The Uprising

Elias

Leaning against the side of the ship, Elias watched after the mass of whipped human that had called itself Deaven; he didn't like the way it loped across the deck, hunched and dragging limbs like an ape. Elias tensed when it began speaking to the female, but he lost interest when it was clear they knew each other. He cast a lazy eye about the rest of the ship.

The human's eyes were still working at least: there were bodies discarded like wrappers across the deck and yet too many slavers still standing. They were losing. And there were slaves missing. Had to be unless somebody had started throwing bodies over-board... which actually wasn't such a bad idea. Above them, a spray of gulls were circling and closing in on the ship, attracted by the carnage of war. Elias began to amble over to the nearest four bodies; it was one of the areas from which the fighting had cleared because one side had been exhausted and the victors had moved on in search of other conquests.

It was a strange thing, war. It spread like thunder, starting with just a single strike and then suddenly it struck again and again and no one could predict where the next strike would come from, forever on their feet ready to defend or run. And naturally, there was no sight of the original conductors. Except the big guy. The bodies were crawling closer, squirming a little with the rise and fall of the ship as if they knew this was no place for resting.

A moment's indecision caused Elias to slow: on the one hand, someone needed to clean up eventually but on the other, it was filthy work and... his thoughts were interrupted. Elias stared aghast at what had been done to the slave: her soft flesh slashed, her fingers forever wrapped about a tool of destruction, supple, delicate fingers that looked as if they'd never before held a weapon. His stomach churned but he bent routinely and took the girl by her shoulders. What she deserved was a proper burial but even Elias knew that was not possible: it would have to be over-board. And better he do it.

After the first body, it was easier. Two stupid slavers interrupted him between the third and fourth. A burning sting alerted Elias to their presence and he turned sharply, pulling his back away from the blade. The first of the slavers stared at his blade dumbly, not comprehending how he had failed to cause bleeding, not quite comprehending the thickness of the gargoyle's hide.

"You're early," Elias quipped. The slavers both frowned, the first looking more perplexed and swaying slightly.

"How's that?" the second asked. "Early for what?"

"Death," he hissed. "I'm on graveyard duty." The mace came back out of the belt and was parried by the sword but the slaver failed to take into account the gargoyle's weapon of choice and his claws bit through, clenching blood, penetrating muscle and organs. The other was harder to kill. He was prepared and more sober, hanging back a step to watch and calculate. He brought his sword up and then ducked and weaved to free it again, his eyes darting from sword to claws, sword to claws. Elias kicked him in the chest and curled his toes inwards, the claws there grasping through shirt and flesh to find blood. Then the mace bashed his head in.

Bodies four and five went over together and six followed a little more gracefully. The entrails were deposited last, making a softer splash but this was followed by an explosion, throwing Elias on guard, into a crouched position, weapons drawn, gaze wary. He debated looking for the source but considered it too risky. Even so, it was a moment before he relaxed and scanned for more bodies. A flicker of movement by the barrels caught his eye. Elias decided to satisfy this lesser pang of curiosity. He edged over and grinned when he saw the girl huddled amongst the barrels, the bodies of two slavers nearby.

"Are they ready for collection, miss?" he asked.

Machavell
Labour Slave

He came back to the ship, and the pain, and the fire. Machavell kept his eyes shut as he fought a new battle inside himself.

Failure. It was written on his soul, signed with a flourish as Tiernan escaped.

Machavell wished for nothing more than the swift release of death. He lay, burnt and broken on the floor of the Captain's Quarters. His hand roared pain. The skin had blistered with the intense heat and Machavell knew he was scarred.

This was the price of failure. What was worse, he knew he could not blame his injuries on the man or halfling who had stood beside him. Tiernan was his past, and Machavell knew he was the only one responsible for that confrontation. The pain, the guilt, the failure. It was all too much.

Gritting his teeth, Machavell opened his eyes a crack, expecting to see the cabin engulfed in flames. To his surprise, it was not. Around the room he could see scorched holes made from flying embers that had scattered as the enchantment exploded. On the Captain's desk a few charts and pieces of parchment smoldered, but nothing was destroyed on the scale it should have been. It seemed the worst of the flames had been confined to him.

Movement. Kester and Videl knelt next to him with concern and revulsion mixed on their faces. Machavell took a deep breath to speak and inhaled smoke. Once he started coughing, he couldn't stop; he retched and felt his insides tighten. A pain at the back of his head began to throb and he felt himself losing consciousness.

He blinked. Now Deaven was there.

"Are you ok?"

But the voice slipped away from him, like a ghost, everything began to break down again. His vision splintered and he shut his eyes tight. Questions were asked, voices imploring, but Machavell didn't know whether he was replying or not. At one point, strong arms gripped him and he felt himself lifted and carried.

