Morning dawned cold and crisp on the island, a far cry from Caerel's balmy sea breezes. There had been a minimum of talking after the camp took a turn for the tense, but Anara had made sure to bank the fire so that there was at least a little warmth in the morning. She'd spent the night wrapped up in the waterproof furs she'd brought, couched on a curl of Inirath's tail, and she was the first to wake. Inirath stayed sound asleep as she rose, stumbling over to her bags to dig out breakfast. 

She coaxed the fire back to life and started heating up some of the dry rations, using a dry-ish stone as a chair. As she waited for the others to wake, she let herself heave a sigh. She'd known this was going to be difficult—flying across the ocean, landing on islands no one had seen for a century, and somehow solving a change in the seasons—even without dissent within the ranks. Now, the problem of moving a flight of dragons across hundreds of miles of sea water seemed the least of her worries.