The Uprising

Kester

Kester watched Videl scale the shelves in approval. Machavell's attention was fixed on her. Kester glanced at her and she flicked a gaze back towards them. His face betrayed no emotion as she continued to climb.

I can't figure out what she is planning, he thought. Sometimes I feel suspicious of her, but then I see something which makes me want to change my mind. I need to find out more about her before I make any decisions. And it looks like the three of us will be together for a while.

Kester glanced around the room at the other two and saw a knife on a nearby shelf. He leaned against it and concealed the knife in his clothing. None of the others even looked at him.

He fingered the weapon in his pocket. It felt alien to him, even though it hadn't been so long since his last chance to wield one. Maybe I'll kill again tonight, he thought with a slight smile.

Videl jumped down to the ground again. She pulled her shirt off, exposing her back. Kester's eyes were drawn to it. It was a horrific map of pain. He traced the patterns of the scars with his gaze, his expression not betraying anything.

She turned back towards them after she put her clothes back on. "You boys ready?" she asked, staring at Kester and Machavell. They nodded and walked from the room. Videl followed them.

The sounds of drinking and loud laughter came from all around the ship. Kester glanced about as they approached the cabin, making sure that there were no slavers nearby. He saw a few slaves about the ship, but no one else. Not slaves for long, Kester thought.

"So, Mach - you mind if I call you that, Mach?- where're we headed?"

Machavell pointed towards a marked door. Videl didn't say another word as they approached it.

Kester turned towards her. "How did you get the scars on your back?"

She turned her cool gaze on him. "I've been through a lot, Blondie. There's been more pain than you could imagine."

"It's Kester," he said. She nodded and the conversation halted as they came to the door. The three of them stopped outside of it. "Do we have a plan?" Kester asked.

"If we want to survive, we need the navigational equipment and a few other things from the captain's cabin," Machavell said, turning to look at the two of them.

Kester stayed silent. "All right," Videl said. "We'll get it, then. Sooner rather than later." Holding her katana in one hand, she moved forward and pushed the door open.

Videl Vane Va'Teir

Kester. Nice name. Videl followed the men quietly, trying to keep her mind off the irking question. Nobody wouldn't ask about her scars if they saw them. Everyone asked.

"Do we have a plan?" Kester asked quietly, his hand running over his pocket, tracing the outline of the knife he had stored in there.

"If we want to survive, we need the navigational equipment and a few other things from the captain's cabin," Machavell said, turning to look at the two of them. Videl averted her gaze for once, letting him know he was leader, something he obviously approved of with the small grunt he made.

"All right, we'll get it, then. Sooner rather than later." Videl said as she unsheathed her katana. She pushed the door open quietly, but that didn't matter. Inside the captain wasn't the only thing there. A small brigade of drunken soldiers with dice in hand turned to the group of three, snarling and barking out curses. Videl cursed herself. "Run."

"What?!" Machavell growled, looking at her. Videl turned.

"I said run, you fool!"

Shirin Bedros

Shirin flushed hotly as the crewman who had let them go turned his eyes to her. "You have a very pretty shadow, Bob, my man. Some day, you will have to show me the trick of it," he said, smirking. He was handsome--that was reason enough to distrust him. And he was a traitor, obviously, and one who betrays will betray again. His attentions only cemented her ill opinion of him.

Dijon turned to her then, seeming surprised to find her close by. “It’s not safe out here, girl. Best you go back to the hold.”

The hold? The airless hold with the vomit and the pestilence and the ever-lingering threat of imprisonment? "No. Never that," she said, her whisper so forced it was almost hissed.

The dark man hesitated, fingering his weapons thoughtfully. “Fine," he said after a moment. "Have it your way then. Be careful and stay out of the reach of my blade.”

One would hope I'd the sense to avoid a sharpened blade, she thought, jaw setting. Still, she tagged along close behind Dijon, eyeing the other freed prisoners. They didn't seem to know what to do with their freedom, and she didn't blame them. She wondered briefly if the gargoyle could fly away--if he was strong enough to last until land. If she had wings, she would be gone by now.

Something nagged at the back of her mind as she watched her shipmates from Dijon's long shadow. Her brow furrowed; where were the plotters? They hadn't escaped her notice in the hold--how could they, they were so loud?--but they escaped her notice here. Because they weren't here. A shiver of foreboding made her twitch.

Shirin reached out and touched Dijon's strong arm, his skin warm underneath her small, cool hands. "Dijon," she whispered, too quietly for anyone else to hear. "Dijon, where have they gone, the half-elf and her companions?"

Galea

She moved with the group trailing behind Bo—Dijon, silent relief coming with being a part of the group rather than the focus of attention outside of it. She still felt the last residue left on her skin from the stares, a cold, tickling itch that crawled up and down her back and arms, thrilling up and down just beneath her skin until it faded away. She had always associated the feeling with the very things her collar blocked out.