After what seemed like an age they set him down again, and Machavell tried to listen once more. The boat rocked and men screamed, though it seemed as if the conflict was tailing off. Finally, his mind gave up and he slipped away again. Away to the welcoming embrace of unconsciousness...

Videl Vane Va'Teir

Videl sat beside Kester, rubbing her temple. She watched as Machavell lay almost lifeless, a figure of no emotion except for the evident sting of pain.

"We should go fight." She whispered, looking up at Kester. He looked both confused and surprised. She hadn't sounded harsh, nor did her voice betray any trickery. For a moment, she was different, a caring soul with a burdened back. She shook her head. "Machavell can take care of himself, I'm sure nobody will try to throw him overboard. It doesn't sound like we're winning up there."

"Maybe." That was all Kester said. Both of them were shell shocked about the explosion, and both knew that Machavell felt like he had failed.

Videl stood up, her joints cracking at the movement. She drew her katana and examined it; the blade was perfectly fine, at least. "You can stay if you want, Kester, but I think they need help." She said, turning to face him.

Oenai Seneia

Huddled on the floor arms wrapped around folded up knees, Oenai waited for the return of her enslaver. She shivered as through her memory she felt the cold black gloves press to her skin.

“At least he’s smart,” she said to herself as she stared across the room at the box that carried his sharp instruments. If he had left a single weapon-like object within her reach she’d be dead. She would rather die in a bloodied heap upon this rotting floor than to take the brunt of Tiernan’s passions again.

Sighing as the chamber pot went sliding across the floor she heard some odd noises. Faint shouts and a loud blast that made her flinch, covering her head in reflex action. She peered around her arms towards the door not knowing what to expect.

Eamon D'Arnise

He spun his blade deftly, turning aside the thrust of a drunken slaver with ease and nearly taking the cutlass from his tentative grasp. "Come now, surely you can do better than that," he goaded, giving his blade a little flourish in the air as the slaver rethought his strategy. Eamon paused a moment and let the tip of his sword dip to the ground, cocking his head slightly. "On second thought, maybe you cannot; I've seen you duel sober, and honestly mate, you haven't got a chance in all the Nine Hells combined." He laughed, then, realizing that he was truly enjoying himself.

The battle had begun in a rather desperate state, that was for certain--a dozen or so slavers herding the mostly-weaponless slaves back toward the hold, and only Dijon, the brilliant warrior, holding them back. Eamon had slipped into the shadows, knowing full well his place in a fight, but also knowing that if he didn't move quickly, his efforts would be for naught. As the drunken mass of slavers tripped over themselves to get at the raging barbarian, Eamon slipped into their ranks and went to work, leaving a wake of squirming bodies. Most would succumb to their wounds--severed arteries that would not be easily stemmed--but some would merely lose the use of their legs, having had their spinal cords severed by a quick thrust or the back of one knee sliced open "en passant." He knew his style of warfare would serve the slaves far better than even Dijon's wide, devastating swings, for while Dijon would claim the most kills this day, Eamon would leave the most helpless and therefore easy pray for even the most inexperienced, malnutrition-ridden slaves.

As the battle waned, Eamon found himself fighting on a singular level, rather than in the fray. The slaver, frustrated by both his inability to land a blow and by Eamon's constant banter, came forward with a clumsy, two handed chop that would likely have missed even if Eamon had not ducked, bringing the tip of his rapier up to sting the inebriated fool in the thigh as he stumbled past.

"I'll kell yeh, yeh durned bloody bastard son of a--"

"An orc's blind mother--yes, I know," Eamon finished with a laugh; slavers, especially drunk ones, were about as clever as the blades they wielded--though not nearly as sharp. Stealing a glance over his shoulder, Eamon noted the progress of the slaves and decided that his game would have to be cut short. He waded in on the man, batting aside his pathetic defense and thrusting the tip home, the finely crafted blade slipping through his jerkin and between two ribs to find his heart. The slaver's cutlass clattered to the deck as he found his fingers devoid of the strength to hold it, and he fell to his knees.

"You'll not be missed, friend--not by anyone," Eamon said, winking at the dying man as he drew his final breaths.

Markali Kelemore

The heap on the floor flinched, but she was looking in the wrong direction. He’d already slipped in and she clearly hadn’t heard. He had taken care to be almost silent, though that had never been his strong suit. Perhaps it had been the bedpan sliding once more that had covered the click of the door closing. No matter, he was there now.

He stepped slowly into her gaze. “Well now, quite a predicament you’re in here, now ain’t it? The only slave still captive aboard this vessel and all. The war-wizards own private stock even.”

