"Ready oars!" The crashing bark echoed throughout the hull, snapping him out of his reverie. His face was wet from the waves and his tongue tasted salt as he ran it along his upper lip. For the last hour he had lain quietly against the hull enjoying the sensation that was like a slow heartbeat inside his chest. It had been so long since such an immense power had been near at hand and he wanted it, wanted it badly enough that he missed the call to "Out Oars" and so took a heavy lash across the shoulders. 

His assailant did not say a word but simply turned and lashed out at another chained victim. The slaver crew, many of whom had been on the ship twenty years fewer than he, had long ago learnt that he did not feel pain as they did, was not afraid of their lash, and healed far quickly than some of the others. They often joked, calling him "Elder", which was fair enough. Some even developed a bit of a rapport, bringing him extra food, and listening to his stories of far away lands. He did little to cause trouble and never joined in any agitation from the other slaves. The slavers had noted his reluctance to get involved and gave him some leeway as a result. 

Rippling biceps flexed and his shoulders bulged as he dug the heavy oar into the sea, pulling with the beat of the drum. His fear, for the last few days, had been that the stone was in another vessel and would begin to draw away again. But those fears had been laid to rest when he had glimpsed the land on the horizon and the pull of the jewel grew more powerful. He was getting closer.

The drum beat was steady and ceaseless. Above him he could hear the rush of feet as sailors brought the sails rippling down, the galley turning into the wind for its find approach to a yet unseen city. Though he had seen much of the world before this would be his first visit to the far south and he was curious despite himself. There was no shortage of legends about the beauty of the women here, the wealth of the great city, the extravagance of its Marharaja. 

Even if he hadn't been feeling the power of the stone growing, he would have enjoyed other changes that were being brought on by the nearness of such a powerful artifact. His senses were slowly heightening. He could see more clearly than he had in decades, his hearing was more acute, and his sense of smell told him that the city had recently seen some heavy rain. It was maddening that he was still chained in the stinking hulk of a ship.

Therein lay his ultimate problem. While he might heal more quickly, feel less pain, and have ever improving senses, he was still mortal. He could be killed like any man or elf. There was no protection against a sword through the ribs or having your head hacked off without some powerful magic and at the moment the best he could do was even less than a con-artist magician. It was infuriating. 

He chided himself quietly. Counselling patience. He had been this way for almost four hundred years, forty of them on this damn boat. Another few days, weeks, months, even years, would not matter. He would have his revenge.