As the Frostskimmr headed out to sea with the Red Rocks behind them, high on the Sword Mountain Cliffs, burning braziers could be seen lighting the walls of the Dwarven Fortress of Thornhold. Soon, the gloom of the night took all reasonable view and the ship headed north-by-northwest into open waters.
Morning came with light rain and even lighter winds, with no sign of land in any direction and it took nearly all day, rowing against a backdrop of grey; grey skies on a grey sea, to find a strong wind again. Again, they sailed through the night, and yet again, come morning, the wind died and there was nothing to be seen but rolling sea and nothing to do but row.
By this time, everyone was basically competent at rowing. Everyone, that is, except for the Mordguard, who had learned nothing. The crew were increasingly dissatisfied with the odd, masked men. Their nature had not been discovered, but the crew believed them to be crazed zealots of a rare cult - which was possibly received worse than what they really were.
Loklafd overheard some crewmen grumbling about throwing them overboard (they were speaking the Reghed language, knowing that the guests would not understand) and he warned Mord to be wary.
To make matters worse for Mord, there was almost no privacy at all on the ship, and the Mordguard would revert to skeletal savagery without a control ritual. So each morning, he took his little entourage and crouched in a circle in the V of the bow deck. The story was that they were saying their morning "prayers" and they were given a wide berth, but everyone aboard could feel a vague sense of unease while he did it, and the crew wondered what sort of God they were praying to.