Markali’s eyes didn’t flash the humor his voice portrayed. They remained that ever cold and distant grey, hard as steel as he stared at her. Her head snapped towards him and the catch of her breath brought a humorless smirk to his lips.

“How did you....., I am no one's stock you imbicile! Don't touch me! I swear I'll break your arm if you try to." He watched as the confusion in her eyes turned to anger and then turned and walked away from her.

“Well if you’d rather stay chained here for the rest of your life, I can leave you that way.” He responded, his voice indifferent. He turned back to gauge her reaction, his face the portrait of seriousness.

“Wait!” The fear in her voice brought a slight stab of emotion, but it didn’t leak. It would never leak. "You'll let me go? Why would you do that?"

Markali let the smirk slip back onto his lips. “A pretty lady like you don’t belong here.” It was all the reason he would give. She didn’t need to know his motivation, only that it was happening. Why didn’t matter. “Still going to break my arm?” He asked, his hand sliding into the pocket of his pants, as if fishing for something.

Deaven:

He was raging on the lower deck, but he had seen "Bob," doing a fine job on the upper deck.

His sword swung at another slaver, the slaver hit the ground. Someone came at Deaven, but Deaven blocked the blow with his shield, that he had made out of the broken barrel, and then stabbed the man in the stomach.

"Galea! I need how are you doing there?"

"Trying to concentrate!"

"Oh! Sorry," Deaven apologized as he cut a slavers throat. The amount of slavers on the lower deck was going down very fast. There weren't too many left.

Deaven ran behind the ranks of the slaves He went to the man he had woken up "How is the plan going?"


"They went already."

"Perfection! And now let us watch as the slavers die."

There didn't happen anything in a while but soon there was a cry of dismay within the ranks f the slavers, when Deaven looked closer he saw as a herd of slaves were rising from a hatch behind the slavers. The crewmen were surrounded.

"Press the attack!" Deaven shouted and then ran to the fight.

Within minutes, the lower deck was theirs.

Now they had to take on the bigger force of the slavers on the upper deck.

Lissa, Exotic Slave

A slaver was walking away from his last kill when he spotted Lissa crouched over her most recently slain corpse. The front of her dress was doused with blood, her hands dripping, the slice down her cheek still oozing pale green liquid. “Why, Princess--aren't you a daisy?"

She stood upon hearing a voice and turned to him, her eyes were wild. She raised the blade that had landed its killing blow on so many others before this one. He would go too, of this sure was sure. She started towards him, walking slowly; her body crouched in a predatory fashion.

"Now, now...a dainty little thing like yourself shouldn't be playing with knives." The slaver said cautiously.

She charged him then, the dagger slashing out wildly before her.

"Ah, but you are a crazy daisy, aren't you?" He caught the wrist that held the blade, squeezing with bruising force. She felt him come forward, it was so fast, his leg hit the backs of her knees and she was down, bringing him with her. They landed with a thud, his knee between her legs and his hands pinning her arms down.

"No! I'll not go back! Get your grimy hands off me; I'll not go back into that damned cage!" She struggled hard against her captor, fear taking over her once more. She was weak, her body was frail and hungry, and even as she struggled her hardest the slaver had the upper hand.

"Much as I absolutely love a woman in chains, Princess," He twisted her hand, she kept her grasp on the knife for as long as possible until the pain became too much and she released it. "You are not the sort to be contained. Why, just look what it's done to your hair!"

She snapped her mouth shut immediately to cease her own screaming. It was the traitor, the one that had saved them all. Her body language changed immediately, her arms going slack, her legs no longer kicking. "You're lucky I am not at my full strength, mortal. And my hair is beautiful." She teased playfully.

He winked at her, and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “Beautiful is not a word I use to describe most women I find blood soaked and wild-eyed...but I shall make an exception, for you." He got to his feet quickly and offered her his hand which she took gratefully.

She stared at the bodies around them, taking it all in. There was blood of course, that was the way of battles. The death did not bother her so much; death was inevitable, after all. But the smell of it brought up a mixture of longing and nausea that made her head swim all over again. She stood for a moment, breathing in the fresh ocean air.

She studied her traitorous companion in silence before cocking her head to the side. "Why did you help us? Perhaps I could not kill you now, perhaps I couldn't kill you anyways, but there are others on this ship that still want your blood. Even after all you have done, they will never trust you... why label yourself a traitor for slaves?"

"Ah, but a traitor indicates a sense of loyalty, does it not? Never have I proclaimed myself a loyal follower of Captain Devlan Raynor. Their assumptions led them to this conclusion."

"That is true, I had assumed the same. If not loyal to him, then loyal to whom? Certainly it can't be us."

