He looked around as the limited light of the porthole brightened his room. It was spartan, little more than the bed and a dresser, his travel packs, and armour. The two packs he had carried his gold in that he simply refused to let anyone near, one of which was now thoroughly emptied after the successful bids for new farmlands and the costs of getting the damn ship off the ground. There was his smaller travel pack that he carried necessities in was off in one corner. His armour lay strewn haphazardly about the room. He swore he had stacked that neatly; it must’ve been knocked loose in some turbulence during the night and rolled across the floor. Certainly would explain the gauntlet he had trodden underfoot.