The Uprising

Deaven:

He was taken aback. He turned his attention to Galea "I must say. I didn't expect that."

Galea nodded "Neither did I."

"This is the most interesting slave ship I have ever been on... Yet." He sighed "Not the most unusual."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Ever been on a ship full of vampires?"

"Oh." Galea answered.

"Oh. indeed." He shifted his weight to his left leg. He was beginning to loose feeling on his back, he couldn't determine if that was a good or a bad thing. All in all, he had got a boost from the girl. Videl they called her. He was up and going again, although not in the best condition though.

"So the trickster knows how to fight. But that is something we don't have to tell to Machavel... Now do we?" He smiled.

Galea smirked for a second.

"You do know that Machavel might target you as well. He seems to hate me as much as I hate him."

"I know. Videl doesn't probably like you either."

"My new personal record. Two new enemies in two days." He cracked his fingers.

He was holding his piece of rope in his left hand. He was thinking of something. "Galea. Do you know how to fight?"

"Yes. Why?"

"We could use the rope. Anything to be blunt can be used... Any ideas?"

Galea
Labor Slave

Did she know how to fight? Hell no. The closest she had come to ‘fighting’ was in the fields with straw targets and a bow and arrow. Fighting, hand to hand fighting involved knocking someone’s knees out from under them and running away while they caught their balance.

"We could use the rope. Anything to be blunt can be used... Any ideas?"

She was quiet a moment. “You do realize that now that the storm’s calmed down, they’ll be coming back to collect the rope?”

He stared at her. “Anything can be used. I, for one, do not look forward to yet another master.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not looking forward to it either, guy, but if you’re not going to think about this, I’m not sitting with you.”

He continued to stare at her for a moment before leaning back against the bars. “What, then?” he half-snapped at her. That was almost as surprising as Videl’s scars, particularly the heart one. It would seem that someone had tricked the trickster before she landed here.

“The guards come, we use the rope and whatever else we have against them, which isn’t much. We get out. Bravo for us. But now we have an entire crew to overthrow, a ship to govern, and slaves from all corners of the known world to return, when we don’t even know where we are. Add to that the fact that we’ve been half-starved with the disgusting slush they bring down, and the fact that we’ve been doing nothing but sitting these passed few weeks while they’ve been keeping healthy, and you have nothing that resembles a good plan.”

He was angry again, this time with her.

“At least I’m willing to do something other than sit here waiting to be delivered to a—”

”Maybe that’s what you need to do. Sit down and think a moment. You’ve got motives for getting out. Clearly, they’re important to you. You.” she emphasized with a finger on his shoulder. He balked at her.

“You want me—expect me—to do nothing? I’m not going to give up so easily, Galea. I’ve been a slave most my life. You haven’t, so you wouldn’t understand. Maybe you can do nothing, but I won’t. I’m not going to let this happen to me again.”

She stared at him, locking her eyes with his. He didn’t flinch.

“Deaven, you will either do nothing, or you ruin everything.”

“Everything.” His tone was pure sarcasm. He waved his hand around in the air, gesturing to the cell in general. “Everything.”

She didn’t follow his hand with her eyes, didn’t look away from his face. “If your reasons are really so important to you, you might want to think a bit more on how you act on them. If you want out, don’t put more security on yourself.” He studied her a moment.

“What are you saying?”

“Think on it.” she threw his earlier words back at him and studied the knot around her waist.

Lissa, Exotic Slave

She stared at her meal and groaned, slowly bringing to dish to her lips and taking a long pull of the liquid into her mouth and swallowing it down quickly. The taste was… it was the most horrendous thing she had ever put into her mouth, to say the least. Calling it “slop” was putting it far too kindly. However it did make her stomach cramp dissipate a little, and for that she was grateful. She slowly worked on finishing her “feast”, swirling the contents in the dish around. She wasn’t paying much attention, mindlessly eating, swirling, and eating again. Until a sound drew her concentration, a quiet scraping, metal on metal. She frowned slightly, glancing into her dish again.

There was not a lot of the slop left, just a thin layer coating the bottom of the bowl. But there was more in the bottom of the bowl than just the goop she had forced herself to swallow. Along with it, there was a key.

Not a special key, not shining and gold, it was just a regular key. It was perhaps the most beautiful thing Lissa had ever seen. She stared at it in puzzlement.

“There is a key in my goo.” She said absently.

“There’s a what?!” Ballow cried.

“Stop shouting you imbecile, you will alert a guard. He left a key, is your hearing somehow impaired?” Lissa snapped in a hushed tone.

Ballow grumbled something unintelligible but Lissa disregarded him.

