Eira's skin crawled as the magic began to creep over her, and she reacted as she might toward any other threat.<span style="color: magenta">"What the...?"</span>Though barefoot, and clad only in a padded gambeson designed to take the weight of the armor now lying at her feet, she'd won fights with less: her sword sang from its scabbard as she drew, and she dropped smoothly into a practiced defensive stance with her blade out, seeking an enemy. Her free hand crept to the back of her belt, her fingers closing on the leather-wrapped handle of one of the balanced throwing axes sheathed there. Rather than a foe, though, she found Horgar, and stared narrow-eyed at him through his warning even as realization began to dawn.<br/><br/>Then the world lurched, and dissolved.<br/><br/>Her next conscious thought was of the gods-awful smell assaulting her: stale seawater and sweat and bile. She spit, realizing that she'd vomited en route to... here, wherever here was. Wooden. Cramped. Unstable.<i>Moving</i>. She took some reassurance in the sounds of Horgar's outrage, even as she tried to catch her balance and find the approaches to this place, the better to cover them with her sword.<span style="color: magenta">"What in all the hells just happened, old man?"</span>she hissed, and haltingly backed up into Big Bertha's shadow, next to her friend.<span style="color: magenta">"Boat? What boat? Where <i>are</i> we?"</span><div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>