Asazar squeezed through the packed crowd—he did not know who had first come up with that description, but he had to admit that whoever had first used a tide to describe the press of people must have been a genius.
It was simply too vivid. He forced his way into the tide like an off-white reef. The tide made walking extremely difficult; under such circumstances, even walking became a painful torment. His robe dragged along the ground, and to keep people from stepping on it, he even had to hold it up as he walked.
And beyond all that, he had other problems to deal with. Like now, as the priest struggled to reach out and push aside the two men blocking his path.
They were arguing with each other over the food that had just been distributed. They both wanted more, and the two of them had set their sights on one another. They paid no mind to the priest shoving them, and simply began hurling filth at each other again after he passed.
Asazar was in no mood to concern himself with so much right now. He only wanted to get to the front as quickly as possible. Time was tight. He had to hurry.
He trudged across the deck packed with refugees. Every corner here had been occupied by displaced people. Some were lucky and still had family, while others groaned in pain, the bandages wrapped around them still seeping blood.
Such an environment could hardly be called good for them, of course, but this was already the limit of what the ship could provide.
To be precise, this was already the limit of the ship after taking in the sixth wave of refugees. Rather than belittle such conditions, Asazar was more inclined to marvel at them