It had not occurred to her that she had been left untied. She was so focused on the food that she had not even thought about the fact that her hands had been left free. She quickly worked the knots on her ankles and was soon free of restraints, much to her delight. She stared down into the dish again, hardly believing her eyes, before finally plucking the key out.

She worked her hand through the bars on her cage and pushed the key into the lock; she twisted, and grinned widely as she heard the faintest little “click”.

“Well, gentlemen, it appears as though one of our captors is not so deranged after all.”

Eamon D'Arnise

He stood on the stairs leading the slaves' hold, that cocky grin perched on his face. Above him, he heard the drunken cries of the slavers as they enjoyed their "Feast." Below him, the squabbles and pitiful moans of the slaves made him laugh and shake his head. Ah, memories. Eamon itched his back with the tips of his fingers, then leaned down to pick up the bucket of slop once more, balancing a rather impressive stack of bowls in his other hand.

"If you want out, don't put more security on yourself." Eamon lightened his step, treading softly down the steps to avoid drawing attention to himself.

"What are you saying?" A pause.

"Think on it."

Eamon cleared his throat rather loudly.

"Beggin' yer pardon, shackle monkeys...but it seems to me that if'n yer gonna plot an escape, yeh should be doin' it a little less... conspicuously." He stood at the base of the stairs, grinning from ear to ear. The slaves instantly snapped their gazes toward him, scowls and fearful looks prevalent. His grin only widened as he picked his victim. He unlocked the main door to the collective cage and stepped forward, his gait carrying him to the halfling (Galea, he recalled) standing near the three biggest trouble makers aboard.

"Blimey! They took children aboard?" He exclaimed with an exagerrated start. She glared at him and he only laughed, spinning a bowl on his finger a moment before plopping it into her hands. "Don't worry there, little tyke." He crouched down to her level, pouring some slop into her bowl and then ruffling her hair. He met her eyes evenly, holding them with his own piercing gaze. "Everything..." he began, emphasizing each word carefully. "Is going to be all right." He winked at her confused expression, then set the bucket and bowls on the ground. Before she could begin to ask why, he straightened and spun around, facing Deaven--whose reputation he knew very well--with a smile.

"I would not recommend trying the same trick twice, friend." He grasped Deaven's wrist, which had drifted toward the hilt of Eamon's rapier. "Here. Try this instead." He handed the troublesome slave a bowl and filled it to the rim, forcing Deaven to focus on balancing the slop while Eamon stepped out of reach.

Eamon turned away from Deaven with a dismissal wave. "Bob!" he exclaimed, spotting the familiar face. "How are you, my giant friend? Given the current circumstances, I mean."

"I am not your friend. But I am well, nonetheless," the big man said, his eyes narrowed and his arms crossed.

"Excellent! I trust your rowing goes well, and that the constant din that is our other not-friend Deaven here is not slowly driving you mad?" Eamon began scooping some slop into a bowl for the slave.

"Trust in whatever you wish."

Eamon grinned again, and without missing a beat, said, "I trust in many things. I trust that the gods will see us safely ashore. I trust that Deaven, wanting to keep his fingers, will not make another try for my blade. I trust the child here," he gestured vaguely to Galea, "will take my words to heart...I trust that the world has a sense of order, even if that order is nothing more than sheer chaos. What do you trust in?" He extended the bowl to "Bob," who took is and sloshed it around without taking a sip.

"I trust you to be untrustworthy. Where are the regular guards? You don't come down here often, so what's changed?"

Eamon ignored the question, focusing instead on the answer. "A very wise thing to trust, aboard a ship filled with men who would trade the likes of yourself for a mere fortune of shiny metal." He scooped another dish for one of the other slaves, handing it off without looking at them. "The question is...if all aboard the ship are as myself, and all are to be mistrusted...can any of us truly trust one another?"

"Bob" blinked slowly. "You've come down here to trade philosophies on the nature of people such as yourself? Flattering as that is, seems to me like only you would know the truth of that."

"No, no. I've come to feed you, of course--hence, the slop--I merely prefer to make conversation as I work. Though you do bring up an interesting point--" Eamon matched gazes with the giant. "--If I cannot trust them, to whom should I turn?"

"That said, I honestly don't feel like feeding each and every one of you. So I'm going to leave your bucket of slop right here--I highly recommend you eat it, it's delicious--and leave you to your misery!" With that, he plucked the beret from his head and swept into a deep bow before striding from the room, his boot heels clicking smartly against the deck.

Deaven:

When Eamon left, Deaven found himself holding the bucket... In the middle of a hungry bunch of slaves.

