"Why the hells are we out here again?" a crewman aboard the S.S Fwoosh shouted above the driving wind and rain, holding on for dear life as the fishing trawler pitched and sways beneath his feet.

Knuckles white on the helm, the captain strained to hear the crewman as he kept his ship on a straight course. "Need to get in one last haul before Hannibal freezes us out!"

The captain's words are drowned out in a lurching wave that crashes over the deck. Anchored in place by ropes, each seaman holds on for dear life as the boat fights the rising waves. Between them all lay nearly five hundred years of sailing experience but only a few had seen worse storms than this. Each man and woman held worry in their heart about the storm. Such violent displays of nature" wrath seldom came with good tidings for fishing trawlers like the Fwoosh.

Toward the port bow a pair of sea elves grasp each other" hands, praying righteously to every water dwelling god and spirit they could think of. Asking of each that should they not survive the storm, at least see their bodies delivered unto their loved ones ashore. At first the duo spoke softly, supporting the prayers of the other, but as the sounds of cracking wood, nets tearing, grew louder, so too did their prayers.

The captain spins the wheel vigorously to turn the ship into another oncoming wave that threatens to capsize the Fwoosh. At his side, Regis Storm-Caller, the ship" only mage stands resolute in the face of the storm. His robes and pouches completely soaked through but he remains undeterred as nimble fingers twiddle in the ways of magic. Regis's mouth is hidden by the shaggy coat of his graying beard as making it hard for him to pronounce the verbal catalysts of the summons that electrifies his tongue.

Breaching the highest wave yet, brings with it a calming of the seas. Chill to the bone, the crew of the S.S. Fwoosh wait with baited breath for the storm to resume. Clouds above remain black with the threat of looming torrential rain and thunder, yet the waves have died. The captain is the first to speak; his voice is ragged and strained from yelling into the wind.

"We hit the eye?" The crewmen in sight look to him in uncertainty, not wanting to jinx one another, as the minutes stretch together.

"No?" A powerful voice shatters the hushed silence of the broken storm. Regis looks upon the captain with fearful eyes. "Captain Unger, I felt'something, like a pall slip between me and the wind spell I have worked so many times?"

This would not be the first time Unger holds little idea of what the mage is speaking of, confusion written plain on his weathered features where he motions Regis to explain it again. "What pall?" The words are hoarse coming from a cracked throat.

"Like something-"

"Land!" Regis is cut off by the exultant cry of a seaman at the starboard side of the Fwoosh.

"Blocked my magic?" the mage whispers darkly to himself.

Storm-Call journal We've anchored for the night after drifting as close to the shallows as we could manage. This is our third evening stuck here upon the ship. The captain battles indecision about venturing on land and spends many hours locked in his quarters going over his maps again and again. I am starting to believe his assessment of our situation. This island should not be here, but where did it come from' I may have to go and investigate on my own.

Since we lost Aranthas when she went overboard, we have had two more come up missing. Both disappeared in the night. Captain has ordered us to lock our rooms and that I place protective warding over each portal at night. The loss of the twins is a blow to each of our morale as they were the most devout of us. But none have faded with the shadows of dawn since these measures have been put into place.

Part of me wonders if I should have shown Unger the wet foot prints I found going over the side of the ship on that second night. However I don't want to incite more fear than is all ready brewing among the others. The tracks started broad and webbed, but as they went further into the ship, towards the cabins, they grew smaller"almost feminine in size. I have never heard of this. Mermaids could be one thing, but this visitor was bipedal into and out of the water. Siahuagin perhaps" Sirens are not webbed, so they are out, and we haven't heard any songs.

Tonight I will stay up past curfew and venture onto the deck, see if I cannot confront these apparitions and get us away from the island.

"We've been on this cursed Isle for months now, Mage! And every day you say the same thing. With more time we'll see how to escape those harlots from hell. How many more of them must they take in the night before you give up the ghost and stop wasting time trying to locate the captain?" First Mate Bertram growls in frustration and fear as he looks upon Storm-Call in exasperation.

"More time...more time" the befuddle spell caster murmurs softly over his maps and crystals without looking up. His once lustrous hair is now a rats nest of dirt and grime as it clings to his weather beaten face.

Of the forty man crew to the S.S. Fwoosh only five still remain with the living. Emaciated and afraid the four sailors plus their ship-mage fight a losing battle with the amphibious guardians of the island. During the day they must remain in motion as the Furies send scouting parties to herd them to the falls where the women have a colony. At night the men sleep with mud and leaves stuffed into their ears to withstand the seductive song carried on the wind and rain, beckoning them to find water.