He laughed and winked lightheartedly. "If I told you, that'd be telling!" He flipped the dagger between his fingers, grasping the blade lightly and holding it out to her hilt first. She took the blade from him, and sheathed it in the holster on her belt.

"We have made a mess, so it seems." She stared down at her own form, and the blood that was now soaking its way through her garment. She touched her fingers to her cheek again, drawing them away to examine her own blood. It had been many moons since her blood had been spilled.

He took a step back and opened his arms wide, showing that he had hardly a spot of blood on him. "Speak for yourself, little one."

Lissa gave a small smile, barely seen at all. "I apparently allowed myself too much pleasure in disposing of my captors." She wiped her hands on her dress, getting as much of the death off of them as she could. "I may not be looking my best now, Traitor, but once I am cleaned up, you'll have to inform me of which view is indeed best."

He plucked the beret from his head and bowed low before her. "Another time. For now, let us ensure the safety of the others."

Dijon

The axe was not his favoured weapon, Dijon reflected distantly, as it scythed down yet another slaver. The edge was blunted and notched; it almost looked to be made entirely out of blood and gore, as though it were a living, breathing creature. It was an imperfect weapon that allowed too many openings and Dijon’s body bore that truth readily – small, superficial wounds marked his arms, thigh and one particularly painful slice scored across his ribs.

Were it not for his skill with it, he might be dead now. As it was, only one slaver stood standing. He swayed, a nasty purple bruise marring his skull. His face was known to Dijon. The adrenaline had long since started to fade and his muscular frame sagged with weariness, arms numb and heavy. As he saw Brent, however, a snarl of rage broke out over his face. This man’s face had been the first he’d seen upon waking; this man had been the one that dragged him to the ship; this man would die. Dijon rolled his shoulders, feeling the sore muscles tense in protest. A few steps away, Chuckles was helping the nymph off the ground. The dizzy, weakened slaver – he was, Dijon assumed, the one initially knocked out to begin with – followed his gaze.

“Eamon, you snake; perfidious dog, I’ll see you dead for this,” he shouted, spittle flying. Ah, so that was Chuckle’s name.

Eamon sauntered over. “Why Brent, surely you don't mean to imply that I had anything to do with this,” he said, smirking condescendingly. “Why, I was right behind you the whole time.”

“You did this to us all! And to think we trusted you,” Brent said, raising his sword.

“Enough talk,” Dijon interjected, lowering his axe. “I’ve had my fill of death, Chuckles. This one is yours.”

Eamon drew his rapier, levelling it at Brent. “Would you prefer to beg? Sometimes it helps.” He was, Dijon noted dully, amazingly clean. He hadn’t a drop of blood on him. How in the name of Sierra’s Nine Tits had he managed that?

In answer, Brent snarled and rushed him. Eamon parried it easily, dancing over a corpse – it farted, releasing pent up gas and nearly startled him, but he barely blinked for all it showed. Brent was a good swordsman, but half-drunk and with a nasty head wound he was no match for the slippery bastard he faced. And it showed. Eamon danced around him, slashing at his arms and legs and the man stumbled, cursing. His blows were getting weaker, the fight more and more a farce until finally Eamon stepped in beneath a wild blow and shoved his rapier deep into Brent’s heart. He stared deep into the First Mate’s eyes as he gasped and died, before sliding him off the blade. Finally, the battle was over. Dijon let the axe drop from nerveless fingers.

It landed -

with a dull thud, kicking up a puff of dust. Around him and across the entire plain the ground bled red, yielding a sick but abundant harvest of corpse. It was enough to make the gods weep. This day, he carved himself a new name in the annals of history – Dijon Kinslayer; the merchant of death. Before him, his brother; sly, traitorous Malvar, was resting on his knees. Blood dribbled out of his mouth.

“You were ever the better warrior, brother.” And he smiled, teeth spattered red. -

with a dull thud. Thus the ritual end to the fight was made, though the significance of that was lost on them. Around him was spread a different kind of slaughter, but no less grim; what it lost in numbers it gained in honour, or rather the lack thereof. This hadn’t been a fight, but a massacre. A deserved one, if ever there could be such, but a massacre nonetheless.

Dijon sighed wearily, feeling a new weight settle upon his shoulders. The ship pitched and swayed on the waves but for this blissful moment at least, there was silence. Even as he thought it, he heard running footsteps. He turned to see the impetuous whelp charging towards them, sword waving wildly.

“We’ve got to take the rest of the ship! Chaarrge!” And so saying, he went to move on – but was stopped by a large, meaty hand.

“Stop.” Dijon enunciated it slowly and carefully. He grabbed the sword off the man, gently disarming him.

