Reaching a weathered, bronzed hand into a bag he'd pull out a few simple ship cakes. Pressed oats baked in bacon fat with a little honey, they weren't a delicacy by any means but were a pleasant enough way to keep up one's energy. Passing them around he'd simply nod to Cassandra and mutter "Seldom are" before reaching over to Helenus "Over, under, behind, and through, gives the fish passage but only to you." I wonder if old Lysander is still alive came the thought unbidden as his memory flashed to days long ago "Speaking of which, is it only game used in your... the craft, or can fish be used as well? I had an aunt who used the flight of birds, but I don't know if that was real or just her imagination. Is it something that has to be learned, like standing in a shield wall, or is it something that has to be more felt, like poetry... or more something that has to be done, like guiding an arrow to the target through practice?"
Breaking the cake neatly in his hands the spartan would pass one half over to Stelios and then take his half between surprisingly white teeth, breaking off a small chunk to be tongued between molars and cheek to soften. Bull guts, bird flight, brass lamps, and gifts... He could feel the pull of the smooth sphere in a pouch at his waist, the weight something more than simple physical mass.