The ship catered to the left somewhat dangerously, which thoroughly messed up the crew member's game of knucklebones. The bearded Arabyan fellow had been winning thanks to Amal's whispered advice to him, but the dice had tumbled under the center table. As the men crawled to grab it, Amal felt he'd tarried long enough and gave an Arabyan handshake with his countryman, who held his hand in both of his and patted him. It was odd; back in Al-Hiekk he would never greet or say farewell to someone so politely, save for a priest or someone who got him off the hook from the chopping block. But here it was not only the part he played, but he found it easier to do with a kinsman among foreigners. 

Passing through the dining hall, he turned left down the corridor to the very end where Captain Diego resided. Amal had already checked above a few minutes ago, else he would have run into Emmaline. He straightened his jacket and knocked on the oak doors three times.

"Dios mio, What is it?" a voice called, which Alim took as an invitation and opened the door. Captain Diego lifted his head from the map he had been viewing, annoyance turning to mirth. "Oh, lord Ahar! Forgive my manners, come in. Yes, what can I do for someone so rich and esteemed?"

The Captain wasn't necessarily a handsome man, but he had a magnetism about him. With long, greasy brown hair and a whisp of a goatee upon his face, he had the look of one that was both unscrupulous yet with the air of a fine leader. Amal had to keep his hands steady when he walked in, for there were items from across the Old World staged on the wall and leaning upon the cupboards. A sword of elvish design hung upon the wall above the skull of a beastman, which was set next to the ivory tusk of a bull elephant. 

"I was wishing to know how long our trip will take, Captain." Amal said, trying to sound effete while having to simultaneously deal with his less than scholarly knowledge of Riekspiel. At least it was a handicap he and the Captain shared. "With the storms and all, I just wish to know." Diego rubbed the whisps of hair on his chin as he thought for a quick moment. 

"Hard to say, hard to say... usually it would be less than two weeks. But since we have changed course, it could take up to three. That depends on the wind and rain." The Estalian replied. There was sudden thunder in the distance, and somehow it felt as if it shook the very face of the sea. Amal was foolhardy to a fault, but even he perked up in surprise and trepidation at the sound. Diego simply laughed. "Worry not, good Satrap. I have sailed through storms before. You look as if the ship has been cursed or something." 

That gave Amal pause, and so as not to betray anything else he took his leave almost immediately, giving off some faint goodbye before shutting the door. Amal thought for a moment, and the implications of his dream seemed likely. "Damn," He whispered to himself. The thief calmed himself after a brief moment of panic, remembering the tales he had heard as a child. Settra was powerful, but he was no God, try as he might in the legends. If they sailed far enough away from the Land of the Dead, then they will go beyond his power. 

The thief started back towards the dining hall, passing a new game of knucklebones to enter the hall. Stepping out, he felt a force shoving him into the wall, and it took a second for him to realize it was a large, barrel-chested crew member carrying a huge cask. Amal wasn't a small man, and he was lithe and powerfully built from having to climb and hold his body weight for most of his life. He knew he could kill the man in a mere heartbeat, and likely beat him in a brawl too. But as a decadent Satrap? 

"Out of my way!" The Imperial crewmember growled, shifting his hands to get a better grip on the cask. "You might be able to buy your way onto the ship, but keep your bleedin' distance. 

He needed to sound haughty and smart in his speech, but dammit he had not learned Reikspiel from any teacher. [i]Hmmm, think of words Emmaline has used when she was lying[/i] he advised himself. What would a Satrap threaten a foreigner with? He straightened and said. "You cannot speak to me like that, pale skin! Lest I fine you for a...tremendously judicious amount! Inexplicably!" 
 
He crossed his strong arms, eyeing the man who looked just as confused as Amal felt. 

"Did you just insult me?" He grunted, anger and confusion on his stupid face.

"I... [i]think[/i] I threatened you." Amal muttered.

The crewman's slow mind began to crank, but clearly it wasn't working fast enough. He decided to scoff and shrug his shoulders, walking away and muttering what Amal was certain were racial slurs. He didn't really mind himself, as he was too busy examining the new flintlock pistol he had taken off the fellow's belt. Maybe Emmaline knew how to operate it? "You know, I've always wanted to use one of these." He breathed. 

He hid the weapon beneath the folds of his belt and went to find her. 
[@Penny]