“But-but, the slavers! We’ve got to - ”

Dijon shushed him. He had seen the battle-madness before; in extreme cases the victims turned against their own brethren, thinking that there were always enemies left. “Quiet, there are none left. Hush now, you did well.”

Deaven looked dazed and confused, legs shaking slightly. In truth, it was a wonder he’d survived at all, given his wounds. Somewhere, a distant god was no doubt laughing wildly at this. Deaven reached out a hand to try and balance his weakened limbs as the last of the adrenaline no doubt left him. The nearest thing, however, turned out to be the Halfling.

“Err, gerroff me,” she muttered, staggering beneath his weight. He slumped off her and to the ground with an ‘oomph’. It was somewhat comical but in truth, having used what were undoubtedly his last reserves of his energy, the probability of his body fighting off fever or infection was low. He’d best hope someone had healing arts aboard ship. Dijon could barely stand as it was, so he understood the feeling well. Unable to stand the cloying stench of spilt guts anymore, he walked away, slipping and sliding in the pools of blood until he reached the rail.

He felt as though he wore the souls of a dozen men and their weight was stifling. Sheets of red streaked over his dark skin, spotted with the occasional hunk of meat. Dijon stared longingly into the swelling aquamarine bosom of the ocean, crystalline depths. How could it consume so much gore and death, yet remain so pure? He yearned to dive in and be cleansed, to feel pure once more but already, the fins of sharks carved through the water. Some of the bodies had already been dumped, he realised, noting the ragged remains of clothing. It would have to wait for another time. The waters were not as pure as they seemed; he would do well to remember that.

It was, he reflected, much like Eamon. Clear and clean on the surface but all sorts of monsters dwelled within those depths. The sun was beginning to rise, casting a fiery, autumnal cape over the water. If he never saw red again, it would be too soon Dijon thought. As he stood there, taking in deep breaths of the cooling breeze, he heard Eamon and the nymph searching for survivors, talking all the while.

After a moment, there was a sudden pall of silence.

Interest piqued, Dijon turned to see them standing over a not-so white haired body. He blinked. So, there had been a casualty. Unsurprising. Deaven and Galea were nearby, both sitting against the wall, breathing heavily. Dijon walked over to Eamon and the nymph as they stared down with unreadable expressions. The demon boy looked young in death, face smooth and unwrinkled. His lips however, were frozen in the rictus of a snarl. Not very pleasant, that. As the three of them stood over the bodies, the door to the Captain’s Cabin banged open. Three, stumbling, tired figures.

The elf-girl, Blondie, and Machavell – or what remained of him, anyway. The man was a wreck. His arm glowed fiercely and elsewhere, scorch marks reared up, licking along his neck and briefly, the edge of his cheek, They brought him over until a small circle had gathered around the dead demon.

“Someone tried to cook you,” Eamon observed drily. “Must have been very hungry to try.”

Machavell eyed him and spat out one word. “Tiernan.”

His voice was rough and husky. Clearly, the word was loaded with meaning. The smile never left Eamon’s face but a new tension was evident in his stance. He turned to Dijon, remarking offhandedly, "I probably should have warned him about the mage."

A mage? That explained the explosion, then. Eamon turned back to Machavell, raising an eyebrow in question.

“They’re gone and the Cabin’s a mess,” Machavell added. His head dropped, defeat etched into his skin.

"Look on the cheery side, O' charred one; those two insufferable oafs are gone, and we--ah, you--have control of the ship, do you not?" He idly scratched his face with a dagger, satisfying an itch.

For now, the implicit words went unsaid. Cheery whistling brought their attention around once more, to see the gargoyle and Shirin walking toward them. She looked pale and ill, Dijon noted with concern. And yet, he couldn’t be more glad that she had listened to him and stayed beyond the battle. It was the gargoyle who whistled the merry tune. He ended it on a high note, indicating his surprise at the amount of bodies.

“I’m going to need some assistance for this one,” he muttered, surveying the dead and mangled corpses. He brightened up, addressing them all. “Are these ready for collection, then?”

A dozen pairs of baffled eyes regarded him. He shifted from foot to foot, talons making a clickity clack, clickity clack repetition. The import of his words settled slowly into Dijon’s mind.

“So, you’re the one who’s been feeding the sharks?”

The gargoyle blinked his huge, round eyes. “Sharks?”

Turning, he sped across the deck to the rails, clickity clacking all the while. He stared avidly into the water before grasping a nearby slaver and hauling him overboard. He stared avidly into the water once more. Dijon turned back to see the reactions of the group; they were muted. After such a night as they had experienced, this was nothing.

“Well, he’s right about one thing. Someone needs to clean all this up,” Blondie mentioned.

“Preferably before the rest of the crew join us. Better for them not to see this,” Eamon said.

