Channel opens around Dallas like a black throat of water and rusted pilings. Fog drags low over the dock lane, and the skiff rocks loose at the slip, untethered and waiting. Behind him, bright headlights sweep nearer through the mist, bleaching the gate in hard white flashes.
Dallas Fontaine
The lane is boxed in. The boat is the cleanest exit.
Dallas steps to the skiff and checks the line one last time. Murderbone plants himself near the dock edge, ears up, watching the road and the shadows beyond the gate.
A shape breaks from the glare, a Harbor Clerk in a wet coat, palms out, moving fast but not running. He stops short when he sees Dallas, then flicks a glance at the approaching lights.
The Harbor Clerk
You need to go now. That gate is about to fill up with trouble.
The clerk points past the skiff, toward the channel mouth. Another engine hums somewhere out in the fog, low and patient. Murderbone growls once, deep in his chest.
Dallas keeps the evidence tucked close and the skiff ready. The headlights swell at the gate, and the whole dock seems to hold its breath.
“I board the skiff and push off. I use the open environment of the water and position any buildings or objects between me and the team”
SUCCESS (Legendary Agility, rolled -1)