The Russian steamer cut through black waters in nautical solitude, under the pearl in the night sky, shrouded in silver-lined cotton. The hard angles of the iron hulk stood stalwart against the crash and foam of errant waves.
Below deck, Konrad lay in his cot, swaddled in blankets like a sick child. He was discovering that he had not the proper constitution for seafaring. His head was in his guts, which had been thoroughly spilled.
“I think you should eat” Dmitri said as he inclined his head through the cabin door “Fish soup”. Konrad’s face turned to a greenish pallor.