In the cargo hold of the Second Shank...
Sigmund, unclear on what to do now, examines the definition of himself.
Apparently, Sigmund is the assigned self-name of the current vessel of Soul 55-137322-14456711-61119031-1345221885-909799155, and this soul possesses no privileges. That's rather straightforward, he guesses. With that out of the way, he quickly retrieves the book of bindings from the den, then returns to the cargo hold to take a look at it.
He can't really tell what's so special about it. Seems pretty generic as an object, though there is a certain lopsidedness to its knot.
At Erin's door...
Kevin, fully informed of the urgency of the matter, tries to inform Erin as well.
"GET OFF YOUR LAZY ASS, NIKLAS IS ABOUT TO DIE!"
Morton is taken aback by such spectacular rudeness, naturally.
"E-er, the situation is indeed dire, but I'm not sure if shouting is strictly necessary. She's probably suffering a terrible hangover from the alcohol the day prior, I fear," he quietly explains to him, then coughs oddly, as there truly is no other way for a desk to cough.
"Apologies good mage Erin, but yes, the situation is indeed dire and we require your assistance as quick as you can prepare it. Chef Niklas has been reduced to molten slag in the streets and still lives, but I fear that may not be the case for long, however, if we do not remove him from the heat he has found himself in and repair his body most expediently."
A few moments pass, and the door opens, revealing a rather unimpressed-looking Erin, still wearing the rather stained robe she went to bed with, although it's quite a lot more rumpled now.
"What, repair him again? He got destroyed? He works fast, gotta admit."
She doesn't look too bad, really. A little drowsy, but hardly a wreck or anything.
"Give me a few minutes, will ya?"
In a kitchen...
Niklas, upon failing to dig a hole in the floor, looks around for a bowl. All the ones around here, though, are kept well away from him, it seems. Having failed at that, he looks for the primary spices of his special cuisine.
Sadly, though, there is no saffron at all. There's even a sign that states it is absolutely forbidden in this village on pain of death. There's a whole vat of whale bile in the middle of the hall, though. No horses or their asses in the vicinity, however. Well, one out of three isn't completely terrible.
At a building in the process of renovation...
Scott confronts the insidious blackguard/complete slacker on the roof.
"Sir! Yes, you right there, sir!" he points at the roof man, who looks back.
"Who, me?"
"Yes, you! I have it on good authority that you are nothing but a horrible spy and not a roof repair person at all, and I doubt that you can prove the opposite to me at all! Gods, man, do you even know how to repair a roof? I could do a better job than that, and I've never used a hammer for anything but pure jackassery my entire life!"
The man on the roof is surprised by the accusation, but then starts to look a bit angry.
"Of course I'm not doing a good job, you fool! I'm pretending to work rather than actually doing so, as you can see. Now shoo, before you blow my cover! My wife might pass by at any moment!"