With the rest of the party aboard, Linda quickly joins the group and makes short work of the slither down<span style="font-style: italic">Swiftwind</span>'s gangplank, her arrival settling the issue of stabling by agreeing to share with the young Captain Lion d'Lyrandar {teenaged, so no sexy stuff! Kid sister mode activate!} Shortly, Surkil arrives and presents Lion with a document you recognise to be a notarised House d'Sivis contract, in this case specifying the continued charter of the<span style="font-style: italic">Swiftwind</span>. Soon after he's followed by Alizome, and the<span style="font-style: italic">Swiftwind</span>stands ready to depart.<br/><br/>Putting out of Korranberg's docks, and joining the swift flow of the River Seawall is a straightforward operation, requiring nothing more than the presentation of Lion's documents to the harbormaster. Downstream, the river is tidal, and progress is quick. Sailing barges, sloops akin to<span style="font-style: italic">Swiftwind</span>and even larger vessels work their way upstream, some tethered to the bank waiting for the tide to turn once more, some powerful enough to make headway nevertheless, whether animal-drawn or sailpowered. A storm is coming, and no wise captain less skilled than a Lyrandar wishes to be at sea.<br/><br/>Whether Lion d'Lyrandar is skilled or foolhardy, or both, remains to be seen.<br/><br/>The nip – a granite outcropping blocking half the breadth of the Seawall – looms within hours. The narrowness of the river churns the water, and<span style="font-style: italic">Swiftwind</span>dances like a kayak shooting the rapids. Lion shouts her joy, and the lads – young enough even Lion views them as brats, not boys – laugh and wave to a passel of gnomish windsurfers.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Swiftwind</span>bears east, out of the narrow Seawall Bay, crowded with vessels seeking the shelter of the river. To the west, Thurim Bay and Glamer Bay both offer safer anchorage, but both are known for rare-but-rich salvage: Rumors swirl of whole vessels, close to the shores of the Shimmerwood, battened down against wind and weather, found, undamaged and abandoned, with no sign of struggle.<br/><br/>“What say I turn her bows south-east,” Lion says, as Surkil stands on the poop deck behind her. “You brought adventurers – let's have a<span style="font-style: italic">real</span>adventure!”<br/><br/>“Aerenal?” He says, raising a fine eyebrow, shot through with grey. “Feeling the desire to explore your elvish ancestry?”<br/><br/>“Hah!” Lion laughs, though you've no idea why it should be funny. “Past Aerenal,” she explains, “through the Dragonreach,” she says, her eyes shining as she leans forward, as if her weight against the stanchion will spur<span style="font-style: italic">Swiftwind</span>to greater speed. “To Argonnessen. Plenty of relics of the Age of Dragons there, I'll warrant.”<br/><br/>“Dockside talk,” Ulrik calls, from aloft, “that's all that is.”<br/><br/>“Truth's the seed of talk,” Lion shoots back without even a pause.<br/><br/>“It is anyway relics of the so-called Age of Demons I seek,” Surkil demurs.<br/><br/>“Yeah,” Lion replies, her eyes fixed on the horizon, “that.”<br/><br/>Surkil rolls his eyes. He – and you – know the Age of Demons is as distinct and different from the Age of Dragons as now is from either one. “There are no demonic artefacts in Argonnessen,” he replies firmly, “and if there were, we'd have to brave the Dragonreach, a labyrinth of razor-sharp rocks scattered among the most turbulent and unpredictable currents in the world. If we survived, then the barbarian tribes, dragonworshippers all-to-often willing to make sacrifice in blood and bone, and with appetites to match their idols. Beyond them,” his eyes go distant, and he, too, turns southeast, “the dragons.”<br/><br/>“So, no” he turns back to Lion. But the half-elfgirl has already refocussed elsewhere, on the distant, thin line of black stormclouds darkening the sunset from crimson to bloodred, chasing you across the western horizon.<br/><br/>The wind is brisk before the storm, and<span style="font-style: italic">Swiftwind</span>makes good time. Its clear that, whatever her other failings, Lion has inherited the d'Lyrandar touch with wind and wave along with her ears and her dragonmark. You variously seem to slip ahead of other vessels, finding just the right current, the sails trimmed to snag every breath of wind. The atmosphere is relaxed, but the crew instantly and efficiently obey Lion's orders, even the order – somewhat startling in the heavy weather – to set a spinnaker. There's a clear family resemblance between Lion and one of the lads, though whether he's her brother or cousin – or, given the tangle Dragonmarked Houses make of the genealogy, her uncle, her nephew, or some formally more distant relation who lies closer in practice – is unclear. The other is closer to Toric's looks, and both man and boy far from any of the d'Lyrandars. The two must be related, either uncle and nephew or father and son, if he started early. You note the lack of a weddingband about his finger. If there's any of the half-elf clan in their blood, it dripped in hundreds of years ago, before the War of the Mark drew the Dragonmarked houses to forbid blending of their blood to curtail Aberrant Marks.<br/><br/>The spinnaker's aerofoil quickly drags<span style="font-style: italic">Swiftwind</span>forward. The sun has barely slipped below the horizon, when she rounds the western tip of Torlaac Bay and begins to cross its mouth. From the eastern shore, a flickering red light can be seen, as if in answer to the crimson sunset behind. “The Wyvern's Eye,” Ulrik murmurs.