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The calm did not last indefinitely.

It wouldn’t have been in their favor if it had, but if Ozzrick had been a betting man — and he was — he would have bet that it wouldn’t last at its calm more than three days — which he did.

And it didn’t.

The storm hit fast, but fortunately, they were as prepared by then as they could be. The season was upon them, and while he had hoped for winds with less of the rest, he’d made sure they anticipated and made themselves ready for the worst. So, as it had rolled in dark from the far horizon, the air cooling about the ship as its first breezes gusted and caught the sails, there was only a brief scurry to make last minute adjustments for the shifting wind.

Then, came the first tap, tap, tap of ocean rain as the initial drops splattered to the open deck, and the soft rrrssssssshhhhhhhhhhhh of it as it fell like a gray shroud over them. He stayed up deck at first, but it was late evening, post-meal, and by the time all had been settled as it could, there was little to do but return to his cabin for the moment, and ride out the storm.

As Oz made it below deck and into his cabin, hand bracing a moment at the threshold instinctively as a particularly fierce swell gave the hull a rock, his attention landed first on Tacrith: seated and pressed up against the wall, holding himself with a look on his face as though he feared he might either die or lose his dinner or both in the coming moments. Oz supposed he oughtn’t have been surprised.

Still, he managed to feel a touch guilty, and he pulled his door shut behind him.

No one ought to be needing him for some time, and they knew where to find him if they did. For now, he moved by Tacrith to his desk, where their map lay out. It wasn’t a complicated voyage logistically, though as they drew nearer to shore of course they would need to chart their path carefully to avoid the hazards that came with shallow water. Until then, a direct northwest shot would bring them reliably to Oba. Still, he tried to keep accurate logs in case they were blown off course, and after a quick update, he eyed their route thus far before sparing his company a glance.

“If the winds keep up and we can manage to keep the sails adjusted for them, we could make landfall as early as a day from now…” He glanced briefly in the general direction of Tacrith’s stomach. “How is your gut handling the adjustment?”

It’s not.

Oz supposed that wasn’t surprising. In truth, though, he’d noticed no pattern to those apparently immune to ocean sickness and those who weren’t. Some of the most experienced seamen he’d come across still experienced it. Others never did, even on their first trip asea. Ozzrick himself had been one such ‘fortunate’ one, having never experienced sea nausea even during the roughest portions of his first trips on a ship, and he had yet to have to grapple with it—and suspected he never would.

But, that didn’t help the man on the floor.

Fortunately, because it was such a common thing, even though he wasn’t prone himself to it, Ozzrick was by now well familiarized with various remedies. None were perfect. Different things worked for different people. But he kept on him some of the most reliable aids just the same. In this case, after some fiddling, he pulled out small wooden box, spell-marked for freshness, and within which was enclosed a small collection of hard-baked herbal cookies. They were flat, dry, and not the most interesting of flavors in his personal opinion—but the maekup was not designed for bold flavor so much as the remedial value to begin with.

He held the box out.

“Here. They’re a bit bland, but it might settle your stomach. It’s worked for a number of my crew before.”

Taking the offered container, Oz spent a moment longer studying the man before he turned to set them back away, and roll up his map. Other than his initial outburst, the doctor had been surprisingly and enduringly—if not ‘calm’ precisely then at the very least resilient, and as compared to most anyone else under the same circumstances, Ozzrick had to suspect this was calm. Not pleased, but resigned with a manner of dignity.

He could respect that.

Though it did nothing to ease — and might even have exaggerated — his personal frustration at himself for having allowed the situation to come about to begin with. But, that was in the past. For the moment, he had hours to burn and a room with only one other occupant. Rain splattered wet and angry at the windows to either side of the cabin, and he moved to one side to pull the curtains and light a hanging oil lamp.

“I’m newer to sea myself than you might think,” he admitted. “The land we’ll come to shore at, Oba, is desert country, but not my homeland. I spent most of my life much further inland and north…Tale is forests and plains. Completely different from the mist jungles surrounding your cities and no ocean in sight…I didn’t see the open sea for the first time until I was over seventeen summers.”

“It was,” Oz said. “I was used to travel, of course. Our troupe was always on the move, so as a child I had seen Sauti and even parts of Zena—other nations of the mainland—and I eventually saw Oba as well, though in the first instance, not far enough south to see the sea…”

At the description ‘dry and empty’ he found himself snorting wryly, green eyes amused.

