"Land hoooooooo!" The sudden call of your watchbeast rings out across the ship, traveling to nearly every room there is on deck, belowdeck, and amidships. You rush outside, eyes open wide with excitement, anticipation emphasized with every movement you make. You look up to the crow's nest, where a stout mouse is perched, the lookout of your crew. He is pointing enthusiastically forward, pracitally jumping up and down in his precariously high position. You look to where he is pointing, rushing to the prow of your ship...

"Yes, land, land!" you excitedly shout, bouncing happily on the timbers of the ship's deck. Your heartbeat races, thinking about what this new area will be like, what you will find there, what sorts of delicacies the inhabitants make. Just the very thought of it makes your mouth water. Dashing to the ship's wheel, you clap the steersbeast, a lanky otter, on the back and roar with laughter. "Well, mate, there's land right there. Steer for all you're worth now, right for that little place!" The otter nods vigorously, then places his gaze upon the growing island ahead. Hurriedly, you give orders to flare the sails out fully, then all the available crew, you send down to the oars. The oars dip into the wwater as your beasts, including yourself, push and heave upon the heavy timbers, propelling the ship along the way. Everybeast's eyes are glimmering in excitement, wanting to be the first one on sweet, dry land. And so, you shove on.

The port is right alongside the starboard side of your ship. The sun is just setting, painting the sky and the waters kissing the horizon with a vibrant array of pastel. Your crew scramble ashore onto the deck; you follow last, not wanting to be stepped on in any way as the assortment of ten crewbeasts wander onto the port. You smile to yourself, eyes searching everywhere, and not fruitlessly. In front of you, you see a lush island, with a river flowing to your left, and in the distance, a lake at your right. As you stride across the pier, pushing past some of the slower of your crewmates, you are suddenly confronted by a stout female mole.

She swaggers up a few paces until she can see you clearly. Then, with a slight flourish, she bows her velvety head. "Burr mate," she says, "are ee friend, h'or foe?" She lifts her head up, a twinkle in her eye and a smile so wide that it almost went to her ears.

You chuckle and bow low. "Of course, mate, we are friends of the highest degree." Once you get back up in your former position, the mole grabs your paw and drags you with her. In hers -- and your -- wake, the crew of your ship scrambles along.