Lead the way, morons.

Storm had found himself moving quickly and with effective silence, as the mayhem accompanying the siege of the small town led to no need for any sort of skillful espionage. He ran forward, moving down hand over hand from the large, rickety wooden ladder to the longboat below. He was forced to leap into the thing from a good eight feet, his eyes remaining cognizant of the wooden benches crosses the boat. Breaking an ankle would do him no good.

"Land loud enough? Fill from the front; edges shoot and middles row!" The brown toothed man-goblin ordering him barked, his mouth a wash of foulness and irrefutable stink. He was a nothing; the wizard moved forward in his silly pirate-like clothing.

Middle. Of course. Son of a whore.

The oars were nearly as rough as the seas, and despite his gloves the electromancer feared for splinters. They were a long way from lethal, but certainly no fun in any regard. Seated between two larger men, he pulled on the long wooden lever with reasonable force, watching hairy, dough stuffed arms race about him.

"Pick it up, small fry! If your skinny ass can't row, we don't need the weight!" The twenty-something scoundrel to his right snapped at him, obscenely large pit stains darkening the edges of his gray shirt in disgusting ovals.

"Don't worry about me; just keep your fat ass from having a heart attack on us." Veritas had calculated that a show of strength would be more in order to gain support than supplication; if push had come to shove the lithe wizard was a terrible person to meet on open water.

For his troubles, the larger man on the opposite oar said nothing, instead jostling Storm with passive aggressive rows as they pulled the thin vessel through the chop. On his left, it appeared the former Serenti Champion in hiding had found a friend; this particular scoundrel was impressed with the display of boldness.

"Don't worry about him. In a couple of hours, we'll be nuts deep in the brothel with heavier pockets. He's just nervous and scared." The whisper was clear beneath the ambient noise of cannon fire, as well as the loud splashes about him as the dock returned fire.

About them, the battle was beginning to rage. One ship had been struck with a shot to the bow, sending men either flying off the edges as smart cowards or sinking into crimson-trailed heaps as brave corpses. It was a terrible thing; perhaps worse yet was the sharks that would come soon to chase the scent of blood in the water.

We'll be long dry before the white-tips arrive.

Storm's eyes were fixed on the cannons; the perceived threat from the shore that were just rolled into place. They were mostly awful shots, but enough of even the most erratic throws was statistically bound to hit them. No sooner had this thought crossed his mind than did a single shot make its bearing straight for their little high speed rowboat. Calmly, with one hand still upon the oar, Storm gestured at the incoming projectile with a subtle flick of his wrist, seen by none who were all transfixed on death soaring for them. His electromagnetic pulse was enough to redirect the cannonball slightly higher, driving it off pace and sailing into the ocean behind him.

Three or four men had already decided their fates, jumping ship into the water. These pirates were instantly discarded as "cowards", as though the men rowing from the middle would be any more brave if positioned outside the vessel. In a savage display of uniform contempt, the remainder of men on the boat re-spaced themselves, filling in for the new found room as they rowed forward, out of distance from the men in the water, who gulped sea water as their clothes began to tug them down.

And if you can't swim... don't sign up to be a pirate.

The shore was creeping close with pace; the rowers whom had graduated as replacement shooters continued to scramble to provide cover as hell continued to rain down.