the waves.

[i]Whooooosh... ssss..[/i]

No matter where one was at in the world, the mother moons were always a constant. They pull at the very oceans of Mundus, and it was those very waves that battered against the jagged rocks along the shore of Haafingar, spraying salty mist into the air and giving it the same taste and smell as the ocean. To some, it smelled like home. While the stinging bite of its coldness was sharp against the lungs compared to the warmer, gentler, and thicker air of Senchal, there was no doubt in the old khajiit's mind that it was the same ocean smell he remembered and that made his trip on board this miserable boat slightly more bearable.

It was just enough to stifle the sour smell of his new commander's vomit that spilled all over that uppity and frolicking snoot's laundry basket before him. He never trusted such figures, if for no other reason than because of the authority they imposed. Who was any one man to lead the life of another? The lives of many? Emperors, Kings, and Manes - it did not matter. Being favored by the gods did not mean favored by mortalkind as gods could see potential but mortals could not. They'd have to prove that potential to them, and so far, Dar'Jzo did not see it. He only provided a service in exchange for payment.

Though Dar'Jzo maintained a stoic and stony disposition, he leered again into the basket and bristled his whiskers. He felt his stomach turn at both the smell of grisly task laid before him and the bobbing of the ship on the water. This was not the kind of labor he meant. He was no enemy of hard or dirty work and he couldn't say that he was above of such labors, no - he has sunken far lower before - but today of all days? He simply did not have the stomach for it. It was only just the other day did he hear from a local just outside of Solitude that they saw another khajiit matching Saddi's profile with a human girl on a travel carriage heading westward toward High Rock. 

Supposedly the road led to Jehanna, and that was when he learned of this mercenary company heading in the same direction by boat. If he had a senche friend with him, he'd be catching up to his grandson in no time. Now? He just had to take a rickety old boat and hope that the smell of vomit, bobbing on the water, and the sense of trepidation didn't work together to make him lose his breakfast. Every time he looked down at the job expected of him, he'd return his gaze straight ahead and steel his nerves. His composure was impressive - anyone else would just see a quiet, mysterious, and gloomy old cat. They never would've known that it was taking everything from him just to keep himself together.

His scrawny companion across from him seemed less reluctant in diving into the mess, furiously scrubbing away at one of the garments inside a bucket of clean water. The sooner it's done, the sooner it's over with, he'd say. When one of the crew called him Dough-Boy, Dar'Jzo must have preferred that instead of his actual name, since he had long since forgotten was his real name actually was. Dough-Boy was hard at work while Dar'Jzo seemed at ease in his meditation. He sat on the deck with his legs crossed, hands rested on his knees, and leering at everything with squinted eyes - wordlessly. To be honest, it was getting on the young man's nerves, yet the strange old cat made him feel a tad too uncomfortable to really say much about it. He found him off-putting even during their first meeting, for he was not much for chit-chat. He said his name was Dar'Jzo, and that was it for introductions. When pressed to share more about himself, all he said was that "this one works and he hunts".

You know what he has done so far ever since he told him what their shared responsibility for today was? Sitting in the same spot, expressionless and speechless, and staring at him the whole damn time. To be honest it was starting to get a little creepy. Whoever this Dar'Jzo guy was, he was [i]unsettling[/i], and it was getting on his nerves that he wasn't doing a damn thing to help! Meanwhile, Dough-Boy just spent all morning hauling cargo and now he was cleaning someone else's [i]vomit[/i] for Stendarr's sake!

"Uh... Dar'Jzo?" The young man says nervously. The old cat didn't move his head or any other part of his body, only aiming his feline eyes at the young man. Dough-Boy averted eye-contact and continued, "Would you mind giving me a hand? The commander put me in charge of you new bloods, I can't just let you... well, do nothing."

"Yes." He answered simply. A brief moment of quiet had brewed between the two for a while. Both silent, both unmoving - until Dough-Boy broke the silence with, "Uh... yes as in...? You'll help? Or you do mind?"

"No."

"Right..." The young man continued awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand - before suddenly realizing that he had been using that hand to clean vomit and quickly recoiled, wiping that hand dry on his shirt. His eyes darted uncomfortably between the laundry and Dar'Jzo, trying to think of something or some way to get his authority across.

"This one cannot help you." Dar'Jzo said. Though he sent his message across plainly in his gravelly old voice, he could practically feel his soul screaming inside. His stomach was wrenching itself, his brain was slamming itself against the inside of his cranium - and Dar'Jzo couldn't help but think, [i]'Please kid, do not make this worse for yourself than it has to be.'[/i] He just wanted a bit of silence so that he could focus on not turning inside out, but Dough-Boy's sense of responsibility, while admirable, was something of a hound that wouldn't stop humping his leg.

Great, now he had that image stuck in his head. Dar'Jzo just felt himself getting sicker, but not an ounce of it showed on his forever stoic face.