She stumbled mid-step as she remembered the collar, and the crawling beneath her skin quickly turned from nervous relief to gnawing irritation. She made a sound at the back of her throat and felt around it, trying to dig her fingers between it and her neck, to find a weak point in it. She was going to go mad if she didn’t get it off. The world was blank to her, the people almost empty. Something so innate should never be locked away from its owner. Dulled, perhaps, but never blocked.

A sting halted her hands. After a frozen moment, she dropped one – a fist—to her side, and uncurled the fingers on the other enough to press the tip of one to the tiny cut she had made with her nail. She needed to calm down. It’d do her no good if she killed herself in trying to get free. She pulled away the finger after a moment and brushed it against the collar. She would get it off. Eventually, she would lose it, and the world would become real and open to her again. At the moment, it was closed, separated, not really there. At the moment, she was getting what she had wished for on the days when she had received migraines from the crowds of people coming to see her.

For the moment, she would manage.

Air.

Dijon moved through the door to the deck, the trailing parade of slaves quickly scrambling to join him in the clean, fresh space. She let the air wash over her like water, tilting her head to look at the sky for the first time in weeks as the cool breeze tickled her arms.

“Bob! Glad to see you made it.”

She stood still a moment, registering the voice and the stillness of the other slaves, before opening her eyes and looking cautiously and calmly for the source. Mr. Average was still playing, it seemed. But he would be, wouldn’t he? Perhaps not in such clear view of them, but always playing. You couldn’t give slaves keys to their shackles in their food and decide to bail out. She didn’t see him, but being in the middle of a crowd of people several feet taller than her more than likely did nothing to help. She stepped around some of them for a few steps until she had a somewhat clear view of Mr. Average and Dijon.

She listened to the exchange, keeping her eyes on the average slaver with a crooked grin as she did. Travelers weren’t a common thing in her town, but they weren’t particularly rare, either. She had always wondered at the suspicion they were treated with, particularly those of the tall variety. If Deaven, Machavell, and Average were any examples, she was beginning to see why. Adventurous life agreed with her not a bit.

Absent mindedly, she fingered her pouches. She had seen them tossed in a corner with a pile of similar rags when she had been poking around the weapon room. They were empty but for a couple of scoops of black, round rocks she had seen in a box. They weren’t arrows, and she felt rather pathetic that they were the best defense –or offence, for that matter – she had. She had a lsingshot, and a ‘dagger’ the length of her forearm tucked between her belt and hip, but what she was going to do with that, she had no idea. Perhaps the sight of a Halfling wielding a knife the size of her arm would be enough to kill them from laughter.

She frowned at herself. Her thoughts didn’t tend to run that way, and yet, for the past week or so, she had been endlessly sarcastic with herself. She thought a moment and shrugged. Either the rocks were more than just rocks, or they were the pitiful back up plan for if something went wrong and the guards had to resort to over-sized child weapons. Slaves escaping their cells and robbing the armory, for example. She took a breath as Dijon walked around the corner, Shirin following close behind. That left them with Mr. Average. His presence was intriguing, but far from comforting. The crawling came back and she struggled to push it down. It faded, but not before it could swim up her back and tickle her skull with numb fingers. She shivered, but not from the cold. She needed to get the damned collar off before she did something stupid.

Something stupid.

She frowned and looked around for Deaven. It was unlike him to remain docile so long. She was half surprised he hadn’t already strode up to the man, shaken his hand, and demanded to know what was going on. She dropped the question half way through her scan. If he had gotten lost somewhere between the cell and the deck, so be it. It was one less problem likely to happen.

That thought was only comforting for a moment, however, as she calculated the level of damage he could do without their knowledge and supervision. She hastily resumed her scan and frowned. There were people missing. She did a mental check up of the faces and understanding clicked. Not complete understanding, but basic enough that she didn’t pursue the avenue of thought further. At the moment, she needed to confirm that Deaven was, in fact, with their group. She’d rather have him charge a guard in front of them than below or behind them. At least they could prepare if they knew what was coming.

Deaven:

He had got a cutlass from one of the dead slavers. He saw Galea looking around. “What are you looking for?”
Galea looked at him in relive, then she saw his red sword. “You.” She answered.
“You’ve been killing I see.”
Deaven shrugged, then urged her to follow him.

He was now in the whipping area, looking at the slaver who had whipped him so many times.

“Hello,” Deaven smirked. The slaver looked at him horror on his face, he took hold of his whip, but Deaven was faster. He ran the sword through the slavers throat. ”I told you I would kill you someday.” He pulled the sword out. The slaver fell to the ground, spitting out blood. This was one of the things that Deaven was good at.
Now what he needed was to find the storage for all the food. Galea was behind him, he urged her to follow.

“You don’t seem to have too much mercy?”

Deaven smiled “Mercy? For them? I’ll kill anyone of them who comes my way.”