“It is that,” he admitted. “But…” He grinned a bit, moving to the opposite side of the cabin, nearer to Tacrith, where he lit a second lamp, adding a lightly swaying glow to the room. “I quite like it, myself. It can be blisteringly hot, too much so to simply bear without risk to your health. But if you find shade and cover, it’s manageable. The air is dry, and the sands can stretch further than your eye can see, like rolling waves of yellow gold…in the heat of day the air around it is so hot it ripples over it.”

Taking a side step, he moved to drop his weight to the edge of his bed, making use of it as a chair. “What I love most, though, is the people.” Sure, half of them were power-hungry, racist, egotistical maniacs, but Ozzrick had a personal suspicion that those traits were inherent in most of humanity—it was just more noticeable when one particular group’s efforts to take over the world were more successful than everyone else’s. “They have some of the most lavish and lewd taste in entertainment, but great feats of art and architecture besides that. The opportunities to be involved in the culture are endless…and, of course…” He shrugged. “A wealthy nation makes for good business opportunities.”

Oba’s combined fiscal capacity and favorable geographic location for trade were what made his current work possible.

“They are, yes. Dark skin, red eyes, crystals like gold…” It seemed evident, though, that Tacrith wasn’t enthused by the description of the desert. He supposed it wasn’t for everyone. “Under shade, with plenty of water it’s airy, warm, bright, alive…” Of course, in the poorer areas where he often worked or at least needed to pass through, it could be cramped, dirty, sweltering, dangerous—he gave a bit of a squint. “It has its selling points, anyway.”

At the latter question, however, he glanced over. “I suppose…I never felt that I wanted to be a performer all my life,” he said. “I would not trade my upbringing for anyone’s, and I appreciate the opportunities it presented me with, but one of the benefits I was most grateful for was that I never felt bound to it. I was always free to pursue my own path, as everyone I grew up with there already was. My troupe was family, but…I suppose you could say I just didn’t feel compelled to take on the family business. I wanted something my own.”

He sat back a bit, lips edging up in a smile. “And, I think I’m making it alright. Did you always know you wanted to be a healer?”

Cartographer.

Ozzrick blinked, eyebrows raising, and then grin stretching with interest as he leaned. “Truly? Are you still interested in maps? I’m fascinated myself, and though I’ve seen plenty, a good one is hard to find. Even on my homeland, there’s vast stretches of mostly unmarked territory…but the idea of making new ground and exploring to places uncharted, it’s part of what got me out here to begin with. And let me tell you, what I wouldn’t give for a good map of Yael…”

As a ship captain, he had a number of maps even for the reasonably limited routes he took. The shore particularly on Yael’s side could be rocky and treacherous, and the space between lands needed to be marked and tracked. But he had more maps than he ‘needed,’ having begun collecting them among his various other trinkets as the opportunity had arisen.

He was curious to hear more about the specifics of Tacrith’s interest—particularly since he might at least guess that whatever injury had taken part of the mobility in the man’s leg may once have been far worse, and damaged such an aspiration dependant on mobility. But because Tacrith had asked, he thought it only polite to answer before pushing for more.

“I fire danced, mostly,” he said. “Acrobatics. ‘Show’ magic backed up by more talented mages in our troupe while I leap about. I also sometimes did street performances…not as elegant as it might sound, though, unless you’re imagining barefoot-gypsy-dances-for-coins…” He fiddled with one of the emblems around his neck, a polished stone carving of the Matori goddess of the moon and sea, and frowned. After a moment, he shrugged, pushing the thought away and smiling a bit wryly instead. “I don’t suppose I’m barefoot much less often now, but I’m making my own way.”

“That’s a shame…perhaps you might yet, though I imagine…” He frowned, another consideration occurring to him. “The banished alkidike must not make that the safest of endeavors.” The jungle had likely harbored enough dangers without them, between the terrain and whatever beasts dwelt there.

Now, however, the Yaeli had worse than beasts to deal with—the exiles all the rest of Tendaji didn’t want to handle.

“It’s not as dangerous as you might think,” he said. “Or, not the way I was taught it. Most of the fire I danced with was ornamental and of my own conjuring. I have a bit of a knack for it but…” He shrugged. “Not the patience to study magic in detail. So it’s a lot of…” He cleared his throat, and managed to look almost sheepish as he grinned, “…glitzy pants, bare chests, hip shaking and magic fireworks, if you will. With flips. I can do a midair somersault, if I have the space to get the momentum. Or…” He squinted. “I could, last I tried it.”

Admittedly, ship captaining didn’t as often call upon the use of such theatrics, so it was possible he was out of practice.