They stared at him in stunned silence.

“The rest of?” ventured Lissa. “You mean there are more of these pigs? Rather, that’s an injustice to pigs. Where are they and why haven’t they joined the fight?”

Eamon stared at her levelly. “Of course there are. One can never have too many pigs, after all. I don’t suppose any of you know how to man a ship? No? Well then.” He strode off, making for the Captain’s cabin. Shrugging, Dijon turned and grasped the arms of two nearby corpses. He began to drag them toward the railing. It was a warrior’s duty to take care of his dead. Soon, before this day was done and the sun began its daily death throes, someone would have to do the Singing, lest they be cursed with the weight of disturbed shades. He would deal with that problem when it came, he decided. He was far too weary as it was.

Finally at the rails, he cast the dead into the waters. The sharks would feast red tonight and for a while at least, the ocean would show its true colours.

Deaven:

He was tired, his breathing was heavy. Huff, huff, it went.
"W-we won," He smirked to Galea.

"Yes we did."

Deaven looked at the slaves, there was silence in the air. We won, tears filled his eyes. And this time I won't be caught again, never. He stood straight and rose his sword high up in the air and yelled, the yell was triumph, victory, and most importantly... It was freedom. There were shouts from the ranks of the slaves, the silence died, there were victory yells everywhere as the slaves caught hold of the idea.

They were free!

After the shouting died the slaves started chatting with each other, the tension was almost out, but not with some people. Deaven walked to "Bob," "The man" and Machavel's friends, he looked at Machavel "So you got over it?"

"Yes I did."

"Did you get the note?"

"Yes I did, exactly what is it?" Machavel asked

"Our reserves, food, weapons, items. I reckon that you would know how to manage them better than me myself."

He turned to "the man."

"We have won... Where to next?" He was tired but he would rest, after all of the work was done.

Shirin Bedros

It was over. She knew it must have been, when the gargoyle came to her and asked if he could dispose of the bodies, but then she had still been in too much shock to consciously acknowledge the idea--or to acknowledge the gargoyle at all.

Just as he finished throwing the second body over, clapping his hands together like her mother used to on baking day to get rid of the ever-pervasive flour, Shirin lifted her head. "Thank you," she said, her voice hoarse but surprisingly strong. Normally she eschewed human contact, but--well, he wasn't human, now was he? Humans were untrustworthy, all of them. She had no reason to think that about gargoyles.

He looked at her for a moment, then nodded his head. "Quite welcome, miss," he said, then paused, listening. "Sounds like they've dispatched the last of the swine. I believe it's safe to come out now."

He stepped away, still looking at her, as though inviting her to follow; Shirin stood shakily and pressed her palms to her face. Something very cold and hard touched her cheek; she jerked, looked down. She'd forgotten she was holding the sword. Well, at the very least, she could use it as a prop; her knees felt like they were about to fail her, though whether that was because of a lack of food or the overwhelming stress of the day, she wasn't sure (and, frankly, didn't much care). Still, she managed to follow the whistling gargoyle without too much issue.

Dijon and the traitor-slaver were conversing with the group of three she'd noticed missing before, the half-elf and the two men. One of them--the dark-haired one--was covered in painful burns that, for a few moments, drove any thoughts of the deaths she'd just caused out of Shirin's mind. She flinched at the very sight of it, and found herself on the verge of talking to him. What, death is making me more talkative? I suppose if I can kill a man, I can speak to him. The worst had already happened--and on its attempted repetition, she'd killed him. She'd killed him.

She gripped her sword tighter and walked tentatively over to the dark-haired man. "Honey," she said.

He turned to her, his eyes unfocused and clouded with pain. "Excuse me?"

She bit the inside of her cheek briefly. She'd already spoken to him--she might as well continue to do so. "Honey. If you find no ointment. For the burns. It heals them faster."

He stared at her for a moment, then nodded and turned away. Anyone else might have been offended--Shirin was strangely elated, though the emotion didn't show on her face. She looked down at herself--ragged, and there was some blood on the hem of her short dress from when she'd knelt beside the second slaver and clubbed him to death.

When the issue of the slavers had been discussed, and Dijon had exhibited a trust of the traitor-slaver (thereby putting to rest the doubts of many of the former slaves), Shirin set her sword down and walked back over to the gargoyle, who was gleefully tossing slavers to the sharks. She took a deep breath, then said, "I want to help."

Elias

Sharks... what fascinating creatures. Elias grinned down at the water as he watched the silvery fins squirming through its turbulent depths. The sharks stayed low, deceiving on-lookers with their beautifully sleek triangles, like corner hats resting on the waves. And then they crashed through, great jaws lashing about a body, causing a ripple of action as the momentum rocked the ship and the ship rocked the people on board.

