[indent][quote]17th of Xeech
[b]Departure from Daggerfall[/b]

"[i]The Nut is planted, hidden and tucked. By the time one arrives in Anvil the Nut will have sprouted, and is no more.[/i]"[/quote][/indent]
Walking through town was hardly eventful, and Dances-In-Milk saw no point in dwelling on time spent meandering along cobblestone roads and navigating to the fish-stunk port. The last time he had strolled through Daggerfall he had been mugged, and his hurried, almost lumbering, footsteps carried him to his destination with zeal. His face was scrunched up in a well-worn irritation, and by the time he had found his way to the port he was ready to tuck himself below deck. His satchels dangled at his sides, and the quiet clanking of glass reminded him that he needed to buy leather inserts to prevent the tools from crashing into one another. It had been some time since he had traveled with his lab disassembled, so the feeling of it hanging at his side brought him a droplet of comfort.

The gangplank was already well-walked by the time Dances-In-Milk found his way to the Kismet, though the name dribbled out of his mind and became nothing as soon as he had determined this was the vessel which would carry him to Anvil. The wood croaked and creaked underfoot, but for each wooden squeal his bone answered with its own dirge of youth. Age was catching up with the Saxhleel, but there were more important things to do than wither and die. It had taken him longer to climb the plank than he had hoped, and he kept his countenance low. This was not his first time on a boat, and it would likely not be his last. Digging in his bags he procured his writ of passage, and wore it on his person should anyone question his place on the floating wood.

The old creature crawled beneath deck, going out of his way to keep others out of his way. The walk through Daggerfall had left him tired, and though he didn't want to sleep until the boat had left port, he at least needed to catch his breath. His legs weren't what they used to be, nor were the shoulders which supported his bags, nor were his lungs or heart. The more time he spent standing up, the more his precious years dwindled. It would be like eating Nightshade, only less preferable. If only his employers had been willing to give him what he was owed, then he might have been able to afford a private suite in which he could lock himself away and avoid the mess of strangers. Instead, the cretins had given him scratchings of paper to turn in to a bank, something which everyone involved knew would result in Dances-In-Milk missing his boat to Cyrodiil. Were he less short on time, he would have mixed some form of laxatives into their healing potions, but even then, he felt such retribution would have been beneath him. Then again, he needed that money to rent a carriage to Skingrad, and he knew his bones would shout and stab at his flesh for walking the road instead.

And, as a result of their undercutting him financially, he was supposed to sleep in one of these nooks. The Saxhleel looked to his legs, back to his temporary abode, and knew that it would be less than comfortable. With legs so curved and bent and scales so burnt and temperamental, he knew each wave they crossed would be like swimming in Oblivion. Already irritated with his choices, Dances-In-Milk decided to walk to the deck of the ship, where he would remain until absolutely necessary. The fresh humidity would do his scales wonders, even if the smell of salt was all too familiar. And, worried some sod would take his precious Calcinator, he made sure not to leave either of his satchels behind in the crammed space.

So, shoulders still irritated at having to carry their load, Dances-In-Milk made his way to an unneeded space on the deck, uncorking his jug of milk not only to drink, but to rub a dropping of on his scales like an all-too-watery ointment. After about a third of the jug had disappeared, he corked it again and stashed it away. The Nords could call him a milk-drinker all they wanted. Indulging in the humidity, the old beast rested his elbows on the side of the deck, and rested his head. Despite his intentions not to, he began a very light napping, still aware of the sounds around him but unaware as to their meanings and intentions. The difference between daydream and dream were impossible to sift through, and in his dozing mind the old Hist call rang just loud enough to keep him from snoring himself awake. In his sleep the smell of moist wood reminded him of a home he'd left long ago, and he soured his face.