"Oi, don't look at me like that, you will all get your... Slob."

He put the bucket on the ground. "Make a line for god sake." He said.
"There is enough for everyone."

The slaves made a line, oddly enough the two love slaves were first and not too far behind was Machavel, "Bob" and Kester.

"Here is your luxurious meal, our little trickster." He said while pouring the slob into Videl's bowl.

The rest of the sharing went without problems. When everyone had got their slob Deaven poured the little what was still there into his own bowl.

It was disgusting. He sighed, maybe Galea was right, he wasn't normally this hasty. He had to slow don a bit. Think things through.
What is it we need to get out of here? When, where and how?

They still had the ropes, they weren't much but they were a start. If they got out of here who were the people who knew how to fight?
Galea had lied to him that was for sure. She could fight but her speciality was as sure as hell not close combat.


They needed a map, a compass and a hostage. Someone who knew where they were going. The captain? Or Eamon?

He sat up. Around using his skills that he had learned in his many hunting sessions when he was still a kid. Silently, unheard or seen, he went around scanning people that could fight or help in a though situation.

The guard were not down in the cells now, they were all in their cabins or on the deck.

The exotic slaves were still in their own cell. The exotic slaves could become handy at some point.

What they needed was a way of getting magic. The exotic slaves could help them in that, but they needed a way to get to them.

He though about it. He got it.

He walked to Galea, "I need your help."
"I hope this isn't one of your crazy ideas again."

"No this is one of the less crazy ideas."

"Let me hear it." She sighed.

"We need something that can wear away wood."

"Are you planning to make the ship sink?" She joked

"No. I'm trying to make a small hole, where sound can travel through to the cell of the exotic slaves.

"The what slaves?" She looked a bit confused.

"Slaves that can use magic. Or are just somehow non-human." He explained.

"We don't even know how thick the wall is."

"It isn't that thick, and also the moist air makes it softer. So what do you say?"

"What if the guard find it."

"I did say a small hole didn't I. Besides they never come in here unless they want us to do something."

Two guards came in.

"Speak of the devil." Galea said

"We're taking you rowing." One of the guards said.

That was when Galea coughed something out of her mouth. It was a key.

"It seems that the man isn't as much our foe as we first thought." Whispered Deaven.

Eamon D'Arnise

He sat atop His barrel of grain once more, whistling to himself and turning a throwing dagger over in his fingers. This particular dagger had recently been stained with the blood of one of the many sentries posted around the ship, the body dumped overboard, never to be found. His lips puckered into a confused pout as two drunken guards staggered onto the upper deck and his whistle ended in the high note normally reserved to punctuate a question. He watched them stumble together, each helping hold the other afoot, and frowned as they began to descend the steps leading the slave cages.

"Ah, the drunken fools. Now they won't even get a chance to fight back," he said with a smile. He counted to ten, anticipating any second for the fight to break out--after all, he'd supplied the slaves with everything they needed to begin the uprising. But the cries of battle did not come, and the two guards climbed the stairs moments later, two slaves in tow. Eamon shook his head in shock as Galea and Deaven looked from each other to him, and he offered them a shrug. Leave it to the slaves to figure out a way to ignore the perfect escape opportunity...

"Rowin' duty fer you two!" One of the slavers slurred, poking Deaven forward with his dagger.

"The oars are below deck, you drunken swine," Deaven retorted.

"Oy, shut it, you!" the other guard roared, slamming Deaven with the small club he kept on hand. The club smashed Deaven right between the shoulder blades, throwing him to the deck. Galea let out a small cry and rushed to his side, and the two slavers strutted forward to do more damage--the first blows had been thrown, and in their drunken state, the rules were lost to them.

"Bloody fools," Eamon muttered, flipping the dagger up into his fingers tip first, then letting fly at the nearer of the two guards. He took it in the neck, the fine point severing neatly the artery there and spilling his life blood. He opened his mouth to scream but couldn't find his voice, and his partner stopped dead in his tracks--literally, for a second and third dagger stuck from his chest in the seconds that followed.

Eamon, no longer seated atop his barrel, stood at ease, his hand resting comfortably at the hilt of his rapier. He strode to the dying slavers and crouched next to them, smirking. "And that, my friends, is why slavery rum is very bad for your health." They died quickly, grasping at wounds they could not hope to close. That makes six, Eamon thought, mentally tallying the number of crewmen dead.

"Oy. Little girl--how's your mate?" Eamon asked.

" Rarely better than he is now, I think," the halfling said dryly. "Who are you again?"

"Just your average, no good, downright evil slaver, little one," Eamon cooed, as if to a child, as he slid the three daggers from the slavers' corpses and wiped them off. "Did you find the secret prize hidden in your dinner, little girl?"

