Morning light filters in through the eyes of the survivors of the wreck of the Sea Wyvern, waking them from their uncomfortable rest. The storm has finally subsided, leaving the air clean, if cloyingly hot and humid. As each castaway opens his or her eyes, they see a lonely beach, desolate save for the other survivors and odd pieces of wreackage. A few chests, a boat so badly beaten that it's clear it will never float again, and some odd pieces of wood, no doubt parts of the Sea Wyvern broken away and washed to shore.
Memories of those last furious moments fill everyone's mind. The crash of the ship hitting the rocks; being thrown to the deck and blacking out; coming to in the chaos of people rushing to the boats or jumping overboard; the smashing of the last throes of the storm making everything ten times as difficult. Even those who were in no danger of drowning were in real danger of being dashed to the rocks by the surf. The preparations for abandoning ship were helpful. But in the chaos of the wreck, even that could not save everyone. Some were flung overboard, likely to a watery grave. Others clung to broken spars in the water or worked like madmen to keep the boats upright. In the end, those that made it to shore collapsed from exhaustion, unable even to pull themselves into cover from the rain.
Now it is clearly hours later. The sky is clear and the surf is calm. Everyone is scattered across a long stretch of beach that meets up with jungle about forty feet inland. The Sea Wyvern lies about 200 feet offshore, tilting sideways on some visible rocks, protected by a sandbar from the worst of the surf, but clearly unseaworthy without major repairs, the likes of which those with skill know can't be accomplished with materials on hand. Like it or not, everyone is shipwrecked on the wrong side of the Isle of Dread, with miles of dangerous jungle between them and Farshore.