<br/><br/>“Lhesh Haruuc, Warlord of Darguun, seeks to encourage trade along his coastline,” Surkil says. “He raised the garrison at Wyvernskull to patrol the southwestern reaches of the Khraal, and the bayside coastline where Torlaac Moor tumbles into the bay. Hobgoblin soldiers have no qualm putting goblin smugglers, wreckers and pirates to the sword – or,” Surkil shrugs, “leading them, if the target is sufficiently tempting. Or so says rumor,” he makes a gesture of hand-opened, to the swift sea breeze. “Words on the wind.” He pauses. “But the baleful lighthouse they built on the eastern shore is real enough, it seems.”<br/><br/>“Aye,” Ulrik agrees, “and a help it is – if ye believe ye can trust it.”<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">Swiftwind</span>crosses the mouth of the bay in little less than an hour, and by the time she's done so, the Wyvern's eye is brighter than the sunset behind it. To port, the dark, forbidding forest of the Khraal stretches down to the waters edge, a few bare meters of crabgrassed beachsand separating the trees from the waves.<br/><br/>“When Haruuc builds a lighthouse on the Khraal-” he cuts himself off, “<span style="font-style: italic">head-</span>”<br/><br/>“Cock,” Lion stagewhispers, a sotto voce that carries on the breeze across the width of the<span style="font-style: italic">Swiftwind</span>.<br/><br/>“-head,” Ulrik says more firmly, “then I'll admit he's serious to grow the seatrade.” He pauses, stroking his beard. “The Khraal<span style="font-style: italic">swallows</span>civilisation. You don't want to put to shore here,” he tells Surkil.<br/><br/>“Bear due east, Mister Ulrik,” Lion shouts, as the captain gives up the wheel to the grizzled sailor. “I'm going aloft for a lookabout – and best furl the Spinnaker, whilst we have the light.” The mast-top, you note, isn't much swaying as<span style="font-style: italic">Swiftwind</span>drives forward under full sail, nor, due to the angle of her lean, is it so high – but it<span style="font-style: italic">does</span>now stretch out over the dark, choppy water beyond the deck.<br/><br/>“Aye-aye, Cap'n,” Ulrik replies. “Aloft there, you lads!” He booms. “Furl the Spun'sl!”<br/><br/>“Captain d'Lyrandar,” Surkil calls, quite politely but<span style="font-style: italic">very</span>loudly, after Ulrik's words have gone to the breeze – for Lion's quite far up the rigging, by then. “We don't bear nor-east, into Kraken Bay and the lee of Darguun?” He pauses. “I would prefer not to be stormblown to the islands of Aerenal. Strongly.”<br/><br/>Lion glances down at Ulrik, and the motion of her head in Surkil's direction is almost imperceptible against the natural sway of her body as<span style="font-style: italic">Swiftwind</span>rolls with the waves. {Perception DC12<div style="padding: 3px; background-color: #FFFFFF; border: 1px solid #d8d8d8; font-size: 1em;"><div style="text-transform: uppercase; border-bottom: 1px solid #CCCCCC; margin-bottom: 3px; font-size: 0.8em; font-weight: bold; display: block;"><span onclick="if (this.parentNode.parentNode.getElementsByTagName('div')[1].getElementsByTagName('div')[0].style.display != '') {  this.parentNode.parentNode.getElementsByTagName('div')[1].getElementsByTagName('div')[0].style.display = ''; this.innerHTML = '&lt;b&gt;Spoiler: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;a href=\'#\' onClick=\'return false;\'&gt;hide&lt;/a&gt;'; } else { this.parentNode.parentNode.getElementsByTagName('div')[1].getElementsByTagName('div')[0].style.display = 'none'; this.innerHTML = '&lt;b&gt;Spoiler: &lt;/b&gt;&lt;a href=\'#\' onClick=\'return false;\'&gt;show&lt;/a&gt;'; }"><b>Spoiler: </b><a href="#" onclick="return false;">show</a></span></div><div class="quotecontent"><div style="display: none;">You realise the Captain has chosen not to explain herself, but rather delegated the task, both to preserve her authority unquestioned, and so as to be able to overlook Surkil's – perhaps inadvertent – challenge to it. Child she may be, but she's not only a seawoman, she's a leader of men – no matter how brattish she might come over in port.</div></div></div><br/><br/>“The Khraalcoast ain't no safe harbor,” Ulrik explains, “and to follow it would bring us within fifty miles of the Mournland and the misted horrors that hie from it.”<br/><br/>“-but Pylas Maradal-” Surkil breaks in.<br/><br/>“Is far from the most salubrious of ports,” Ulrik answers, “and if we sail against western Valenar, we'll be a week beating back up the coastline, and counting ourselves lucky we had a Captain skilled enough to attempt it at all, rather than waiting for this to blow itself out.” He claps a hand to Surkil's shoulder. “Besides, we're d'Lyrandar's. We don't fear wind or wave. We embrace them, as the Kraken is embraced and embraces as the sigil of our house. No,” Ulrik booms, “we make to kiss the Scimitar's Tip.” {From context, you can understand this to mean the tip of the peninsula on which the Jungle of Scimitar's flourishes, at Valenar's southern edge. You are on-course for Q'barra}.<br/><br/>Surkil nods, and, eying the darking sky and the worsening weather, slips below. {You're free to join him, or not. Unless you've skill ranks in 'Profession (sailor), or relevant spells, then you'll be pretty much unable to assist the finely-oiled machine of the crew. On the other hand, they've no spare resource in the worsening weather to look after you. If you attempt to rest, you must succeed on a DC15 Survival check, or else be unable to rest (you still lose the time). If you do not or are unable to rest, you will become fatigued by the next day (a fatigued character can neither run nor charge and takes a –2 penalty to Strength and Dexterity. Doing anything that would normally cause fatigue causes the fatigued character to become exhausted. After 8 hours of complete rest, fatigued characters are no longer fatigued)}.