The waves splash over the edge of the raft, tipping wildly back and forth as the dark-skinned man climbed up the crude mast. It was saved from complete capsizing by the merit of the improvised skeg, a long plank sticking down through the logs and into the water, keeping some measure of stability to the rocking craft. The man reached the second crosspiece, supporting the upper half of the billowing purple sail.
He stood on it, wrapping one stitched pant leg around the mast, and leaning forwards, shading his eye as he held onto the top of the mast with his other hand. He peered ahead, over the ocean, to the jungles of the crescent of land rising up from the horizon.
Below him, a dull crack alerted to something new going wrong with this mishmash of wood, and he slid down the ten feet of mast to the logs making up the surface of the mast, where his left pant leg hit the water making the tap of wood on wood, while his right foot made a slight splash of landing in the shallow seawater covering the bottom of the raft.
The man inspected the mast, and, noticing a crack running down the wood, decided not to lean too heavily on the slightly rotten pole.

His shift was supposed to end in only 25 minutes. The guard’s legs were sore, his arm was tired from holding this awful spear up all the time, and his helmet was hot and sweaty. And, off in the distance, some refugee or something was sailing on a mast. Just a mast, sticking out of the water.
He wondered how the refugee did that, and hoped that he would dock at one of the other docks, or take so long his shift was over. No such luck though, a gust of wind blew him strong and steadily in his direction. Blast.
In the back of his head, he vaguely wondered where the refugee was fleeing from, perhaps one of those pro-technology northern provinces, engaged in one of their eternal civil wars to bring Elven heresy to the magid lands. He glanced at the clock tower in the middle of town, the clockwork being just another sign of the technological leak that occurred regularly from being this close to an Elfish port.
The guard pondered what else could have brought the refugee here. He heard the nomads of the desert Jhaara were experiencing a drought right now. He snickered at his own private joke, then snapped to attention as he noticed the raft was 50 feet from the dock.
It kept speeding inwards, that strong breeze still blowing it straight for the dock. The refugee hung onto the top of the mast, occasionally glancing down at the bottom.
With a resounding crack, the mast hit the dock, and began to lean and topple over onto the dock, right at the guard. Taking a couple steps back, just in case, he wondered what the hell the refugee was doing on what was so obviously a floating deathtrap. Falling, he supposed.
The dark skinned man clung to the mast as it fell down onto the dock, letting go just before it would have crushed his fingers against the dock, and using the momentum, threw himself into a tight roll that burned off the energy from the fall, his mail shirt rustling like leaves in a breeze. The scimitars on his back and hip appeared to little affect his roll, as though he were well experienced with them, and moved with them almost like they were a part of him.
He finished in a kneel, and sat, breathing hard, while the dock guard, surprised and scared, held his spear in the refuge’s direction carefully.
“Hoo.” The dark skinned man sighed, getting on his feet. “Haven’t made a roll like that since my first mast broke down on me.” The man began to stride forward, then paused when he noticed the still outstretched spear. “Ooh. You’re new here aren’t you?”
“Who are you? What’s your purpose in the port of Rumtown?” the guard asked hurriedly.
“It is my full intention to rape your women, pillage your houses, sell your children into slavery and rule over anything left.” The man said, grinning as if such threats were commonplace.
“Why, you…” the guard said menacingly, preparing for a “Defensive” jab through the dark man’s skull.
“Hey, hey, I was just making a joke, ok dude?” the man said, holding his hands up non-threateningly. “I heard this place has the best rum of anywhere.”
The guard, realizing his joke, relaxed and lowered the spear a little. “Meh, it’s ok,” he said. “But you sailed here in that deathtrap,” he nodded to the raft. “For rum?”
“Man, I hear it’s really good.”