“You didn’t kill our mysterious helper.”

“I don’t kill people who have helped me.” He said simply.

“Fair enough.” She looked at the body but soon pulled her head away, the man was still alive. “Where next?” She asked. Deaven was already looking for something.
Deaven lifted his head “We need to find the food storages.”

Galea looked around her. She saw a trapdoor close to Deaven.
“Is it that?” She asked. Deaven looked at what she pointed at.

He opened the trapdoor and jumped in. Oh gods! He thought.
What he saw could keep them alive for a fair amount of time. “Galea! I need something to write on.”
Galea went away but soon came back with a piece of paper.

“Where’d you get this?”

“From the guard you just killed.” Deaven just nodded. “What are you going to write with?”

“Blood.”

Deaven listed everything that he saw under there.

Cheese, one goat, one dam, and a few little goats and doelings. one lam, twenty barrels of ale, ten barrels of rum and five barrels of beer.
The slavers sure liked alcohol. A few boxes of sugar, there was even salt, which was very expensive but the slavers still had three full boxes of it! There were two pigs and three piglets.
A few stocks of hay. Fresh water was everywhere. Also bread was everywhere. Some fruits (which were getting old.) Medicine, fish, and many other items.

As Deaven went deeper he found the stocks of weapons.

He listed them too. Then he got out.
“Where to now?” Galea asked

Deaven thought about it. “I hate to say it but either “the man” or Machavel.”

“Do you know where Machavel is?”

“I saw him going to the captains cabin. But I hardly thing that he will fight. It doesn’t fit his style.”

“Will you go and fight?”

“Of course. When we get there, give the list to Machavel. I’ll get a few other slaves to help us in the raid.”

Galea

“Will you go and fight?” she asked.

“Of course.” He said, not a bit of doubt in his tone. He held the paper out to her. “When we get there, give the list to Machavel. I’ll get a few other slaves to help us in the raid.”


She stared at his hand a moment before unfolding one of her arms and taking it.

“I’d not do that.” She said as he was beginning to turn away. He looked back, curious. She put her arm back in its crossed position and looked up at his face. “Just because Mr. Average gave us the key doesn’t mean he’s… I’d not trust him more than the situation calls for. And,” she said as he was beginning to open his mouth to reply, “Even if he is for our side, he’s a traitor. I think we’d have seen or heard of another if there was another player in this game. I’m not one for risking my life on the chance that one of the men that cuffed our wrists, tied our necks, and stuffed us in a cage with our own puke might be willing to help us.”

He shrugged. She had made her point, she knew. He was probably still thinking their odds better if he could convince a few of the slavers to switch sides, but for her, it was enough that he dropped the idea of acting on such thoughts.

“Fine then. We can just go on to Machavell. Quicker that way, anyway,” he shrugged, again turning away to examine the shelf. Her face twisted into a scowl.

No big deal, they can just go on our way to fight with a guy constantly on the rag who’d sooner bite their heads off than welcome the sight of them. And she couldn’t even fight more than the average cat-fight style common to all people, if she was lucky enough to remember how to fight like that. Nothing big.

“No. We will not go to Machavell.”

He turned to her again, surprised more by her tone than her words.

“Are you okay?” he asked, taking a step closer to her.

She scowled and slapped his list to his chest. “Your head’s not. What makes you think Machavell would want you with him? He slipped out silently so that people wouldn’t follow him.” Deaven started to respond, but she tossed out her arms. “What makes you think I’m willing to fight at all, eh? I shoot targets. With an arrow. At a long range. I don’t do hand-to-hand, and I’m getting tired of you bringing up everything like it’s an opportunity to fight.”

He was silent while she paced to the opposite wall and back, watching her warily. She stopped half way between the wall and Deaven, arms crossed, head down and eyes closed.

What’s wrong with you?

She sighed, a shaky gust of air escaping from her lungs. She half-mumbled an apology his way before walking to the trap door he had climbed down minutes before.

“Where’re you going?” he asked, suspicion tinting his tone. Still kicking herself and mulling over her outburst, she didn’t immediately respond, so he asked again. “Galea?”

“I’m getting food, and then I’m going back to the deck.”

A few moments of poking around led to the discovery of dried and salted meat and cheese. She stuffed her remaining pouches, cleanness be damned, and took whatever her mouth and hands could carry up with her once the bags were full. At some point, Deaven had snuck below with her and had followed her hoarding example, swallowing food almost as fast as he picked it up.

After a while, he rejoined her, and they ate, quickly chewing and swallowing, suddenly paranoid of guards bursting in and ending their first real meal in weeks before they could finish. Or she was, anyway. Deaven might have just been starving.

She swallowed a good portion of meat and cheese before she stopped, ignoring the continuous cramp in her stomach. She had probably already gone to far in how much she had eaten, and she would pay for it later. But at least she was full, and had eaten something edible.

