Bringing supplies on land takes a few hours, even with all the crew helping; perched on rafters, posts and other surfaces, first one, then two, and quickly a difficult-to-count murder of black-eyed, white crows watches the proceedings, making no sound, not a feather stirring in the wind; by now, the snowfall has reached the ship and the small port, reducing visibility sharply. Nevertheless, you all feel watched by those unnerving birds. One of them circles the group, close enough to see and be seen, and although you notice the sailors with you recoil as if from some repulsive presence none of you feel, none of them swat at the crow or give any inidication they have noticed its presence. It caws, the sound sending shivers down your spine, circling each of the group, once, then flying off in the direction of the far side of port and village. Reaching the very edge of your vision, it finds a perch, lands, and peers at you.