Two weeks later they finally made it to the Skara Brae shore.

Stumbling out of the ship, Philomel van der Aart through the merchant Mister Mushi a pouchful of coin, wordlessly. Without ceremony or discourse. She barely even looked at him, simply her desire to get onto land was her driving force. It was wrong for a woman so burdened with another life to have to struggle with a storm or illness as she had. Thus, she did not thank or really acknowledge the man who had taken her from the dangerous Akashima and traversed the sea for her. Instead she gave him what she owed, and more, in the form of a glorious-sounding bag of coin.

With her possessions all in a bundle beneath her arm the faun moved onto the jetty. It beat out a rhythym beneath her hooves, drumming back a steady tune like her heartbeat. For steady was her pace, continuous was her movements, encouraging her body onwards onto true lands. Surviving on instinct was she just now, holding herself together with little more than will. Weakness was in her bones, her muscles and her flesh, but pride was there also, knowing many eyes were on her. Thus, she kept striding, swollen belly before, small fox to the back and a mixture of weaponry and fabrics shoved beneath her arm. The only paying guest of the Bonzai left with dignity and ego, despite all that had gone on, giving them enough gold in payment to replace all that they had lost in the voyage.

Thump, thump, went she down the wooden jetty, and onto the cobbled street of the small harbour village there. She knew eyes were on her, she knew the pressure behind her. She knew they knew something of who she was, and what she represented, but they still knew her as this mystery pregnant faun. Thus, the mystery would keep on, and the mighty stories would live, of the woman who was not seen in a storm, save to stride out on three occasions, look like she knew exactly what to do, fix something, and then stride back away to hide below deck - scowling like she hated the weather and had only come to check on it.

Strength, reputation and image was what made the Matriarch of the Gilded Lily so respected, and even now, she was not going to let that fail. Thus, on she kept, going with full steps and a head held high, barely holding on but hiding it. Last drains of energy, last reserves of willpower, yet she knew those people. She had sailed for three weeks with them, and tales always spread. Moving boldly she went on, a picture of dignity, right up until the doors of the public house right at the harbour's edge. Into that door she went, siezing the handle with purpose, and disappearing inside.

Only to stand there, take one look at the matron at the bar, then burst into tears and sink to the floor.