She dusted the invisible crumbs off her hands and made her way to the door, looking back once to see if Deaven was going to follow her or—

The door in front of her opened and a pair of very drunk slavers stumbled in.

Gods are cruel, she noted as she dodged to the side. The first more or less fell into the room, the second almost tripping over him. Deaven was on them both in a heartbeat, leaving a nice, bloody mess in his wake. She looked at him while he wiped his blade on his victim’s shirt.

“We couldn’t have let them go afte—”

“I know.” she said quietly, her mind more composed now that she had been fed. There was still the everlasting tingle squirming through her skin, but it was non-existent at the moment. There was a pause, then, “We’ll need to get rid of them. And perhaps we should try to avoid killing more of them than we need to. We need them for the ship.”

“I already told you that I co-”

“Knowledge is part of it, power is another. You can’t do all the jobs on your own. Now help me out here.” She said, stepping away from the wall and grabbing one of the guards’ foot.

Ballow


Ballow glanced at Lissa, Ellias and the others, "Do you know when the other's will be getting back?"

Lissa ignored him, while Ellias shook his head. Ballow sighed and an idea popped into his head, "You guys wanna try to see if we can find a key or somehting to get these magic preventation collars off?"

This sparked an interested look in most of their eyes and Ballow grinnned inwardly, Finally something I can do.

"Who's willing to come?" he asked. Some of the random slaves put thier hand sup and Ballow glanced at Lissa.

He knew she wouldn't want to come with him, but the magic that her race had was going to very benefactory if she got to use her magic, but the state her mind was in was comprimising.

He let out a breath of air as he gazed at her, she still refused to look at him so he tapped her on the shoulder, she turned at him wildly and he took a step backward in a flinching response.

"You willing to come?" he asked cautiously, fully aware that she would most very likely just ignore him and shrug him off coldly.

Before she could answer he turned to Ellias, "You up for it?"

He nodded and Ballow smiled - it was a spine tingling smile and some of the slaves who had wanted to go before really didn't want to anymore.

Lissa glanced at him shrewdly and he all, but knew her answer. He closed one eye ready to wince away from her respone, but was shocked at he reply, "I am willing to go with to find a way to ge these annoying contraptions off our necks."

Ballow stared at her in surprise shocked into a statue like frozen state. He couldn't help but notice that she had dodged saying going with him.

Galea

She managed to move the body an inch when she launched herself backwards, pushing her weight into the pull. An inch. After a great deal of tugging and shoving, she managed a few more. Deaven, meanwhile, was dragging his own dead guy through the door. He gave the occasional grunt, his guard not being a small man, but at least he was going somewhere.

She dropped her guy’s arm and put her hands on her hips. Not working. She exhaled, blowing her hair from her face, and moved to his side, resigned to simply roll the guy out to the sea. She had just given the guy a shove to place him at the doorway when Deaven returned. He looked at the body a moment, then at her, crouched on the floor next to it, before raising an eyebrow.

“Need help?”

She stood away from the body in response, more than content to let Deaven handle the transportation. But not alone. She walked beside him as he dragged the body, trying to hear past the scrathing sound the body made against the floor, intent on hearing the guards before she saw them.

“You could have… stayed behind, gotten the other body to the door for me.” He said, heaving the body over the ship’s edge. She winced at the splash, but mentally shrugged at his remark.

“You think I’m leaving you alone?” she asked as they sprinted back to the kitchen. Fresh, cool air was only welcome until you stopped feeling your hands. She flexed them experimentally. Completely numb and turning red. She quickly sighed and dove through the door, Deaven not far behind. The last body was the easiest, and thus the quickest to dispose of. They watched the body fall, then watched a moment more as the water swirled by them.

Shivering, Galea made her way down the deck.

“Where’re you going?” Deaven called. She didn’t stop, didn’t look behind her, trusting that he would sprint to catch up to her. He did, but her face was too cold to smirk.

“Deck. Told you.”

He stopped a moment, but when she continued, he was back at her side.

“Are you okay?” he asked for the second time. She gave a quick, jerking nod and continued.

He tried again.

“In the kitchen, you… it wasn’t like you.” when she didn’t respond, “What’ up?”

She glanced up at him but quickly turned her eyes ahead.

“I was a grumpy slave who needed food. I got food. Now I’m a grumpy slave walking with a man who’d blow up the ship in the middle of the ocean if it meant getting us free.”

He didn’t respond, and when she looked up, he was staring at her.

“A hole in the wall is hardly blowing up the ship, if that’s what you’re referring to.”

She exhaled again, her breath briefly fogging her view.

“It’s not.”

They were silent the rest of the way back. The group was still there, shivering. She stopped.

“What?” Deaven.

“We’re going to freeze to death.” She grumbled, walking the rest of the way to the group, now huddled together.

He balked at her. “It’s hardly that cold!”

