Yuri sits in the corner of the room, ship slowly lurching as the overcrowded cabin set for New Haven draws closer to dock. With each moan of the wooden vessel and each lean with the waves, the brew in his back mounted wooden keg sloshes and reminds him of each passing minute without indulging. His hands are shaking. Yuri laces his fingers and digs his heels into the floorboards. He has to save some mead for the arrival, the reunion. Some drop left for his old brethren waiting for him-the Iron Wolves. The remnants of Brackish Moor. He has to show his old friends the work, the toil he put into brewing when he ran from his kingdom, when he locked himself away from battle at the monestary. Justification. Some apology. A drink offered in peace. All wrapped into one if he can keep his mind off of drawing another mug up and emptying his last casket of mead. But this dreary vessel and its crew-dispirited refugees...they don't do much to help the mood. And for once, he doesn't have the heart to sing or pull out the squeezebox.
The medallions belted to the keg ring in odd tones, and Yuri takes comfort in their music. Old war trophies, achievements for service to the court. They ring in pleasant tones, each one. "What scale would it be, I wonder, if they were strung together..."
[The vessel travels on, land soon in sight]