The Parish where the Náð is close to Swind. It is also the place where a clinic of the Náð is established. A small clinic with six beds and an office in front where a woman is acting as an Assistant for the bespectacled man behind.

“Mita. How are you?”

“You’re back, Milo?”

He looks around. “I think I am.”

She snorts. “Silly fool. Come here.”

Mita reached out for a friendly hug. She was only standing chest high so got buried by the shirt.

“It’s good you’re not dead. That’s three months on the road.”

Milo sat down on one of the stools. Mita pours a fresh brew of coffee and places it on this engraved ceramic mug. The wedding band on her left ring finger caught a glint of light. Leading Milo to eye the bulb on her left.

“More light bulbs?”

“It is useful and the weather has taught us we might need more of it.”

“Weather? Is it bad again?”

“The usual,” said a voice.

From the back was Yero carrying a set of tools. He placed the tools in the storage and poured himself a steaming cup of coffee. Pulling a stool close to the desk. Seemingly showing off his wedding band.

“Tsk. You two really need to mind yer manners when it comes to the unloved.”

“Haha, sorry to hear you haven’t met a gal on the road.”

“Yeah. So the weather is bad?”

“Mostly the cold from the spine of the world is getting too cold. Up north they have trouble with the icebergs slamming on the docks.”

“Guessing the cold’s from some of the ice they break?”

“Yup. Some of the folks are keeping the ice too. Selling them all over cities in crawlers in bulk.”

“Didn’t hear that.”

“How could you?” Mita shrugged. “You were on the Western Noiter. Doubt they’ll know what happens here all the time. How’s west?”

Milo told them what he had done for the past months. Mostly the boring travels, the usual patients, and visiting patients who send him letters. Milo fancied himself as a Doctor, but honestly the work he does is mostly fixing up those who are so ill they can’t get up from bed. Traveling using the train is fine if you are near a station, but most of the folks in Mence are living close to water or have chosen elevated areas with a clear path to the mountains.

That was one thing Milo had noticed about the folks here. They seem always so close to the water and yet wary enough about it. One of the places he had visited during the past month was this village close to the water. He sat down with one of the elders and learned about the famed Grand Voyage of the Reconnoiter Company five centuries ago.

It was quite a battle and it took people around the world centuries to recover from such an apocalyptic scenario. Five centuries of stagnation and building a new world. At least that’s what Milo pieced out after learning all the various histories of the people he had met. Someway or another their ancestors are survivors of a great flood and a great voyage.

“So does the ice come here?”

“Yeah, by the river once in a while.”

“And it makes people cold?”

“That’s the thing. This isn’t just normal ice. This is ice from the spine of the world itself, Milo.”

The glint on Yero’s eyes and the subtle smile he’s sporting made him wonder what this man wants.

“You want some ice?”

“I think you understand how good it would be to have cold storage. A block of ice from the spine of the world would do us good. Better storage and we can keep our stock safe. Also, it doesn’t hurt to have cool refreshing water.”

Milo folded his arms and watched the steam rise from his cup. “That’s good and all but you do know we’re lacking any funds. I doubt the folks who have the ice block would be willing to give us any discount.”

“Now pull on your reins, Milo. We actually got someone who’d give us that. See, I wasn't thinking about it till you saw his face.”

Mita raises a brow. “I see you got lazy huh.”

Milo could guess what Yero wanted to do now. He warmed his hand on the mug and took a sip. “So now that I’m here. You want me to do you the favor instead of you?”

“It’s safer that way isn’t it?” he gave away a quick easy smile. “And you know to fight when things go wrong or you gutted the patient?”

“You married this man?” Milo said to Mita.

“He isn’t that bad usually. Just his ideas are sometimes too weird. He’s only like this because he thinks you can get away with it.”

Milo sighs at this husband and wife. Then again they were only one who he mostly talked to outside of the Parish. Though he thinks they have some screw loose or were they taking too good care of these friends of his? Then again, he wasn’t really the kind who’d refuse someone who wants help. The payment can be the block of ice.

“Okay, but I'll use your tools. If you can’t accept that, then we have no deal.”

“No problem! I’m going to write the letter of recommendation and take it to this address where they can take a look at it!”

Milo reads the letter. “Rost huh. Must have been quite the businessman to get here.”

“Seen nothing. Apparently they were part of the old fleet. A Grand-Galleon from the olden times, Milo.”

“A Grand-Galleon?”

“Yup. They call it the Trajen. One of the few Grand-Galleon that managed to survive the grand voyage. The other Grand-Galleons, the Divji and the Milost, are either lost or somewhere in the seas.”

“Hmm, never seen a Grand-Galleon.”

“It arrived after you left. Became an attraction, but with the Elven telling them to go. No one goes now.”

“This is on the Grand-Galleon then?”

“Yeah?”

“Guess I’ll be there then. Always wanted to see what an Elven is.”

Milo stared Yero down, finished his cup of coffee. He went behind them, took their surgical tools, and a spare white coat and left the clinic.

He had been hearing about the Elven for a while. The supposedly long-lived races who are the source of all the Vitae and some of the technology. The Republic supplies a healthy amount of Vitae, Crawlers, and biobotanical implants that replace missing limbs.

Beyond that the Elven are quite neutral to the affairs of humanity, but are quite adamant when it comes to the affairs of the Kin it seems.