She shot him a glare that closed his mouth before she squeezed herself into the huddle. “It is when your blood’s made for hot weather.” She said before disappearing into the group.

Eamon D'Arnise

"Yeah, you might want to reconsider that course of action, mate," he said to Ballow as the half-demon turned to the stairwell once more. Ballow turned to regard him with a raised eyebrow.

"Got something to say, little man?" he growled.

"Always," Eamon replied with his ever-present grin. "It's up to you to listen or not."

Ballow turned to face him completely. "I'm listening," he told the slaver, who nodded slightly.

"Good. Because there's no way in the Nine Hells--no offense--that you're going to get those collars off."

Ballow narrowed his eyes, but Lissa beat him to it. "And you know this, because..."

"Because if there was, I would have provided it for you. It would be rather foolish of me to release you and not give you the means to escape." Eamon's tone was no longer amused--if anything, he sounded frustrated. "In actuality, I'm astounded that you've managed to remain undetected for this long. The fools must be more drunk than I anticipated, luckily for you. I highly recommend you get in there and attack now, before--"

The door to the mess hall swung open, revealing a rosie-cheeked and glazy-eyed Mister Brent. "Hey now, what's goin' out--by the gods, they're loose," he said, blinking multiple times. He glared at Eamon. "You! I knew it! You did--" Eamon sighed and shook his head, puckering his lips into a once-more amused pout.

"--Before they know you're not in chains." With that, Brent yelled into the mess hall, drew his cutlass, and rushed toward Ballow.

Dijon.

“This will be a test of your mettle, Chuckles. Let’s just hope you weren’t sloppy.” Dijon turned, smirking. A smirk that very quickly vanished as he saw the man wasn’t even there. He swore. Damn his slippery hide! He turned to Shirin.

“Did you see him go?” he demanded.

She nodded, eyes wide.

He swore again. “Next time, I could really use such information.” He sighed and decided to pick up the pace. Dijon was decidedly uneasy leaving Chuckles unwatched, not to mention the other dozen incompetent, impetuous and down right dangerous individuals he’d left alone. The seas were calm, the wind steady and Dijon quickly checked the circumference of the ship; vast though it was. It was silent, but for the faint murmur of the slavers celebration. He thought on that for a moment – what were they celebrating? So far as he could see, there was nothing to warrant it, no victory, no landing. The only other reason to throw such a feast, he was well aware, was to boost morale.

So.

Chuckles was far more deceptive than previously thought. As yet, an allegation only, but he was certain of it. Once his motives were known, some semblance of trust could be established. As his shamans said, better the djinn you know. His thoughts fragmented, scattered by the growing noise – the murmur had built into a distant roar. They’d been discovered. He cursed, foully.

“What is it?” Shirin cried.

“Stay here!”

Dijon flowed into swift motion, loping across the boards. They’d nearly come full circle anyway, past the masts and triple-tiered afterdeck. As he rounded the corner, Dijon saw a wave of slavers, bleary eyed and staggering, herding most of the slaves into a distant corner – the one he’d started from. They were dragging a limp, white haired figure and another, uniformed slaver. Where was Chuckles? The sly devil was no doubt among the slavers once more, just another friend to their addled senses. They were laughing and congratulating one another loudly.

“Get the tankards, would ya! This wa’n wor’ comin’ out for; good drink is a-wastin’!” One yelled out loudly, to the merriment of the others. They had been feasting in the mess hall then – Dijon thought, piecing it together -- someone had stumbled upon the group and quickly engaged the djinn-boy. Before being taken out, he’d managed to alert the guard and the rest had been swamped.

“We oughta teach these dogs a lesson! Interrupt our meal, will ya?”

There was a roar; behind them, framed in the doorway, stood a silent silhouette.

Ears pressed to the wood he was leaning against, Dijon heard a commotion from inside. Chairs scraped, guttural voices cursed and over this a light, familiar tone.

“Run!”

The elf, Machavell and the blonde boy were indeed running. He saw them scramble to a halt, comically altering their route as they saw the guards ahead. From a nearby manhole, the Halfling and the Fool were just exiting in time to catch sight of the events unfolding around them. As one, they all descended into it and out of sight. Only one slaver followed them and rather than reassuring Dijon, this alarmed him more than anything else. It meant he was confident. Deadly. And not nearly as incapacitated as he would have liked.

Only two others had exited the Captain’s Cabin. One was massive, almost of a size to match his own; twin tusks jutted out of his monstrous face and a decidedly malicious looking axe was held in one arm. Ah, so the weapon he carried must be this brute’s spare. The man next to him was slight and thin, his weapon of choice a rapier. His stance was fluid and he would move, Dijon could tell, with the grace of a dancer. He, then, would be the most the vicious and pressing problem. Dijon wouldn’t be able to counter his speed. For now, they did nothing but watch the scene.

