Scenario #1 Planting the Flag
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Stren’s feet planted themselves into the sandy bog before the rowboat had even run itself aground. 

He was an experienced sailor, and he knew that the last person off the boat in hostile conditions, was often the first to die; hidden snipers were an extreme possibility, given the ruins’ hilltop position and the advantages it conveyed over the cove. 

“Ca’mon, ya sea whores,” he called back to the rest of the group; his voice was one better suited to a gravel roadway than a man’s vocal cords. “Tha’ cancil ain’t payin’ us by tha’ hour, eh?” 

His pistol was up and ready; he’d taken great care to keep it dry as he and the group had made their way ashore. The ocean was calm, for now, but one would be surprised by how wet they could get by pulling an oar. 

Looking up at the ruins, his eyes struggled to make out the vague silhouettes of low walls and battlements through the thick white of the fog. It was an oppressing sight, one that filled him with a slight inkling of dread; this was not a new feeling to him.

“Bloomin’ fog,” he cursed under his breath. “If it ain’t rain, it’s fog, ‘n’ if it ain’t fog, it’s a high tide, ‘n’ if it ain’t a high tide, it’s angry locals.” 

As if he had tempted Dreisdia herself, the invisible clouds above gave way to a light rain. He quickly stuffed his pistol back into his trench coat, careful to disarm the weapon as he did so. He’d known many a man to shoot themselves in such a way. 

“Let’s get this over with, eh?” he yelled, swishing through the salty sea water and shielding his eyes from the rain with a damp forearm. “Sooner we get to tha’ castle, sooner we can get dry, eh?”