[Amanaduial the archer]

Callath grinned at his friend as he stood, doing both things carefully: standing carefully because of the low ceiling and being careful to grin reasurringly because Sedal had given him some idea of what had happened in Devon's arm. His eyes lingered on the dressing on his friend's arm for a split second before he turned away. "Bye Devon - I'll come later maybe, assuming I don't fall asleep on watch and am murdered by Avershire," he grinned.

"Don't even try it, Callath!" came the joking reply. The stable-boy winked, then started to make his way back towards the trapdoor, his fingertips seeking the cracks between the boards in the ceiling as his hands worked across them, for more support. As he came out on the deck, he mused on what Sedal had told him - he had helped the surgeon out where he could after the battle; although he knew little of treating human injuries or ailments, he was able to help were an extra pair of hands were needed. More particularly, where an extra pair of steady, strong hands were needed; the stable boy shuddered as he remembered the sickening crack he had felt beneath his hands as much as heard when Sedal had reset the arm of one unfortunate sailor some hours earlier. On the subject of Devon, the surgeon wasn't as optimistic as could have been hoped, which did not exactly reassure the stableboy, but when Sedal had seen this, the surgeon had assured Callath that he was simply being realistic, and somehow that was more comforting than the false smiles of a Gondorian physician who knew more than he was telling.

"Alright, lad?"

Marx's deep, strong voice brought Callath back to the present along with the biting, 'bracing' wind that hit him as he closed the trap door. The stablehand smiled, nodding to the older man. "Aye, well enough."

Marx grinned. "Tired or something? Doncha be falling asleep on my watch now-"

Callath shook his head. "No, I was...helping Sedal out today. It was...an experience," he concluded carefully. The handsome man's smile faded slightly and he shuddered. "I heard the screams," he said darkly, then winked.

Callath returned it with a smile and shrugged a little deeper into the thick seaman's coat which Rilgari had kindly leant him for the watch, as he strode across the deck slowly to the side, leaning slightly against the side. Marx came to stand beside him, allowing Callath to see more clearly what had before just been a dark silhouette; Marx was several inches taller than Callath and much more solidly built than the lean, athletic stablehand turned impromptu sailor, but his eyes were just as bright green, and Marx now turned his bright gaze to meet the younger man's similar one.

"So, how is it you came to board with us, Callath?"

The question surprised Callath, but the sailor seemed genuinely interested. "I thought you knew?"

Marx waved it away. "Ach, bits and pieces, lad. Come, we have time - let's hear how you see it."

Callath regarded him, then shrugged, looking back out over the now quite calm sea and the clear, dark horizon. Striving into one pocket, he brought out a piece of liquorice (Telson had finally shown him the delights of chewing it, and even if Callath had got rid of any seasickness it was delicious stuff), and offered a piece to Marx. The older sailor took it with a silent nod, and Callath began from the first, when Devon had burst into the stables that morning - how long ago it seemed! - as Callath attempted to trick Doran's horse, the younger boy so full of outraged news that would change everything...