>Note to self: investigate slighter cloak later.
>Let's hit up that ferry.
>You make your way down to the docks, purchase passage on the ferry, and board it without incident; your conspicuously cowled countenance does elicit a few wary remarks from the people you interact with, but nothing that causes you any real trouble. Once on board, you head straight for your cabin and collapse into bed. It is dawn before you are even vaguely aware of your own body again.
>It aches. Everywhere. Even your tongue is aching, somehow. Your throat is dry enough that it is difficult to swallow, so you attempt to haul your leaden weight far enough out of bed to reach for your canteen, only to sway dizzily in the attempt. It takes a second try before you can even remain upright. The water does help a little, though.
>Feeling a bit more steady on your feet, you push back the curtain to gaze out the window. The morning air is wafting cool and gentle off the river as low green hills drift slowly by, the faintest hints of the new sun warming the edges of the sky. Everything's still rather hazy, though. You blink once to try and clear your vision, and then again. Oh. Right.
>That puts something of a dampener on the scenery, so you let the curtain go and flop down on the bed again. Even this nondescript bunk in a tiny riverboat cabin feels wonderfully soft and yielding after a week of sleeping on the hard ground; if only your health allowed you to enjoy it fully. Some of your arches are from the week's exertions, and some of those are even fading ? the soles of your feet, for example ? but so many parts of you are as bad or worse than ever. You hold your hand up and stare at it, slowly tracing the network of black tendrils that now snake halfway up your arm. It's spreading faster than ever. Whether this is a sign that the disease is approaching some final stage, or just your body finally losing in its struggle, you can't say. One week feels like an awfully long way away.
>You stare at the ceiling, you reflect on the past, you roll around in bed to find some respite from your aches that will not come. At some point you even stand up and stare out the window again, watching the trees drift by beneath that fog of grey which fills your vision. You cannot decide if this room is a sanctuary for your road-weary body or a cage ? probably both. A hazy speck that might once have been a bird streaks across the cloudless sky.
>At some point, you fall back to sleep ? for a minute or an hour, you're not sure. Time passes in a half-forgotten reverie as you drift in and out of consciousness; your dreams are dull and jumbled, your sense of time hazy. You force yourself to have a nibble of your rations at some point, but even this feels like effort. Not that you'd have any desire to fraternize with your cheerful fellow passengers even if you could remain upright; frankly, you liked them better when they were asleep. The hours are long, and yet too vague to count. Time is urgent, and yet you crave nothing more than rest. Did you want to reach your destination yesterday, or not until you spend another week in bed?
>Eventually, the ship pulls into Val Razua. Or so you gradually surmise by the stern rapping on your door and words firmly shouted through it. You rub your eyes and try to get some sense of what time of day it is. Sunset? Just how long were you asleep?