The sun is not yet at its zenith when the passengers are set out into the port, and the wounded are seen to quickly-- their compatriots asking after the temple as porters and dock-men ask after the third ship, names being asked after, questions about the officers asked.  Some men cry out in joy at an old, familiar face, some take news like a blow to the gut and sit, heavily, on the pilings of the dock, head in hands and face buried from the sun.  The rest, though, take it like the outlands of the empire do... they hear the news, their mouths go taut, and they nod before plowing ahead into work, death every bit as familiar to them as the sounds of their own breaths by night.<br/><br/>The heat is, by now, oppressive.  Bare skin begins to tingle in the scalding white sun, and sweat flows freely from all.<br/><br/>From the docks there are dirt paths, and they realize that the sand is only 'white' as is the reflection of the sun-- every fleck of it seems a crystalline gem, reflecting the day's full light and hot under bare feet in red, green, crystalline clear or even black... most of the men wear loose white linen, rope sandals, or are bare-chested and backed.  At least a few of the workers are women-- their arms and backs seemingly knotted of tan, glistening ropes, every sinew and muscle working as hard as any man, their faces as stern and fierce as they carry crate upon crate to wagon after wagon.   There is a deep, rich smell of smoking, knotty wood, simmering fish, boiling rice.  Also the oily smoke of coalfires, the clang of hammers on anvils.  The faint rustle of sea oats, like chattering locals watching the humans' strange ways.<br/><br/>Imperial soldiers linger nearby as well, overseeing the operation-- their crossbows at ease and longswords at their hips.  It seems the continental uniform of red shirt and breeches under their leather armor and breastplates is forgone here... they wear helms and chestplates, but their legs and arms are bare where their tunics don't cover, and their boots are lashed to their bare calves.   One nods acknowledgingly at a half-orc workman (from his meager height and massive build, the orc must be half-dwarf) whose bare, gray-skinned back is painted with a full tapestry of tattooed ink, ribbons and whorls of some tribal design vivid in the full-day light.  The half-orc sets aside a gunnysack, its bulging contents disappearing into the shade of a rainbarrel next to the soldier, who looks the other way, seemingly studying the new recruits.  The orc, glancing up as you catch sight, seems diffident toward any outcome and, setting his broad mouth in a grimace and returns to unloading a net full of cargo.<br/><br/>Along the path call a pair of young women, one full-figured and dark of hair, the other slight, fair, and holding a parasol of ostrich feathers, "Children!" calls the elder, the dun-haired one-- "The temple of Akathos welcomes you to Kraken!  Part not with all your coin at once, for there is work and food for all.  Akathos welcomes his children with open arms..." (Akathos is, known to all of you, an avatar associated with scholarship, writing, and messengers.  He is often portrayed as a bare young man with four wings on his back, a book under one arm and a bow in the other... on the mainland, that is)  The fair one, looking a bit younger and perhaps pale seems reluctant to call aloud for fear the heat will find her faster if she does.  Her white vestments and shawl all but conceal her face.<br/><br/>She catches out at Jin's sleeve as he passes, and if she catches him, she takes up his broad, strong hand in her own-- she can scarcely hold him, her grip is like bird fluttering.  "Here," she says quietly, and presses a thin, short ribbon of tattered hemp into his hand-- it is marked with the symbol used to denote the early hours past dusk-- a glyph representing a stag, drawn by hand with a quill some hours before.  "Good sir, come to the temple this evening for welcoming."  Her large eyes are a pale, sweet blue, and frail as she seems she's quite pretty.  "The hour of the stag, you and your companions as well."  She smiles faintly before turning her attention to the next wanderers along the sandy path.<br/><br/>The fuller-figured girl fixes eyes on Brogan, blushes faintly, then averts her eyes quickly.  "Akathos welcome you, bring light to you!  Tonight, the temple of Akathos, there on the hill at the hour of the stag..."  other travelers catch her eye, but there's a feeling that the prejudices of some mainland towns may not be known in the Kraken (or else they are overshadowed by the more... generous stereotypes?).<br/><br/>There are shanties in clusters here, some styles resembling the northern dwarves' lodges of criss-crossed timber carved ornately-- if in this case, a bit hurriedly-- into faces and roaring heads at every knob and outcrop.  There are longhouses, where the southerners have branched off triangle-shaped halls from a central fire pit where families can share common area.<br/><br/>And soon there are shops... where, perhaps, the permanent homes are expected to be.  Rows of tents, booths and carts lined with goods.  At the end is a stretch of frames, tall homes on high, stone foundations where the water won't flood them, their broad porches lined with benches and fluttering cloth shades like the proud banners of a joust, every color gaudy and bold.  There's the sound of a flute played in one, and a barking dog from elsewhere.  Crates are being banged about here and there, and there's the sound of catcalls from one-- its broad porch sits empty, the stout doors closed, but the slats are painted a bold, deep red... marking it clearly as a brothel.  On the upper porch, stretched out languidly as if to diffuse as much of the mid-day heat as possible, sits a half-naked couple of humans, their skin glistening with oil even in the porch's shade.  The man, tall and bald all over, looks at the group like a hawk watching a family of mice creeping from rock to rock, his long body bare but for crumpled drape over his pelvis as he poses on a carved settee.  The woman draws a lock of her luxuriously long blonde hair from her face where she sits before an easel, paintbrush in hand-- likewise, tall and lean, watches with the same half-pity, half-amusement at the passing new arrivals... the resemblance is uncanny, as if the two could be brother and sister.  Her bare back is visible to them, and she appears to wear only a short cotton chemise, her slender legs crossed in a ladylike fashion despite her brazen attire.<br/><br/>Further on sits the massive structure of a feasthall-- constructed from stone supports and with a roof made from the ribs and hull of a full galleon that was, we hope, disassembled and reassembled as a roof for this huge building that serves as the main tenant-lodging, tavern, and inn for the island.  There are family homes who let rooms as well, and perhaps for cheaper, but lacking a singular reference, it's as good a place to start as any.