First there are the cries of sea birds, first showing at mid-day.  The eager crewmen, those with leave from their chores, emerge from below decks with casting nets-- far too light to be used for fish, these nets have not been seen before this leg of the journey, and a group of four men climb the mast with a gunnysack tied to one's waist-- that sack bulges oddly, and they quickly spill its contents in the crow's nest-- knives are out, and any watching can make out that they are splitting open pomegranates, hoisting their contents in a wet, violet heap along any horizontal surface they can find.  The juice stains the wood violet, and then the men wait, patient and quiet.<br/><br/>It isn't long before the small birds-- bats, perhaps, their flight paths too jagged to be gulls or terns-- begin to swarm near the mast, and one of the men casts the light net out to snare them.  They repeat this for almost an hour, a particularly good cast eliciting an encouraging huzzah from the rough-skinned men who work their sails, swab the deck, and Captain Palix-- a hulking half-orc with one visible tust etched in what may be gold filigree-- cracks a smile and emits a laugh from time to time, the sound like tumbling boulders from a face that, if it smiled before today, would surprise any of the ship's passengers at the first such occasion.<br/><br/>A fire is built in a bronze pit on the fore-deck, one lass' job-- apparently, his only job, as the waifish youth looks too addled for much else-- is to hunker nearby with a bucket and swab, keeping the deck around it saturated wet with seawater.  If questioned, she'll explain-- "look, it ain't likely, but a fire at sea is bloody murderous, yeah?  You don't want me slackin' on the job today" the tow-headed girl would explain, working the mop with her wiry arm and bulging knuckles like some demented gnome.<br/><br/>When the men make their way below, they are passing around sharp bamboo skewers-- from the sack, they pull tiny reptiles like winged salamanders, which they skewer alive one-by-one and rest on the iron grill to flap out their last as they cook.  The sight may be repulsive, but the aroma of dry pinewood smoke and sizzling, salty-skinned meat is... well... gorgeous.<br/><br/>"Oy, you lads back off now--" they cry, calling up the ship's guests first-- as well as you all, there are a dozen other men and women whose garment betrays them as more than working sailors... a heavyset man with shoulders like hamhocks steps up first, his sun-browned cheeks and black, smooth beard gleaming with fresh wash and scented oils.  "Ladies first," he says, patting the pommel of his great scimitar-- a blade that he has never drawn on board, but has-- from its notches-- seen much use.  "You there, gray lady--" he calls to one of the acolytes of the Green Order, whose purpose is rumored to be the instruction of liturgy and grammar, and whose stern gaze betrays years beyond what might almost be lovely youth, other than her smoke-gray hair, "If you have never tried fresh roast Kinziti, please allow me to offer you first."<br/><br/>She smiles politely, accepting the skewer gingerly in her fingers as all the men watch with anticipation at what, perhaps, is the high-point of their journey thusfar... well, the high-point for those not lucky enough to afford 'comfort' below decks.  The acolyte smiles politely, aware of the spectacle, and nods amiably.  "Well enough, Lord Alrasha," she says clearly, "But it won't be my first."  There's a bellow of good humored laughter at that, and she takes a fierce bite of the thing's torso-- eating the fine, crystalline bones without fear.  "Yours is better than<em>some </em>I've known, sir."<br/><br/>The ship will dock after nightfall... you have long moments among those who languish on-deck, eager for solid ground, the anticipation of the strange isle as the sun sets.  The thundering shores are, at times, merciful.  Even beautiful.  And it is this way, after weeks under sail, that you find it-- glittering like jewels on coalbed, winking lanterns and torches against a full sky of stars-- the hulking shoulders of a great mountain silhouetted against that myriad like a waiting, patient giant, its unmoving head watching the glorious sails billow into its harbor by moonlight.