Gallus had been killed whilst the ship made its way out of the Topal Bay. The ship, under Varrus' command, had now journeyed up to the waters of Sadrith Mora, and it was still going further south, despite already being deep in the territory of Morrowind. It was still a quite long haul until the port of Seyda Neen, where Varrus was planning to dock.

"Gentlemen, look at that dark fog. When we were up further north, that same fog was crimson. The fog hasn't changed due to the fog, no- rather, the fog's the same, but it changes colour, as if it is sentient. The Dark Elves call it "ash", and they call its current the "storm". We are in land where everything will be done backwards, gentlemen. This is the East, and the East of Tamriel is like nothing you've seen before. It certainly is not Colovia, and what kept you alive in Colovia will kill you in the East. You have my word, though: I, Varrus, will see you all safely docked at Seyda Neen, where I gather the Imperial Garrison has not a presence yet. You'll all be safely off, and – what's better is that – we won't be separated. We'll still be men, and not one of us will have his criminal charges from Cyrodiil with him. We'll be outcasts no more and have the life that was set out for us. We've come so far, gentlemen. Don't fail each other now; don't fail me now."

When Varrus talked like that, and he occasionally did, he would appear so despondent that the crew's morale would immediately plummet. As of late, perhaps about since the ship's journey southwards from the waters of Sadrith Mora, he was seized by dark thoughts and dark faces. He would stay in the captain's cabin, Fidelus said, and he had apparently built there a small shrine to Clavicus Vile, where he prayed in the dark with shut windows during the light of the midday sun.

Percius had now become the closest to what was the ship's blacksmith. He had some knowledge of bending wrought iron from his days in Skingrad, so he had appointed himself to the position. The men had passed some Dark Elven ships, it was true, and big and small, but there had been no skirmish between them. It was just that the men of Colovia always wanted their blades sharp as much on a ship of the foreign as they did in their homeland. Some men would come on to what had become Percius' workshop, and they would chat with him. Even Varrus would come sometime, for he was a Colovian. Others who came in on a standard evening were Fidelus, Quintus, Marcus the young swindler, Pietrus the cunning bondsman, and so on. Fidelus still kept up the appearance of the confident steersman, but despite his youth, his hands, too much used to Colovian ropes, had gotten crusty from steering along the Sadrith Mora waters. He trimmed his hair and his tiny beard still, as he did since before the mutiny, but he could not help the natural occurrences of age. His hands had gone crusty, his face was rugged, and the childhood scar on his forehead had become much more visible now. He was frowning, despite his former joy, and his face now was a constant herald of a storm approaching. Quintus, too, had grown more silent, and he had no longer words to say to Percius whenever they carried a load from its edges. Marcus was a silent lad, but he had only recently become gloomy - during the weeks at Sadrith Mora, and unlike his grizzled companions, he had always had unkind things to say about Varrus and was now haughty with his new-found gift of foresight. Pietrus was a mercurial man, Percius thought, who could be fiercely animated in a moment with considerable strength of arm, or he would appear like a benign old man despite being yet in his midlife. These people had unconsciously formed a troupe, and their meeting ground had become Percius' workshop, who certainly did not mind them, but he feared whether Varrus might.