Gilwyn Severyl, referred to, with some fondness, as Sev by his fellow crewmembers, stood hunched over the maps and navigational charts that were pinned to a folding table next to the wheel of the Wyndspire Falcon. His eyes followed lines of longitude and latitude, matching them with the compass and sextant attached to poles in front of him. He returned his hands to the wheel, confident that they were heading in the proper direction, the direction of Stormreach. Sev was a skilled enough helmsman and navigator, but on a journey as important as this, he had ceded the wheel to a veteran. He found himself only holding the ship on course in a peaceful lull of the journey, while the helmsman took a well-deserved rest in the crew’s quarters. 
	
	Sev whistled a shanty to himself, enjoying the sights of clouds close enough to touch, a sparkling and spanning blue ocean below, and the occasional bird tailing the ship in the hopes of obtaining some scraps. Given the chaos and tragedy of his life prior to his employ on the Falcon, he found himself at the most peace when aboard the vessel, which struck him as odd considering he was an ex Ranger, used to life in the wilds and forests of his homeland. He never expected himself to find peace as a sailor, (or would he be an aeronaut?). He enjoyed watching the crew and the passengers bustle about the deck from his perch at the helm and hearing the whip of the rudder and creak of the wood against the wind but underneath those sounds, Sev heard a rather foreign noise: The beating of wings. 

	The source wasn’t identified until nearly too late.  A massive stark white dragon soared from below, out of the cover of a cloud, the force of its wingbeat nearly capsizing the ship. Sev jerked the wheel to port, barely avoiding the whipping tail of the great beast. He corrected the wheel back to starboard, straightening the ship out again before maneuvering below the dragon, 

	“Dragon!” he called, “Dragon to port! Get below deck now! Crew, arm yours-“ his command was cut short by a bellowing roar, a blast of frozen air and a sudden powerful lurch which actually resulted in the ship capsizing and spiraling a relatively short distance to an island below. Sev’s last memory before blacking out was falling towards the dazzling blue surface. 

	He awoke to the face of a halfling man. Sev gathered his senses and observed a small group of other survivors around him, none of whom very familiar, and the bodies of all of his fellow crewmates strewn about him. After the halfling man finished speaking, Sev stood, brushed the sand from his clothes and set about rummaging through the wreckage, looking for his gear, which he found in a relatively short amount of time, finding his familiarity with the ship still useful, even if it was in two different pieces. He donned his gambeson and chainmail, belted on his sword and dagger, found a decent cloak with no holes in it and threw it over his shoulders, slung on his satchel, put his axe on his back, peeking over his left shoulder and his bow and quiver of arrows peeking over his right shoulder. Finally, he pulled on his woolen cap and gloves before returning to the small group of strangers. 

	“’Lo,” he said, rather sullenly, “Name’s Gilwyn Severyl but most people just call me Sev.”