She glared at him, but the curiosity beat her. "Indeed. Was actually wondering who may have put it there. Why--"

"Why help you? Because my employer doesn't like his merchandise damaged," Eamon said with a wink. She probably wouldn't catch the sarcasm, but he didn't mind terribly. "Let's get him back downstairs," he said after an awkward silence. "I suggest you feed him some more slop--it'll fix him right up." He helped her carry the semi-conscious Deaven back down the stairs, closing the barred door behind them.

Now...to dispose of the bodies. He thought with a small sigh as he climbed the stairs once more.

Ballow

Ballow glanced at Lissa, for some reason he had taken a dislike to her personality and even though he knew he probably would have a chance of escaping he just had to yell a little when she told him there was a key.

“There’s a what?!” Ballow cried.

He thought back on it with a smile, but then frowned as he heard a click of the cage door opening.

He glanced up and her, Should I call the guards? Or will she be willing to help me? He put this into words, with a threatening voice, "You gonna save me or am I gonna dob you in?"

He stared at her with unwavering eyes even though he really wanted just to call the guards and make them put her in a smaller cage, but figuring that this might be his only chance of escape he kept his eviller naure toned down a bit.

He licked on of his canine teeth and waited for the reply.

Galea
Labor Slave

She went down the steps first, Deaven behind her only because Mr. Average Slaver was helping to hold him up, followed by said slaver. Two guards dead in the span of a couple seconds, and the worst that was happening to her was that they were being led back to their cells by the killer. With the key that Mr. Average had left for them. She heard the door close behind her and risked a glance back. Guy was gone, and Deaven was slumped on the ground, groaning and holding his head. There was no click.

She ignored him for the moment, not having anything she could do for him, and looked around. The slaves were looking at them with curious looks and more than a few raised eyebrows. They had since untied the clumsy knots done by the slavers and were sitting somewhat scattered about the cell. She let her eyes settle on the group in the corner and clasped her hands behind her back to keep her fingers from shaking. She cleared her throat.

Videl straightened, paying full attention to the Halfling, as was everyone else. They were all staring at her. Not good. She swallowed to wet her mouth and throat and fought the urge to sit down in the furthest, darkest corner, and pretended the eyes didn’t bother her. Instead, she straightened her posture and kept her eyes straight ahead as she brushed passed Deaven on her way to the corner. Blondie kept his face blank, a common trait of his, it seemed, and Machavell raised an eyebrow, but to his credit, held his tongue. She didn’t bother sitting. As it was, she was only taller than them by a head.

She felt the eyes digging into her back as much as she felt her skin turn cold against her. She closed her eyes in what looked like a blink, but was really mean to help her compose herself. She glanced back over her shoulder at the door. Deaven was still half-conscious, the world not doubt spinning around him and his vision half black. The group looked at her expectantly, Machavell impatiently, and she took out the key. She had taken it from Deaven when the guard had knocked him with the club.

She immediately saw the change in the group’s posture, but her face didn’t change. They thought she had taken it from one of the guards, jumped them perhaps. She fought back a snicker. “Jumping” is what Halflings do to other Halflings, and humans to Halflings and other humans. Focus. She cleared her throat again.

“We’ve got a gift.”

“Stolen, by any chance?” She met Machavell’s cool gaze with a blank one of her own. No time for this. He had given them a key, had murdered the two guards coming out with them, and had led them back in here. Mr. Average indeed.

She jerked her head to the now-empty bucket. “In the food. The man left it with us on purpose.”

“Did he.” From Blondie. Galea studied him a moment, but again, his face showed nothing.

She shrugged half-heartedly.
“The guards are dead. He killed them when we were taken out.” She held up the key. “Not a clue what he’s about, but I’d rather face his trouble somewhat free than chained and locked.” She raised an eyebrow, daring them to question her. They did, very much. She saw it in their eyes. They didn’t say anything, though. Instead, Videl popped up with a cheeky tone.

“And what does your key unlock, Gally?”

Ignore the eyes behind you. Ignore the tone. She didn’t answer at first, only shrugged. “He didn’t lock the door behind him.”

Deaven groaned loudly, the world was starting to come back to him, and judging by his tone, it wasn’t at all a pleasant experience. She looked at the blond boy and held her hand with the key out, silently asking for his wrists.

“It couldn’t hurt to try, Blondie.”

He regarded her a moment before holding out his hands. She swallowed again. Three or four pairs of eyes she could handle. An entire room of them? All boring into her, watching her every movement, listening to her every word? She released a breath through her teeth and turned the key in the lock. There was a click, and the shackles visibly loosened. Blondie jerked his wrists, dropping the shackles in his lap.

