[i]17th of Sun’s Dawn, 4E213
Daggerfall[/i][hr]Sigri Fire-Caller waited until the absolute last minute to board the [i]Kismet[/i]. The Nord paced back and forth on the wharf, belongings clutched in her left hand. She was, despite the appearance, grateful to be returning to colder waters in Cyrodiil, though the method of transportation left her with a lot to be desired. In fact, she expected the journey to feel like nothing less than a jaunt through Oblivion. 

When Sigri finally had to cross the boarding plank, when it could not be put off any longer, she did so with butterflies in her stomach -- only an inkling of the nausea to come, she thought. The steps she took down the stairs to below decks were agonizing as she moved, carefully and uncertain, as even without the sails down, the ship rocked gently in the waves. 

The walls of the cabin were stifling; as was the heat. Sigri was already dressed down about as far as she could be without receiving comments, which she had little patience for in her state. Wrapped simply in her skirt, which was perhaps indecently short, usually worn with thick, protective leggings, and the remains of a shirt, wrapped around her torso, covering what little cleavage she had. Still, sweat pooled on her skin, leaving her hair feeling uncommonly gross, and she was certain it let off an undesirable odor, though she had more pressing concerns. 

As much as she loved the rivers back home, the open ocean was a different beast entirely. Sigri couldn’t stop thinking about it with nervousness as she stowed her belongings. She had little of value, except the coins in her purse, on her person, so she thought nothing of leaving the meagre pack unattended. In truth, she hardly considered the idea that someone might actually [i]take[/i] her things, so she turned and headed above decks on already-unsteady feet. 

Though staring at the open ocean was disconcerting, it was preferable to the enclosed decks. She had discovered that on her way to Daggerfall, her first ever trip on a boat. The rivers near where she called home were comfortable. Immersed in the water, it didn’t feel as though she was being helplessly tossed around, the contents of her stomach forfeit, but instead she could flow with its movement. The ocean, on the contrary, was unexpectedly terrifying. She was a good swimmer, and yet, the ocean had no banks she could fall back on. Even swept away in a river’s current, all you had to do way stay afloat until it broke, so you could return to the bank. 

The ocean had no banks. With water as far as the eye could see, Sigri couldn’t help but consider, as she endlessly gagged in attempts to empty her already-empty stomach over the railing, just how easy it would be to be swept away in it. 

Though the pay for the job had been good -- she was hoping to send some back to her son and his grandparents -- she wasn’t sure it was worth the sea travel and the heat, and that didn’t even consider the four people she had killed over the course of it. Her count was at seven now, and she couldn’t quite forget it. 

Sigri stumbled over next to the ship’s rail, as out of the way as she could manage, and leaned her back against it. The butterflies had yet to develop into unforgiving seasickness, yet she waited, anticipating its arrival and making it all the worse.

The rocking of the ship was unbearable, so Sigri tried to look around the decks. She saw the captain, speaking with another Nord. While once she would’ve felt glad for the companionship of someone from her homeland, she didn’t have it in her for friendliness yet. Despite it being a futile effort, destined to end up overboard with the breakfast she’s eaten this morning, the Nord took a swig from her flask. While once she might have cringed at the harsh flavour of blended liquors -- the dominant one seemed to be whiskey today -- she was well used to the burn by now, and simply wished the contents of the flask would stay inside her long enough to take the edge off of another sea journey. 

“Wo-” A voice jolted Sigri out of her brooding as a deckhand nearly tripped over her leg. She shifted the leg but didn’t apologize. Instead, she spotted a bucket of fresh water in the gangly boy’s arms. Seeing the opportunity, she snatched it from the boy’s hands without protest.

“I’ll be needin’ this,” Sigri grumbled. She set it down next to her, hoping the water would keep her going when liquor couldn’t do its job. The boy didn’t say a word, but Sigri wasn’t sure if he was put off by her lack of manners or perhaps her scent; the smell, she would admit, was far more rancid than her usual musk. 

She sighed, regretting that she didn’t thank him, at least, that would have been polite, but she let it go. There were worse offenses. With one hand, she splashed a bit of water on her face, slicking back her messy brown hair. The brief reprieve it offered from the heat was welcome; the nausea was not.