Amal and Emmaline ate together, but once the two had their quick fill of the strange edible, Amal decided they needed some more. With a slight modicum of his strength back, he decided to be an enterprising man and searched the beach until he found a particularly sharp rock. It made him lament losing his favored dagger in the wreck of the El Cargador, but it was no use dwelling on it now. The stone was weighty in the hand but fairly jagged, and he used it to poke into the next hard shelled treat until it was then pried open, and he and Emmaline ate some more until they felt the bottomless pits of their stomachs had grown slightly less chasmic. 

Satisfied, with their asses coated in sand, the two made their way over to the wreckage of mottled wood that stood as a ruin along the beach. It was an old ship by the looks of it, but not ancient. If Amal had to guess, it was a Brettonian vessel judging by the writing on its side and the coloring of the outer planks. He had never left the Southlands, but he had seen many ships in his time. Before they looked, they both waded into the sea for a moment to clean themselves of the rocks and sand that caked their skin.

"Let's find some clothes," Emmaline said tiredly, lifting out of the ocean in water that tickled her hips. "If the Gods are merciful there will be some." 

Amal grabbed her hand, and she turned to see him with a glint in his eye. "I agree, but since we have some of our strength back..." His eyes explored her body, and she snorted when her mind caught up to her. 

"I think survival and [i]then[/i] fun is the most responsible course of action, even a risk taker like you can appreciate that." Despite her words, she gave a little extra sway of her hips as she stepped out of the water. Amal couldn't help but grin, despite his disappointment. The two stepped out and found themselves under the torn canopy of a fallen mast, long years and constant exposure to bugs and the elements giving it window-like holes where the beating sun pierced into the sand. 

Amal was afraid to press to hard on any of the fragile wooden structure that rose out of the sand, lest it all fall atop them. There were two chests that lay covered in sand with crags scuttling across them, and fallen cupboards sat prone besides skeletons of unfortunate lost souls. Emmaline could not sense anything magical in the area, though Lustria had a strange polymetric quality to how the winds of magic flowed, as if there were intensely powerful magics further inland like the astronomers described the fabled 'black holes' in space, with density greater than suns that drew all matter around it. It was faint, however, and unimportant next to her find of relatively clean (save a few cobwebs) set of clothes inside one of the cupboards. 

Within minutes, Amal and Emmaline looked like two deckhands, brown breeches and lowcut, unimpressive cotton tops that had a simply string at the neckline to tie up and cover their chests. Their boots were hardened, having been wetted and dried numerous times throughout the years, but they were certainly better than nothing. 

After days in the merciless sun, even Amal felt clothing on his body was welcoming feeling. Emmaline practically squee'd in glee, eyes brightened and hands shaking. The Arabyan thought if she had more strength back she would be leaping. As she spun to tell Amal how grateful she was, the sorceress saw Amal holding an aureate tricone hat with an extravagant plum atop it. It was so large it looked nearly ridiculous. With a light humor, he placed it atop Emmaline's head and gave an equally extortionate bow. 

"Yoeu look sew a-beautiful, mademoiselle." He performed in his modestly bad Brettonian accent. "Now if you will ekesxuseme, I will check if zese chests 'ave any eh-treasure." 
[@Penny]