"I want to help," the voice was quiet yet firm and it had the feminine quality that snapped Elias to attention, turning quickly and smiling, eager to please. Ah, it was the girl again, looking a little nervous but surely better now that her hands were free of that unseemly weapon.

"With the bodies, miss? Sure thing." He bounded over to where the white haired demon was sprawled against the railing, his face distorted into a menacing snarl, like a rather fearsome guard dog. He smiled back at the girl and she followed, just as she had before. So much could be accomplished with a smile.

"If you get him by the legs and I grab his arms, we'll lift him over together," Elias decided. He didn't question the necessity of the girl's help: of course he could do it by himself but that wasn't the point. The point was, she wanted to help and felt she would gain some thing in so doing so he was to provide her with the opportunity and thus serve her whim with no danger to himself. It was good. No, it was great; a chance to show respect for a lovely female.

Cautiously, the girl wrapped her fingers about the demon's legs and Elias nodded enthusiastically, taking him gently by the arms, careful not to pierce the dead flesh with his claws. There was no sense in harming a dead man, particularly not one he had been acquainted with, however briefly. Together they lifted and hauled him over the railing. Elias watched after the body until it was swallowed first by the ocean and then by a hungry shark. He raised his head, mildly pleased to find that the girl's face was cast down, staring at the rippled surface. She looked pale and shaken, swallowing dryly but she had watched and that told Elias a lot about her inner strength.

"Sharks and humans are very alike," he said, speaking to the girl at first but turning to involve the entire crew with a huge grin. He was pleased to see that there were still two bodies left, though one was currently being heaved over the side by the big man. Elias snatched the other up and pulled it to the railing. The girl obediently picked its legs up off the deck.

"Look," he said. "First you only see a harmless fin flitting through the ocean, small and inconspicuous. Then, when the time is right..." Elias moved closer to the side and guided the girl in dropping the body into the water. He watched with glee, his eyes moving between the floating corpse and the crew, his smile inviting them to come and watch. And the shark struck, its fin slithered out of sight and its head emerged into the air, jaws right on target, gone a moment later leaving only the aftermath of a rocked ship and some rather sickly pale human faces. The gargoyle grinned again. "See, treacherous things aren't they. Just like humans."

"But we all know what a shark's fin means," Deaven said. "So we know to avoid them." Elias smirked.

"Exactly," he said. "We all know what a human's smile means so we like to watch from a safe distance. No disrespect meant of course but you guys, you're almost as interesting as the sharks and gee, that was some scuffle, eh? You all did a real good job," Elias beamed about him and gently held his hand out to the girl. She hesitated for a moment and he waited patiently until her hand was placed loosely in his. He shook it carefully and smiled.

"Thank you for the help with the bodies, miss. It has been a pleasure working with you." He saluted lazily and hurried over to the slaver that had helped them, taking his hand sharply and shaking it enthusiastically.

"And thank you for the grub and those weapons, I must say this is a rather interesting instrument, much more polite than using your hands, eh? Rather like eating I suppose." Elias was shaking the mace about with a smile and he released the slaver's hand to flex his claws a little, looking between claws and mace, claws and mace and nodding to himself.

Deaven:

There was a brief silence. Soon though one of the slaves step forward, the slave pointed at "the man,"
"I don't trust him, he is one of the slaver, he just wants to use us,"

There was a murmur amongst the slaves.

The slave went on "He will sell us the minute that we step off this boat.," The murmur grew louder more hostile, as more slaves joined.

"Wasn't he one of the people in the first place who got us here? Didn't he just betray his own crew mates, if they couldn't trust him, how can we?"

That was when Dijon stepped in "There has been enough spilling of blood already, let's lay down our swords and sleep on it. 'Kay?"

Deaven stepped forward as well "I don't trust this man." He said and pointed at "the man,"

"But I do feel gratitude." He went on, "If he will try and sell us as slaves, we can always make sure that he doesn't enjoy the money that he gets from it." He made a motion with his thumb, on his throat. He turned to "the man,"
"Savvy?"

"the man," nodded with a smile.

"Now to more important matters! Where are we heading? Where do you wish to go? Home? Or somewhere else?" Deaven asked from all the slaves.
"I will be in the first mate's cabin and if you wish I will write down the place where you wish to travel."

And with that Deaven was already walking to the cabin.

[OOC: Not back, might be a day or two longer. Snow + Mountains = trapped. But while I'm on, here's this.]

