With a grunt, he drags both toward the bow of the ship, settling into a narrow space where the rail and cargo create a natural blind spot. It’s not much, but it gives him cover—somewhere to duck low if arrows fly or eyes scan the barge from shore.
He spreads the tarp loosely over the barrel and some nearby crates, adjusting it just enough to create the illusion of forgotten cargo. Then he eases down behind it, crouched and watchful, eyes just peeking out from the edge of the cover.
From his makeshift hideaway, Varin keeps a steady lookout—gaze fixed on the treeline, the riverbanks, and the clouds overhead. Anything could be a threat: a shimmer in the brush, a shape beneath the water, a bird that circles too low. He notes it all.
Soft footfalls pad across the deck. Thaelin pokes his head around a crate, grin spreading like sunrise.

He raps knuckles on the barrel’s rim, testing its hollow echo, then winks at Varin before sauntering off, humming a marching tune half under his breath.
The barge drifts north, watchful eyes now doubled behind the humble fortress of wood and weather-stiff cloth.