It was easy enough to joke about what he saw when he slept. Everyone expected grand adventure or saucy tales and spinning them was simple enough. Meeting those expectations, leering, joking after being woken about missing out on acrobatic triplets in oil- that was what most thought he should see. So it was what he let them think. The truth?

Was not half so kind.

Antiva, again, in a small apartment near the tanneries. The wash of the ocean and the call of the whores in the allies the only lullaby a crow is ever given- aside from the steady crack of a lash along his back. He does not flinch- he cannot flinch or the knife at his throat will cut across. No, he must swallow and continue telling the offhand tale he'd been in the middle of when the whip came down.