Wings. The last of their number had wings. Dumbfounded at first, her gaze traveled along paths of molten gold, discerning wing from hair from rich complexion. A navel confronted her, and then hands pointing into the cart, and the realization came that she had not even returned the greeting. "Welcome aboard, Amerynth." The bundle was a safe place to rest her eyes a moment, away from surprise wings and flaunted navels. "I'm Juris, an occultist with the Holy Order of Bahamut. If religious relics interest you..." The thought went unfinished. She hadn't planned out her invitation. Already they would be spending days or weeks together on the road. What more was there possibly to propose?<br/><br/>"This is<em>Minyche, </em>I suppose." She tipped her head with the unasked question of whether this was now the name she ought to use. It did not wound her that the rogue seemed to hate her- a Golden Canary needed much thicker skin than that. Though there were no golden spurs on the stylish heel that stepped into her mount's stirrup, she still took those lessons to heart. It was a draft horse, her steed- bred thick and strong, tall as a man at the withers, not trained as a warhorse but muscular enough to look the part. He could carry a fully armored mountain of a man. To carry Juris posed no problem at all- there was no complaint as she situated in the saddle. "You can share the saddle with me, should your legs tire," she told her irreverent charge. "It will be a long walk."<br/><br/>~ ~ ~ ~<br/><br/>But she was wrong about that, because the ride was only an hour before Brother Rufus pointed out the boat that would take them. It must have been clear from the way she avoided looking at the dockside shanites that Juris had not come from a place like this. "I have no experience with ships, Brother Rufus. I should stay well out of the crew's way, somewhere belowdecks." Carefully, reins taut, she guided her horse down the slope. That the beast weighed nearly a ton helped his footing- the earth could not nimbly shrug off such an animal with just an incline, or fierce wind, or tundra ice. Iron-clad hooves dug into the earth in places where the damp coastal air made the path slippery.<br/><br/>Her charge, she was led to believe, came from a neighborhood like this one. A poor place, an unplanned place, random, born of necessity. A vain woman's gaze averted from the poverty as though she were trying not to see the city with its pants around its ankles. She kept her sympathies to herself. "Astwick. Is there anything we should know about it?"