Closed to Rayleigh
Salt air licked at the sandy shore where the small ship dared to weigh anchor. Mid-morning light filtered through the perpetually slate colored clouds that shaded Alerar, the product of five lifetimes worth of factory smoke polluting the skies.

"Keep the broadsides prepped," Tobias warned, "and have Marley man the larboard swivel. If anything looks dangerous, fire at will." The grim youth made for the longboat, hands swiftly assessed his kit. At his right hip, a shortsword hung limp outside his thick, black garb. Twin long knives crossed the small of his back. "No one is to follow until I give the signal."

"If we fire at you, we don't have a whole lot of discretion," came the uncertain response.

"I'll manage," the rogue slurred. "Just don't fire unless something actually is the matter. I don't like dancing for big cannons, Alan."

"Aye, sir." The first mate made for the helm and took his place. His face was a mask of contempt. Tobias glanced back at the man with a smirk, but hid his laughter. That could come later.

The boat sank toward the inky ocean and dipped in with a low slurp. Tiny waves battered the small rowboat to and fro, and as Tobi took the oars, it creaked into motion.

"I hate shore patrol," he muttered as his arms pulled, and the distance closed. The shore became a larger stain of off white behind him, while the Rum Runner became more of a speck each time he rowed. "There's not even going to be anything to report." He sighed, "there never is anything to report."

When the longboat kissed the shore, Tobias hopped into the ankle high water and tugged the vessel further inland. "Move fast," he reminded himself, "even if nothing can see you, you can't afford to be seen."

The wood matched the sand, just barely, aged paint intended the color of sand offering camouflage to his avenue of escape. When he dropped the bow, he took a moment to look around.

As suspected. "For miles," he groaned. "Not a bloody thing for miles but sand."