Beneath a holy offering to buy them all passage. Beneath a hero’s rallying voice, raised as the second of many. Beneath the knight’s cradle of rope that bears them ever-forward. In the space below, there is neither dry nor quiet. No warning of Poisoidon’s next strike, nor shield from chaos on all sides. But deep below, there is a galley, and a little sheep racing to mix and stir as fast as his legs can carry him. Into his pack goes bottle after bottle, box after box, morsel and drink, treat and offering. And beside him, and behind him, and around him, there is a fellow of water and fear, to hold back the tide while he works.

“I can’t put my finger on why, exactly. But I think…” He thinks and speaks and if he keeps doing both maybe he can keep from shaking himself apart. “I think you know how I could get inside, and who I ought to talk to, and how to let them all know I'm not to be feared.”