[Dunwen]

This had been one of the strangest days of Nimir's life. It had started out with a cheerful breakfast in the bright morning with his new friends Curamir and Lingwë, laughing at the Ráca's Cook. He thought of their tentative plan to find each other at dinner this evening, and smiled grimly. His friends were surely standing with their own squadron, while he was with the rest of the ship's archers, waiting...nay willing the King's fleet toward Pelargir.

Certainly the first part of the day had been routine. He had headed from the bright breezes of the deck into the depths of the hold along with several other strong men and lads in the crew. Before coming on board a ship, he had never realized how much he disliked cramped spaces, but once Morgond, the Master-at-Arms, set everyone to work, there wasn't time to think of anything but his orders. Not only were weapons being moved to the upper decks in the ship, there were less necessary stores of goods that needed to be moved to accomodate them. Soon two lines of men formed, one carrying weapons up and the other moving extra stores down. The Master was apparently bent on getting every last spear, cutlass, arrow, rope and knife stored somewhere closer to the topdeck. Nimir wasn't the only one nearly decapitated or crushed in the bustle, and he lost his footing going down some stairs and nearly knocked over the two men in front of him. He'd tried to apologize, but in the noise and movement, his words were lost. Luckily, Morgond and his officers were too busy to mark him down. It was the usual day-to-day drudgery involved in keeping a warship ready to fight.

Then word filtered down from the decks that smoke had been seen over Pelargir.

The Master had not needed to order the crew to move faster. Of his own accord, each man doubled his effort, straining under the weight of weapons cases, boxes and barrels, knowing that battle would be joined within the day. If anything, Morgond ordered the men to move with greater care so that everything would go in its pre-determined place. Some of the younger lieutenants were ordered to start carrying right alongside the common men. At one point Nimir found himself teamed up with a young noble from Minas Anor moving barrels of dried fruit down one level. The lordling's fine uniform was filthy and his High Numenorian features were as grimy and sweaty as everyone else's. He didn't look much older that Nimir's own seventeen years, but neither boy had the breath to ask personal questions. At the end of their task, they'd clapped each other amiably on the shoulder and separated with a wave.

Nimir was amazed to see that despite the confusing masses of men going all directions with every concievable kind of container, the weapons were being placed precisely where the Master had determined they would be most needed. On a trip below, he noticed that everything belowdeck was being arranged just as carefully, with the Quartermaster's assistants writing down list after list of what could be found on each deck. He was impressed, guessing that this task had taken a great deal of forethought and cooperation between the two Masters and their respective subordinates. In a way, he was proud to take a small part in such a well-organized task, working under such clever officers. He was sure there wasn't a ship in the King's Fleet with a better crew than the Ráca.

Incredibly, what had seemed a gigantic job that morning had been finished by early afternoon. Coming up on deck, Nimir had noticed the slack sails on all the ships. He'd vented his frustration in a curse that would have earned him a box on the ear from his mother, but it was so unfair. He was pleased to see that Captain Vórimandur had been able to find enough wind for the Ráca's sails to keep her right behind the Cuivie, but the entire fleet was slowed by the weaking breezes. The afternoon had worn on and on, and still there was no sight of Pelargir. Only the ever-growing smudge of black smoke to the south indicated that they were truly moving closer.

Nimir had had time to wash the muck and sweat off his body and even managed to get some rations for a late lunch. He and the rest of the ship's archers had been ordered to form up, but with the failing winds, they had been permitted to take their ease until the fleet was ready to take battle stations. Morgond and his officers had no such luck, for once the last crates were in place, they were responsible for distributing weapons among the crew. Noticing his erstwhile companion of the fruit barrels working with the Master's officers, still covered in grime and sweat, Nimir unobtrusively obtained a second round of rations. He made a bundle of them in a middling scrap of torn sail, then moved toward the young Numenorian and caught his eye. He tossed the bundle and the other lad automatically put his hand out to catch it. He grinned at the boy's dawning recognition of what he held. With a wave of thanks, the lieutentant took a piece of bread out and voraciously bit into it. Walking away from the busy knot of men to collect his own bow and arrows, Nimir wondered idly if he'd ever get a chance to learn the other's name.