Dawn to his front; darkness to his left, and the rising sun to his right. Ned stumbled as the sailboat—more like a raft—moved along the dead waves of Bogblot.
The sun was rising; the Lobby departed.
Ned let out a breath. Breathe he himself doesn't know if it was because of the longing; longing that somewhere inside him wanted to be with the crew, and have more time to sail with them. Or was it because of relief; relief that finally, he could start his hunt about the ancient crumbs the Marks left.
How should I start? Ned imagined different scenarios about where to start. He could find an inn and start there or he could ask the man puddling the waves in front of him.
Stout, bald, and an air of superiority surround him. Silver earrings clipped on both his ears, loose tunic; the color of old paper. Old boots, running atop his knees muddled with mud.