Decision made with swift calculation, Dijon swept forward, axe whistling through the air. It gave enough warning for the man to turn and watch his death descend; his eyes widened even as the axe bit deep into his face and cleaved through his skull. Blood and brain sprayed out, coating Dijon and the massive beast. It roared, stumbling back in surprise. Taking advantage of his surprise and momentum, Dijon carried through with his sweep, reversing it high above his head and swinging it down.

The tusked beast brought its own axe to bear, and the two meet with a bellow. Its muscles buckled, knees sagged beneath the weight of the blow – burdened as it had been with extra momentum. But it lived to fight on and though it continued to step backward, its axe flickered out to swipe the air in quick cuts. Not meant to land, merely delay. Dijon growled, luxuriating in the blood on his skin, in vanquishing his enemies and swung again. The beast had righted itself by now and dodged the blow – had it been sober, Dijon would no doubt have had a worthy opponent – but at that moment the capricious seas swelled and the creatures footing was lost. It stumbled, nearly falling but glancing up in time to catch his knee smash into its face. The blow near flipped on its back as, without a pause in motion, Dijon swung his blade down and decapitated the monster. The axe bit deep into the wood as blood spurted up around it, liberally coating Dijon’s face and bared teeth.

As the light died in its eyes, remnants of fear draining away, Dijon wondered – just for a moment, a sudden clarity within the red haze – who here was the true monster? The rage within boiled up, consuming him once more as he looked up. The slavers had taken note of the struggle but seemed unable to do ought as the slaves behind them boiled in unrest. Bodies were dropping like flies all of a sudden as a figure slipped away from the main bunch, blades a-whirl in the air. He’d waited for just the right time and now Chuckles struck. The slavers stirred in confusion, drunken senses no doubt adding to the confusion.

It couldn’t be one man that struck, it must be dozens; there was blood everywhere, almost a perpetual mist through which they staggered. It was, for Dijon, quite normal to see in red. Feeling the adrenaline surge within him, a tidal wave that cried for ever more blood, he roared. Heads turned, a bubble of silence rising and rising until it popped once more into the carnal screams of men dying.

Axe whirling, Dijon strode into the fray and the battle was joined in truth.

When Dijon told her to stay put, Shirin very gladly did not listen. No--she ran, not that there's anywhere to run on a ship. She tucked herself between two barrels on the other side of the deck, where she just couldn't see the ensuing battle. She hugged her knees to her chest and tucked her face against them, flinching at the screaming, the drumming of bootfalls on wood, the metallic clang and wrench of weapons. Dijon, she felt sure, was at the center of it.

Oh gods, oh gods--how would they survive this?

She shrunk further back between her barrels--head back against the wood, arms braced against the barrels--as footsteps pounded by, closer: a few slavers who had gone to sleep off their drink, probably, and who had been roused by the noise. There couldn't be more than three of them, unless her tracking abilities had completely atrophied during the long sail. They would have run right past her--had not a breeze struck up and fluttered her skirt, which, although it was dirty, was still noticeably light in color.

"Wait--" one of them stopped, and the other set of footsteps (thank the gods, only two) halted a moment later. Shirin's heart began pounding so loudly, her pulse rushing in her ears, that she couldn't properly hear what they were saying.

Then they were standing over her. "Well, 'ello... looks like we caugh' one of'a love slaves," one of them grinned horribly. The other didn't speak, just reached down to grab Shirin's arms--

She screamed and kicked out wildly, feet connecting with his unprotected stomach. Taken unawares, he grunted and fell back; no longer amused, his friend reached down and clamped his hands around her arms, wrenching her up to her feet and pushing her back against the ledge. She whimpered as he pressed against her, pinning her body with his. "Little bitch, filthy little whore!" he growled, wrapping his strong hands around her throat. She choked as he clamped down, shaking her; she struck at him with her hands, but he seemed not to notice. She was going to die here under the slaver, his disgusting, alcoholic breath in her face. Her vision began to swim and her eyelids drooped. The slaver's grin widened, and he spoke over his shoulder to his companion. "'Ey, Cor--hope you don' mind me takin' first go... Cor?"

The slaver glanced over his shoulder when his friend didn't respond, losing, for one crucial moment, his concentration on Shirin. She jerked one leg out from under his and instinctively brought her knee up with what strength she had left. The slaver shrieked and toppled backward, releasing Shirin; she sagged, gasping for air. She felt dizzy, and the slaver was starting to get up again, still clutching the family jewels. Before he could, she stumbled forward and began to slam her foot down on his crotch over and over again. He screamed then--a scream that made her blood shudder in her veins--before his eyes rolled up in his head.

Shirin stumbled backward, leaning on the barrels. Her lungs filled painfully; a little moan only made her throat hurt worse. She touched the skin tenderly. She couldn't believe that man had--that he'd wanted to--but wait? What about the other one?

