For the man with the borrowed cane, traveling is a miserable affair. There is no such thing as conducting that business in peace or comfort—either the saddle is uncomfortable, or the riding makes his joints hurt, or whatever wagon or cart or carriage he's stuffed into fails to be properly sprung and so every bump and hole in the road is transmitted directly into his hindquarters and the small of his back. It's almost an exquisite relief to be on his own two feet after so long spent rattling around like a dry pea in a tin cup. Almost, because he can still feel the ache of it in his back. Almost, because the only thing worse than traveling all day is sleeping in a camp cot at night. He can already feel pinch of muscles in his future.

So while it's rare that Ralston stays long on his feet, tonight is an exception: he's stood up, back uncharacteristically very straight in an effort to work the cricks out of his spine, and he's close to the fire as well because it's good for the sore parts of him and because the season is only now just turning from winter into mud and as dark has fallen so too has a chill in the air descended. In his head, he is doing a mental calculation: attempting to discern who out of the contingent would be best to harass for some form of medicinal or herbal aid. Who will capitulate to his demands despite a history of irritation—

(Michael Ralston has not precisely kept his head up, but he's a difficult man to get along with even at his most subtle. The court and it's attachments bear him very little love.)

"Then shift over," he remarks offhand, hardly having heard the—what? Complaint? Request? His attention is focused elsewhere.