Milo arrived at Rost where the first thing that caught his attention was the giant ship that towered over the buildings. Giant sails and made of old materials. The hulls of the ships seem old, but there’s this almost magical sturdiness to it. Not to mention he could see the sprites flocking around the Grand-Galleon like it’s their home.

“What is your business here?”

A long-eared man inside this tree armor stopped him. The vitae is carrying a bolt-action rifle with a pouch full of bottle-size bullets on the side. Milo couldn’t identify any markings on the vitae so he assumed it’s from them.

“I’m Doctor Milo and I got this letter from my colleague.”

“A Doctor?” The guard took a knee and squinted at the letter. Thoroughly reading it until the end. “Ah, so you are an acquaintance of the clinician. My people have told me that he might come or a colleague of his will.”

“That’s me.”

The guard stepped aside. He was speaking to this ball of light hovering over his shoulder. The guard noticed Milo staring at his shoulder.

“Can you see them?”

“The sprites?”

“Yes. Ah, I see you are one of those who can communicate with the sprites.” He inspects Milo’s ears. “But you are no elf… perhaps one of your ancestors was?”

“Who knows?”

The guard was interested until he remembered what Milo was here for. “You will be allowed entry to the Grand-Galleon. I trust that a man of medicine will behave?”

“I will.”

Milo followed one of the guards inside and climbed aboard the Grand-Galleon’s deck. Strangely enough, the shape and appearance of the ship seems eerily familiar. Even though the Guard was leading him to where the patient was. He was able to navigate the Galleon as if it were natural.

“Are you familiar?”

“I have been in big ships before.”

“Then you are a sea traveler. It’s not unlike anything you've seen, I’m sure?”

“Yeah. It’s quite… magical.”

“Made from the oldest trees and I’m sure older than everyone.”

“Must have a lot of history. This ship.”

The guard smiled proudly. “It’s one of the ships that saved the world and sailed the Old World, the Maw, the Dread Lines, crossed the Icean Spine, and sailed the Greater Seas while the world drowned. You underestimate it.”

Milo could only nod in awe. The salty sea air hung heavy around the ship, mingling with the scent of tar and wood. They reached a marked door where the patient, Reynolds, lay in the grip of his unknown ailment.

As Milo entered, the space seemed even more cramped, cluttered with maps and nautical instruments. The sprite lantern overhead casted erratic shadows that danced on the walls.

Reynolds was on his bed, drawn with pain, eyes half-closed. He is pale despite his sun-battered skin. Milo could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead. The tremor in his limbs shows how in pain he was.

"Good day," Milo greeted, his voice steady and warm. "Would you kindly tell me what’s wrong with you?"

He turned his head slowly to acknowledge Milo’s presence, his lips forming a weak smile. "Can't seem to muster the strength to get up, Doc. Though it was some damn cold."

Milo moved closer, his experienced eyes scanning him for any visible signs of affliction. Reynold’s breathing was labored, and he could hear the telltale rattle in his chest. He reached out to feel his clammy forehead, confirming the fever that burned within him.

"I'll need to examine you, Reynolds," he said gently, "but first, tell me when you started feeling like this."

Reynolds' voice was hoarse. "It was two nights past, after a storm hit us. I thought it was just the cold, but it's only gotten worse."

Milo nodded, his mind racing through the possibilities. He started his examination, listening to his chest, feeling for swollen glands, and checking the color of his tongue. As he worked, he murmured comforting words, assuring him that he would find the source of his ailment.

After what felt like an eternity, Milo stepped back, brow furrowed in concern. "Reynolds, I believe you've contracted a severe case of pneumonia. The storm's chill must have been the catalyst, and it's taken hold with a vengeance."

His eyes widened, reflecting both fear and relief at finally having a name for his affliction. "Can you... can you do anything, doc?"

Milo’s expression softened. "I can and I will, Reynolds. But it won't be easy. You're in for a tough fight, but I've seen sailors weather worse storms than this. Still, would you mind me asking where the ship’s physician is? He should be taking care of you."

“He is away, Doc. Visiting an old Captain in the Capital. Reynolds here thought it was just cold, but as time went on he even got sicker than ever.”

“Looks like I have to visit you. Good thing it ain’t serious. Well Reynolds, you have to deal with me for a few days. Are you okay with that?”

“Oh, I am, Doctor.”

Over the next few days, Milo tended to him tirelessly. He administered hot broth, cooled his fevered brow, and monitored his breathing. It didn’t take long for Milo to get acquainted with the Grand-Galleon and its crew, if anything they were wondering if he was just a natural sailor with how easy he adjusts to Grand-Galleons passages.

Through sheer determination, Reynolds gradually regained his strength. Milo’s expertise and unwavering care guided him back from the despairing fool to a laughing fool who declared how he’d eat and drink like no tomorrow if he's healed.

Reynolds battled pneumonia for twelve long and arduous days. Each one seemed to blur into the next, marked only by Milo’s visit. It was a relentless struggle on Reynolds' part, but with time, care, and the indomitable spirit of a seasoned sailor, Reynolds got better and Milo got his block of ice from the spine of the world as promised.

Later on, Milo himself got sick and had to stay in bed after 12 days of arduous care for a patient. Leaving Mita and Yero to take care of him as Milo much to their annoyance.