He was lying across a few more barrels at the foot of a cabin, just a few feet away. He was still, and there was a dark stain spreading from his head. Her stomach rose into her throat as she realized that he was dead--she had killed him. Well, the wall he'd smashed his head into had killed him, but--but that wouldn't have happened if it weren't for her.

She leaned over the railing and dry-heaved.

Deaven:

He and Galea came out of the hatch just in time to see the guards chasing "Bob."

"What the!" Deaven shout, just as "Bob," ran past him. "For gods sakes." He cursed and cut of three guards, they hadn't seen him come so they were unprepared, that gave Deaven the element of surprise that he used.

The first man fell to the ground. The other one tried to take arms but Galea threw him with a piece of hard bread, and she threw it hard. The man stumbled back and was bashed to the ground by Deavens fist. The next one was trying to turn and run away but was hit in the back by Deaven's sword.
He fell to the ground.

"There two survivors." Deaven said. "We need to tie 'em up." He continued.

Galea nodded.

"I wonder how "Bob," is doing?" He said as he walked back in the hatch. He came out whit some rope and tied the guards up, he tied the rope around their mouths as well, and then threw them in the hatch.

"Now, Galea." Deaven said.

"What?" She snapped.

"What is your problem?"

Galea didn't answer. Deaven let it be, he was thinking. What was their position on the ship now?
They had the food storage, weapon storage and slave cells, the middle ship. The slavers still had the upper deck and half of the lower deck. He was thinking of their next course of action.

Videl Vane Va'Teir

"We could take them, Videl!" Machavell growled as they bounded towards the stairs to the upper deck.

"Are you so caught up in your pride that you have forgotten that you've been chained for the past fortnight?!" She yelled back, frustrated. "You may be strong, Machavell, but even you are not strong enough to ward off a brigade of slavers just newly with your chains off."

"And what, exactly, makes you think you are?!" He was making Videl mad. If she were to turn around and fight, it wouldn't be the slavers she took a strike at first.

"If I had thought I could take them, we wouldn't be running, now would we?" She said, agitated. Machavell grumbled, pushing past her and up the stairs in front of them.

The clinking of fighting was all they could hear when they got to the upper deck. In front of them Bob, some odd looking people, and the rest of the crew were surrounded by a mass of drunken sailors. Great. They had just brought more.

"Get ready boys. this is going to be a long night."

Machavell
Labour Slave

Of course they couldn't take them. Machavell was no fighter, even if his muscles were not weak and atrophied from their time in manacles. Kester-- he was an unknown, and therefore unreliable. Videl could hold her own in single combat, maybe, but they were no match for six armed slavers.

Machavell was glad he had taken a cloak from the storeroom they had passed through. The sea air was bracing and gusts slipped through clothing like knives. He pulled the garment tighter around his arms and surveyed the battle around him with a calculating gaze.

We could take them, Videl! The words sounded weak to his ear. They were meant to inspire, to arouse the passion that burnt behind the curtains of every man's mind. A thought fluttered like paper in the wind through Machavell's mind; it was the sort of thing his teacher would have liked...

"Where now, Machavell?"

Kester had reached the upper deck and was waiting for his lead. Unwillingly, Machavell stepped to the front of the three; he preferred to lead from the back, but these circumstances would dictate his actions. If he were to remain in control, he would have to show some sign of leadership even if he did not feel it.

His eyes took it all in. Dijon, the name now free from incarceration along with the man himself, was the dominant figure in the battle. His large form and deadly strength carved his way through all before him, though Machavell noticed the traitorous slaver taking more than his fair share of kills too. The deck was slippery with blood and slavers lay mangled where they fell.

The court was never this dangerous, he thought, his mind flickering back to the battles he had won there. But those words cut deeper than any sword....

"Machavell?" It was Videl this time. Mentally, Machavell cursed his drifting mind.

"Quiet," he hissed, cutting off any further questions. "The Captain entered there." He pointed, his arm extending from the cloak to point at their goal. A dying slaver was slumped against the door, groaning weakly. "Videl. Kester. Follow me inside and kill or capture anyone inside. I'll deal with the Captain myself."

Two nods. Two affirmations of loyalty. Times are desperate, Machavell assured himself, and these are only temporary alliances.

Machavell ran across the deck, aware of Videl to his left and Kester to his right. The fighting had escalated as more slavers joined their embattled comrades. Two distinct melees had broken out: one formed by Dijon and the rogue slaver, and another smaller one around Deaven. To Machavell this was only scenery and he skirted the edges of these, sidestepping neatly to avoid the chaotic, but somehow measured, swings of Dijon's axe.

Videl, a faster runner, arrived at the door moments before Machavell and Kester. She held a knife, wet with blood, in one hand and with the other she flung open the door and darted inside. Machavell stormed in, his new cloak flying out behind him as he ran. He skidded to a stop and--

"Machavell."