"Don't, uh, take this the wrong way and... like, stuff..." He started, growing increasingly both nervous and irritated as the creepy old khajiit just kept on staring at him with his sunken eyes, "and I mean no offense... but if you can't help me do laundry, then..."

Dough-Boy threw his arms out, gesturing to the entire ship around him. Then he huffed, hanging his head low. "You know what? Never mind. I don't know why I try."

"Dar'Jzo did not say he will not. Dar'Jzo [i]will[/i], but now he [i]cannot[/i]. Only when the time is right."

The young man leaned in curiously, as if trying to decipher some kind of hidden meaning behind the elder's words. When the time was right? What could that possibly mean? Was... was he testing him? What if this entire time, this mysterious stranger was... maybe he was secretly a monk or something? Silly, yes, but... what if it was true? What if he was on some kind of nomad on a spiritual journey? Could he... could he train him? Be his master? Help him perfect the art of an ancient hand to hand combat style? Antii and Fjuhl wouldn't see that coming. He must know!

Dough-Boy leaned in closer, his voice hushed as he asked, "What do you mean when the time is right?"

"After this storm comes to pass." Dar'Jzo replied, deadpan as always.

Dough-Boy looked around the ocean skies. It was clearly blue as far as the eyes could see. He looked back at the khajiit and asked again, "What storm?"

Dar'Jzo did not answer, only staring ahead - almost [i]through[/i] Dough-Boy with the same grim expression. His brows casted shadows over his bagged eyes, and the breeze whistled through the tribal-looking beads adorning his dreaded black beard and dreaded black mane, only intensifying the mystical aura which seemed to surround him. Then, for a split second, his face moved. His eyes widened, ever so slightly - then he bowed his head and hunkered over the laundry basket without warning, depositing even more vomit on top of the clothes than there was originally. The cat didn't even spray it or anything! He just bent over and, gosh, it just [i]fell out of his mouth![/i] Dar'Jzo returned to his original position, his expression finally taken over by one of weariness and nausea as his brows hung low. Some leftover bile collected in a small patch of fur underneath his bottom lip.

Dough-Boy reeled back the moment it had occurred and watched with horror as Dar'Jzo contributed to the disgusting mess that had to be cleaned up. His face was replaced by a look of disappointment as the old cat single-handedly crushed his daydreams with a swing of his neck and a handful of cat barf. Of course. He should have expected something like this. He took a deep sigh and shook his head, now in understanding why Dar'Jzo was telling him why he couldn't help him. He waved a dismissive hand at the new-blood and said, "You know what? Don't worry about it. I'll take care of this. Just see if you can't find some ginger for yourself."

"Dar'Jzo is fine." He lied. "He does not need the ginger."

He could about feel himself reeling. His chest heaved for a brief second, but he was able to keep it down. Nearby, a much shorter woman watched with a long drawn-out sigh. Her green and brown fur and leather robes indicative of her status as the company's one and only priestess. She had to admit that she felt indifferent toward the few of the crew who had not yet found their sea legs when she thought she should have been feeling more empathetic. Curious how some people would seem to pray more often while on a boat than when nursing whatever wounds they had. Her magic and healing ability was the real reason these people came to her. They weren't looking for someone to tend to their crises of faith like Ashav said they might. They were less willing to confront the wounds in their faith than in the wounds in their bodies.

Let the actual "medic" deal with their upset stomachs. She wasn't going to waste any time on ills mundane.

Wylendriel shook her head and kept on walking, make her way around the boat, watching the deckhands and the mercenaries hard at work. She was supposed to be keeping an eye on them and making sure they were in good and stable health. Perhaps she should be looking inward toward her own turmoil, but she buried it deep like she did many things. She hadn't felt the same since they left Dawnstar - ever since Tzinasha's death. It weighed heavily on her mind, and on her heart, but probably not for the reason it should. The dunmer assassin they captured ultimately decided that killing herself was preferable to giving up information... no, that wasn't it. That wasn't the fact that was bothering her. It was that she took the coward's way out. It was that she stole [i]her[/i] opportunity to get back at her. She stole the life of [i]her[/i] friend and stole [i]her[/i] opportunity for revenge. She stole from [i]her[/i].

The priestess' fists clenched and slowly, she tried to control her breathing.

This wasn't right. Whatever this is that's happening to her, it isn't right. She has to get herself in order before she loses her self-control. She just hoped that there were places in High Rock where should could continue her pilgrimage. Surely the bretons had a chapel to at least [i]one[/i] of the Nine... or one of the gods from her own people's Pantheon - she wasn't sure if it hardly even mattered [i]who [/i]she prayed to anymore. Her thoughts returned to the moment she had signed herself up for Ashav's company. Part of her wished that she was more upfront with what she wanted from him. If she could've gotten him to agree, then he'd be beholden to his word.

By Y'ffre's hairy feet, she wish she had a pact-hostage in him right about now. 

No. No, actually, she wished she had a way to bleed this feeling of anger out. No matter what she did, she felt like she was trapped inside her own head.

Gods, this was going to be a long trip.