Tazakr

Captain Baraz'dan had the Rothgimil anchored some way off the cape of Umbar, as they had arranged. No inference was expected from the authorities, but the cunning old smuggler was taking no chances.

Having ridden with urgent speed from Celondim, the elf dismounted before his horse could even come to a halt.

He was dreaming.

She had red hair, long and flowing unbound. The breeze swept it back, and lightly tangled it in invisible fingers. It took up part of her red gown as well, so that it ballooned out behind her. She laughed. 

Time flies.

Twenty nine… almost?

There were thirty left. 

She was sitting at her desk in the side room that was lit by only one lamp, and turned as I was but a few feet away. “You!” she said. There was no fear on her face, only disgust. “Ungrateful creature, after all we did for you.”

With the two crews working together it took only eight days to make the Shakilgimil sea-worthy again.

So we were marooned at Bax Garâkh for almost two weeks. Not that it was a terrible event, save for those who had other work to be about. Save for me, save for Farrin possibly, for he was the only surviving injured crewmember, having a broken leg. We had no healer on board, but such a problem was straightforward. Some of the crew had enough experience to straighten and set the break, and we had enough khôrob to stifle the screams.

Onward, as silently as possible. No need to muffle the oars in such a heavy fog, they would not be heard. If the elves were using oars, as they occasionally did when the wind deserted them, they, too, went unheard.