That voice. For the first time on the slave ship, Machavell felt fear rise in his chest.

That voice, made rasping and brittle by dust and words of power. He knew it younger once, but that was a world ago. Time had altered it ever so slightly, given it rougher edges, but the soulless creature behind it was the same.

"Machavell," the man said. "I wondered when I would see you again."

Tiernan. Just as it used to, his mind could not attribute such a simple name to the man in front of him. Machavell knew him before his training was complete, and now the result stared back at him with emerald eyes.

"Tiernan," Machavell spoke, finally. "You haven't grown." The insult felt like clay in his mouth. He felt no passion in arguing with Tiernan, only fear.

"Whereas you haven't stopped." Tiernan's retort snapped something inside him. Machavell suddenly noticed the others in the room. Videl and Kester had edged backwards, leaving him isolated at the front of the group.

Standing next to Tiernan was the Captain. He by himself was more than a match for Videl, but his sword was sheathed and he was standing curiously still. His arms were tight to his side and he appeared to be concentrating hard on something.

Beside him was Tiernan. A short, simply dressed man, with black gloves that reached his elbows. They denoted his rank, war-wizard. Machavell knew exactly what Tiernan was capable of, and it twisted inside him as he began to realise his own fragile mortality. The war-wizard's unblinking gaze rested on him, and Machavell knew that he may not escape this cabin alive.

Galea

“What’s your problem?”

There are slavers running amuck on the top deck, they know we’ve escaped, they’ve got swords and spears and weapons in general, and we two have a sword and loafs of bread. A loaf of bread. For the love of pipes, she had thrown a loaf of bread at a fully armed guard. The slavers are swarming everywhere, they’re trapped down here with no way out but up where the slavers are, and he’s asking what her problem is.

She didn’t answer him, and he didn’t press the issue. Instead, she withdrew her newly acquired, over-sized slingshot and moved to the hatch. It was bigger than what she was used to, and it had been over a decade since she had last picked one up, but the overall concept was simple enough.

“What are you doing?” Deaven asked as she cracked open the hatch.

She slipped a hand in her pouch with the round, black rocks and pinched one in the leather of the slingshot.

“Curiosity.” And fired a shot.

She missed. The ball swung through the air and bounced harmlessly on the ground. Too far to the left. She had fired too soon. A moment more and the ball would have hit the running man. Instead, it didn’t even graze his nose. She tried again, timing the movements of a guard going sword-to-sword with a slave, the slave quickly losing ground. It took her a few moments longer than she would have liked, but she finally snapped his pattern in her head and fired, hitting him in the hollow of his neck, crushing his cartilage, and effectively knocking him out.

The next two were misses, but the third was a hit in the temple. Next tore through a man’s cheek, and the one after that hit his head. Another miss, then another hit. Deaven might have said something, but she didn’t hear him. At the moment, her entire focus was on re-learning the slingshot. How much pull sent the ball how far and how fast, how to predict and figure in the speed of the ball in relation to speed of the men’s movements, etc.

If the weapon had been a few sizes smaller, she’d have taken to it with more ease. As it was, each shot required her to think rather than automatically shoot, and that was part of the reason she was taking so long to gain accuracy. Thinking had no place in shooting. The motion should be automatic, you should immediately know how much force to apply, how slight of an angle you should take. Your mind does nothing; you hands make the adjustments on their own. If the mind comes into play, you miss.

And she was missing. Not often, but enough to waste her supply.

Thwack, thwack, thwack!

Every time the thong bounced back on the rebound, she had a rock in it and was firing again. Each of the three hit their marked people, but not the marked pressure points. One hit a guard in the back, distracting him long enough to give the slave the opportunity it needed, another hit a hand, resulting in a scream from the guard and the clang of a weapon dropping. Followed then by a thump of a body. The last hit a leg, the sting strong enough for the guard’s instincts to take over and slap a hand to the spot. By time he realized his mistake, the slave was already landing the blow to drop him.

If she fired like she just did, she’d stay accurate, but again, her mind took over and she took too much time to aim. Cursing herself, she switch targets and fired on instinct, dropping the man. Deaven’s hand clapped on her shoulder, jolting her out of her focus.

“What is it?”

“I asked why you have a slingshot.” When he was greeted by a blank stare, he clarified, “instead of a bow?”

She gave a slight smirk. “Because the bows were all almost as tall as me.” She turned then, intending to go back to the fight, but Deaven went on.

“How can you shoot bows at all? I mean, wouldn’t your size effect how far you can see?”

“Size is a matter of perspective.” She tossed over her shoulder, “When you’re the average height as everyone else, you’re not short. Different world. Imagine you were pulled into a world where everyone was as tall as Dijon. Wouldn’t your height prevent you from shooting well?”

If he replied, she didn’t hear it. Or if she did, she blocked it out and busied herself with readjusting her mindset to the slingshot.