Frequent strange calms broken by heavy winds, hail and rain. We have sighted no other ships in this section of the sea. Even during the calms, our ship is being drawn in a northerly direction.
Did I describe the Castor?
A two-masted pentare, it is, with two sails and oar ports that are left unmanned except during calms. The crew numbers about two dozen, at least half of whom are female. They are all human and regard Flint and Kirsig, particularly, with some wonderment, even though I believe they have seen ogres before in their travels.
Some of the sailors are black-skinned, from remote northern islands, and I peer at them with equal curiosity. The women, especially, for they are beautiful to look at, yet well muscled and obviously seaworthy. They dress in leather and sandals and can climb the masts and rig the sails as well as any seaman.
They speak mostly in their own harsh-sounding vernacular, although almost all of them also speak Common.
None of the crew carry weapons, and so far we have had no cause to resort to any. There is a small armory aft, in which are stored swords, crossbows, ballista bolts, oil, some armor, and the ship's supply of brandy.
Yuril moves among the crew easily, barking commands that they hasten to carry out. She oversaw the building of four extra side rudders, crude in their design, shaped almost like giant flippers. According to Captain Nugetre's plan, they were attached to either end of the ship just below sea level. When we enter the treacherous perimeter of the Blood Sea, they will act to steady the Castor and, we hope, guide it during the worst of the buffeting it will surely receive from the Malelstrom.
With the extra rudders come an elaborate system of ropes and gears fastened to blocks of wood hammered into the deck. Two sailors volunteered to dangle off the side of the boat, plunging their heads below crashing waves in order to securely attach the additional rudders. They received extra rations that night and the cheers of their comrades.
Captain Nugetre presides over everything, his head held high. He says very little, and it is almost as if Yuril is in command. But he chides her when she is slow and laughs loudly when she barks an insult in reply.
Apart from the main deck and the captain's cabin, the Castor has a small galley with fresh water and food supplies, an aft and bow castle, the oar bay and lower deck, crew quarters (which the crew uses in shifts) and a cargo hold. As far as I can tell, we are carrying no cargo other than food, repair supplies, and the array of weapons already mentioned.
Near the cargo hold is a one-room brig, which has been empty of occupants since we left Ogrebond, and a small mate's cabin where Yuril sleeps-if and when she sleeps. She seems to stalk the deck at all hours. When the captain himself sleeps, she is his eyes and ears.
Fortunately, four small cabins serve for passengers-one each for Raistlin, Flint, Kirsig, and myself. They are spare, with a hammock, bench, window chest, and table in each.
By choice, Raistlin has been spending much of his time in his cabin alone. I suspect young Majere is collecting his strength for the ordeal ahead. The few times that I have seen him on deck he has seemed preoccupied. Surely he is worried about Caramon's well-being.
Flint has spent most of the first three days in his cabin as well, but not by choice, for he is somewhat immobilized by his bad leg. I'm not sure, what with his dislike of bodies of water, that he isn't happy to be so restrained, but it is hard to tell with Flint. Even in the happiest of states, he is perpetually grumbling.
Kirsig has cared well for Flint's leg. The swelling has gone down, the discoloration faded. It turns out that she does know some useful healing skills. I think my friend will be walking again by the time we reach the Outer Reach of the Maelstrom.
Kirsig refuses to leave Flint's side, doting on him shamelessly. She strokes his hair and beard, calling him her "pretty dwarf." The more firmly he tries to cast her off, the more tightly she clings to him.
Others on board are not so harsh in their attitude toward the half-ogre. Yesterday (day two) one of the sailors fell from a high turret and opened a nasty wound. Blood gushed from his side. Kirsig was summoned on deck, and she went to work with naught but a stitching needle, neatly closing the wound. Up till then, I'd say that Yuril had regarded the female half-ogre with amused indifference. Now I notice that she goes out of her way to greet Kirsig in the morning, addressing her with respect.