Eager to set foot on relatively dry land, Held hastily packed up his gear and waited as the ship steadily approached the dock.
He gazed about in wonder.
Having grown up most of his life in urban sprawl, it was shock to see that sort of environment packed tightly into a almost tropical setting.
From the flame-orange tinted skyscrapers and buildings that dominated his view, to the myriad of ships that surrounded the boat; fishing vessels coming in from a last haul, passenger liners in for brief stock and supply, water taxis that deftly sped around larger ships like darting fish, dropping off and picking up passengers.
The picture was capped off by a dying sun, sending off it's last brilliant rays of light for the day before slumbering.
It was amazing.
Held grinned, and felt relieved that he hadn't listened to his mentor Dr Rostaik seriously. The doc had grumpily dismissed his fact-finding journey as a mere holiday.
Typical of a veteran archaeologist, Rostaik believed that the Troubles had been a time of war that had been strung up in apocalyptic dressing, while documents and evidence reflected this line of thought in someway, be it propaganda, coded messages, tales of battle wrapped up in fantasy.
Held laughed inwardly.
He knew that despite the Rostaik's skeptical hard-headed nature, the old man had a spark of idealism within him.
After all of his objections, his veiled attempts of curbing the journey, his threats, it was the doc who had secured a false ID for him and a plan for his trip through Aranoch.
Without either, Held knew he wouldn't have gotten to Kurast.
Faith was such a curious thing, he mused as he took one cautious step off the dock and into the tide of people.
**********************************
"Target has arrived at the dock." a voice piped through the small transceiver.
Miniscule to be unnoticeable, the transceiver was imbedded within the ear of a casual tourist who was spending time looking at exotic things from one of many makeshift stalls. Close by, vendors harped for attention, trying to draw customers from the stream of onlookers. The atmosphere was unpleasantly humid and devoid of air, akin to being put in a pressure cooker.
She gingerly picked up a conical shell, emblazed on it a beautiful spiraling pattern, smiled pleasantly and gave a few notes to the eager stall attendant, then rejoined the stream.
