Stone spots the ferry early on. The light across the water catches his attention, and though everything around it is dark, he does have excellent distance vision. That's about the only kind of vision he can manage, and usually it's useless in a place this dark, but the ferry is kind of obvious.

So he shifts up into his winged form-- seventy-foot wingspan, ghostly colorless scales, a mane of spines and flexible frills around his head and down his back; to most, the first descriptor to come up will probably be "dragon"-- and glides across the water towards the boat. He circles once, then shifts mid-drop to land in his mostly-human-looking form on the deck. Good thing he's had a lot of practice shifting mid-landing and, thus, not capsizing boats of various kinds.

"Anybody need a lift to shore?" he asks cheerfully, a tall and gangly old man with no color at all to his skin and hair, bright blue eyes even if one is pretty clearly blind, no shoes, and who a moment ago had been a dragon, or something like.

Once all the people get off, one way or another, Stone sets about flying supplies back and forth from the ferry to shore. It's easy flying, the boxes and barrels and bags not really that heavy to something the size of a small house, but he still has to wind up stopping on the shore and deck of the ferry to catch his breath every trip or so. "I hate being old," he growls, mostly to himself, but readily audible to anybody nearby.