I know a Sebastopol to the west on a small ramshackle homestead. Maybe it's time to depart.

This promenade has run it's course.

I cannot fly far with these injuries. If at all. Out of sorts as I am. Overfed on bread, with punctures and torn flesh, dried from the saltwater.

Muscovy aren't ones for flight in fear. But rather methodical, considered and intermittent, travel.