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The Viera did not linger in the mountains for long; the kit was sickly and no simple remedy seemed to bring ease. He left, found those who could assist, and then relocated far north to a quaint town off of the Blindfrost Sea. If he could not return to the mountains, then a place where few dare to venture would be a close second as respite. Such wilderness held a fortune in its own way, broad, salty seas that stretched on and on until horizon’s end, where the clouds blended into waves, beaming with fish and not a soul in sight to disturb one’s morning. Achilles stumbled and tumbled his way through every early morning until a growth spurt shot his legs clean through the soles of his shoes. His sea legs did not come easy, but once he found his footing, being on land felt more unnatural than the constant, soothing sway of the sea. In time, he’d come to swing around the masts of the boat like he was soaring through the air. With arms that strengthened every day, he learned to heft a spear at the precise angle needed to pierce through the illusion presented by water and spike a fish to where its meat was kept intact. Together with his guardian, they earned a full, easy living, however small it was in comparison to other traders. Their newfound gold led his guardian to new heights. Their fishing business expanded, as did the guardian’s desire for luxuries such as drink and wagering. Eventually Achilles tired of it, so despite having a full belly and a warm bed every night, he stole away on a foreign sailor’s boat, and only stared back long enough to mark the nautical route down in his journal. If he would ever come back, he did not know.