The "Swiftmane" is two days out of Port o'Call, on her way to Abanasinia; the winds have been good, the seas calm, and the journey reasonably pleasant - or at least, as pleasant as any sea journey on a merchant ship is. The eastern horizon has been dark throughout these two days - but then, the storms from the east are known to be literal in Solamnia, as well as figurative.<br/><br/>The "Swiftmane" seems to be, as near as anyone can tell, a well-run ship. Rope not in use is neatly coiled, oiled and stashed out of the way of wind and weather. The mast sections are kept neat, without splinters or uneven surfaces; the sails also are carefully oiled and protected from the elements. Captain Svinsson is both Master and Commander of this ship, a stern man from northern Solamnia, his face looking almost as if sun, wind and the sea have cured it to leather. Tanned, blonde, about 40 years of age, he drives his officers and crew to hard work on the ship.<br/><br/>Below the deck, the air is thick; the hold is crammed full with wooden sections, much like a slave ship would be. The important difference is that all hatches are open as often as possible to ventilate the passenger area, and there are no manacles and chains in sight. Below the passenger deck, the "Swiftmane" carries a small amount of cargo, mostly food and water for the journey as well as whatever possessions of the passengers could be fit in. The livestock, such as it is, shares the passenger deck, contributing to the stench and stifling heat, despite the crisp coolness of the air outside. Sanitary facilities are limited to buckets or hanging over the railing - only the captain and the officers have anything resembling a toilet in their cabins - and that opens to the sea, dropping the refuse into the wake of the ship. Despite all this, those first two days, spirits are high on board.<br/><br/>On the third day, however, the mood of the crew turns, along with the weather. From the east, clouds move in; visibility in that direction decreases sharply, and the wind turns gusty and bitterly cold. A particularly eagle-eyed member of the crew is dispatched to the forecastle with spyglass and orders to see if there is any safe berth in sight; his report causes more muttering among the crewmen as well as the officers when he calls out there is land, several miles off to the southwest... but the shoreline looks like this is Crow's Nest. The name means little to the passengers, but the sailor's attitude towards that place speaks volumes. That is not fear of pirates or barbarians or hobgoblins on their faces. Their expressions tell of that nameless, superstitious fear of the supernatural, connected to the island out there.