<em>Master Gemgilt pulled at his short beard with thought. The skiff began turning and he heard the skipper shout orders. The shoals weren't especially treacherous but they could hold up the skiff, punch a hole in the bottom, or worse yet break some of the kegs of beer and wine. There was more than profit on the line for him. The meritocracy that most gnomes lived by demanded he finish this paper on practical trade economics and minimum risk management statistics. <br/><br/>There was also the money.<br/><br/>Gemgilt approached his skipper.<em> "How far out are we?" <em>He asked</em>. <br/><br/><em>The skipper looked up,</em> "We're about ten leagues out so a quarter bell and a ten." The skipper crossed his arms, he was a full merman his gills sucking in air as he stood.</em> <br/><br/><em>Gemgilt, walked to the small cadre of muscle,</em> "Skipper says half an hour give or take, get your gear together, one of you is probably gonna stay with the skiff." <em>He cast his eyes to the halfling.</em>. </em>