Galea

Savvy?
Deaven, the speaker, walked – strode – across the deck and away from the group. She watched a moment, waiting. He didn’t collapse, as she expected, but he did sink against a wall, and from there, slid down to the floor, once he was out of sight of most of the slaves. His eyes were closed, his breathing labored. He stayed there for a few moments. Then, grimacing, he got up again and staggered the rest of the way around the corner and out of her sight. There was a slight shuffling of feet as the slaves either stood about or scattered for places to sit and rest. Aside from following Deaven around everywhere, she’d not done much to be exhausted for. How he managed the strength to run anywhere was beyond her. No doubt he’d be unconscious by time he reached his destination, if not well before. She found her own sitting spot and gratefully took a seat next to a couple other slaves. The deck was cleared of bodies, but not of their mess. Puddles of blood and various other spillages spotted the deck, more often smeared across than not.

She grimaced herself and hid her face in her knees. Disgusting. Looked disgusting, smelt disgusting, was disgusting. She lifted her head to view her tunic. Disgusting. Where it wasn’t caked in vomit, it was drenched in blood and whatever else she had landed in when she had jumped and dropped and dodged in her attempt to stay out of the way of any pointy object. Her pants were ruined too, but her tunic was horrendous. She considered a moment. Any shirt she found in the weapon room would likely fit as a dress for her, may even need to be trimmed to allow for walking.

She looked at her arms, her feet, imagined her hair. And laughed. The absurdity of it all had her laughing to herself, under her breath and without voice. She had been a slave on a ship, and her wrists were still raw from the shackles. She had been in the middle of a fight that, as far as she was concerned, might as well have been a war as far as survival odds went. And now she was sitting on the deck of said ship, a blood-covered mess with bits of who-knows-what in her hair, laughing. That she was alive was absurd, that she was on a slave ship was absurd, that she might still end up a slave, but was laughing, that was absurd as well.

And Deaven. The man himself was a walking absurdity. Two whipping sessions, a club in the back of the head, and still he somehow managed to fight the slavers and help win the day. By all accounts, he should be in something close to a coma by now. She smirked. He probably was, probably asleep at the desk, and probably wouldn’t wake until the next morning. Looking around at the tired slaves, she thought that might not be a bad idea. Keeping up with a battle-mad fool was no easy task, and neither was dodging blades for near an hour. She rested her head back and closed her eyes for a moment before snapping the open again.

Slave ship. More slavers below deck. A free slave wouldn’t stay free for long if they were found wearing blood that wasn’t theirs and snoozing in the sunlight. She ground the heels of her hands against her eyes. It felt as if days had passed since finding the key.

Deaven:

He sat on the chair behind the desk, he looked forward, no one had come to follow him.
Less work for me. He thought... And then passed out, the fourth time in two days.

"Look! Look, this is freedom. Never forget this sight, even if we were caught again." Deaven smiled upon the small child on his hands. The child looked into his eyes, looking confused.
"Dada," the baby, answered. The baby warped his finger around Deaven's finger as Deaven started to tickle him on the tummy.
The baby chuckled. Deaven smiled warmly.

It was a good dream for a change. Deaven had some good memories, he cherished them more than anything.

A man, the same slave, as in his other memory, again over the body.
Deaven was on the ground, hit on the head. The other slave was walking to the small bed, where the baby slept. The slave reached to strangle the baby, insanity was shining from his eyes as they flashed in the dim moonlight.
A flash of silver, the slave looked down, a spear was pointing through his stomach. He laughed "I screwed up, didn't I?" The madness vanished from his eyes, it was replaced by tears.
"I didn't mean to. But the man, he pushed me." He was coughing out blood.
"I understand the man... But why her?" Deaven was crying as well.

"I lost it, I-I..." His head fell. Deaven let off the spear he went on his knees, he crawled to the girl. She was dead. Deaven ran his hand over her face.
The tears in his eyes multiplied when he felt how cold she was.
Deaven looked up, and he screamed. He screamed harder than ever.

"Mister... Mister." Someone was pulling Deaven by his sleeve. Deaven snapped awake, the small figure jumped back in fright.

"Ah, sorry. I was sleeping." A small girl was standing before him. She gathered her courage.
"I want to go somewhere," She said, determination in her eyes.
Deaven smiled warmly, although it might have not looked as warm as he meant it to look, "Where do you want?"

"Home."

"Where is... Home?" Asked Deaven.

"It is where father is."

"And where is your father?"

She was going to say something, but then a woman came in the ccabin.

"Sweetie, I looked allover for, you. Never go off like that again. I'm awfully sorry sir."

"Don't be, This is why I'm here." He breathed in, "Where is it you want to go?" Deaven asked.

The woman ´stayed silent for a minute but then spoke "To the south, to the isles of Majuscule."

Deaven nodded and wrote it down. The woman took her daughter out, by the hand. After they were gone, Deaven fell asleep... And drifted to dream world.