There was a moment, a single moment of stillness, then all hell broke loose, everyone wanting unlocked at once. Good. Chaos she could deal with it. She released a breath in relief.

”Lines!” she called, clicking the locks as they came. After the first three, Videl and Machavell among them, the chaos was more or less controlled as she unlocked the remaining shackles on the few other slaves. By time she was done, Deaven was sitting up, rocking back and forth and holding his head.

“Too loud…” he moaned when Galea clicked free his shackles. She gave him a pat on the arm.

“That’s what headaches are all about.”

Elias

"I'm letting Elias out first," Lissa said in response to Ballow. Elias did not move and showed no signs of having heard her. Steadily sipping his food, he watched as Lissa fitted the key into his cell door and quietly clicked it open. She moved inside to release him from his restraints.

"Are you going to sit there all day?" she hissed. Elias shook his head and drained the rest of his slop before holding his chains out. The key fit smoothly into that lock too and they fell away with a jingle. Elias held his breath. One, two, three... No sound of alarm came from above, no step, step on the stairs. They were safe for now.

"Hurry up and get me out," Ballow growled in a low, sharp tone. Elias pressed his hand gently across Lissa's, the one holding the key. She looked confused but relinquished it. He walked slowly to the next cell, Lissa following. Ballow was pressed tightly against the bars as if this may lead more quickly to his escape and his bowl of slop lay forgotten, half full on the floor.

"Drink your slop," Elias whispered. "You'll need the strength."

"What?" Ballow demanded with a disgusted look at the churning, brown mush. He edged away from it, as if it were armed, armed with a big dollop of disease.

"Drink your slop like a good little dog," Elias instructed. Ballow refused, kicking the bowl over. "Fine. Your loss." Elias turned the key in the lock and stepped back as Ballow sprinted out, expanding into the room like a spring. His eyes darted about, he saw the stairs and hurried up them, only pausing at the door.

Following more slowly, the others found their way to the stairs and Lissa began to ascend but Elias stopped. It was dark and objects could barely be discerned from the shadows they cast but Elias squatted and ran a hand across the smooth lid. He pried his fingers underneath it, finding it unlocked.

"What've you got there?" Ballow asked, looking down but reluctant to move away from the door.

"A present from our good friend, the freak," Elias replied. He eased the well oiled lid open and reached inside, steadily. On top were three belts with slits and holsters for holding... weaponry?

"Put these on," Elias whispered, placing two of the belts on the bottom step. He fastened the third about his hips and settled it in place. His fingers delved back into the chest, he felt the sharp edge of a blade. He navigated across to the hilt and pulled out the short sword. Ballow bounded down the stairs at the glint of metal, strapping the belt on and grabbing for the weapon.

"Mine, mine, mine!" Lissa hushed him with a glare but Elias dutifully passed the weapon across. Then there was a crossbow and a neat pile of bolts, a set of large daggers, another of throwing knives, a spiked mace and... something else. Elias passed the weapons around as he found each one, the crossbow and bolts to Lissa, one large dagger to Lissa, the throwing knives to Ballow who reached eagerly for them, the mace and the four remaining daggers he put in his own belt and there was a pouch just the right size for the unfamiliar object.

"There's more than enough for three," Lissa noted. Elias nodded.

"We could not take the ship alone but this, this says there are other slaves on board. I'll look after the spares for the moment."

"And why's that?" Ballow demanded, holding the throwing daggers and short sword firmly. As if he knew how to use them which Elias did not doubt.

"Because I've no need for any," he said simply. Ballow frowned at this but the matter was dropped as all three ascended the stairs and creaked the door open a little.

"Me first," Ballow insisted.

"Suits me just fine. But scream plenty loud enough if someone sticks a knife in you."

Deaven:

The guard hit him, and then everything went blank. He woke up in the middle of Galea's "Speech".

He groaned.

When he had finally gotten the shackles off his wrists he felt a tiny bit better.

But the sounds were still too loud.

“That’s what headaches are all about.” Galea said. Deaven managed to smirk.

"We better go back to the deck," Deaven said. As they were going up the stairs "The man," came to meet them. "I have something to say."
And the three got on the deck.

Machavel was still with his group.

"The man" walked to the middle of the slaves, he had something to say.

Bastard, Dijon thought. He walked in with cocky words and mischievous eyes, breezed out again and left disorder and chaos in his wake. Dijon narrowed his gaze at that thought; this madehim even less trustworthy then before and more dangerous besides. What semblance of order there once was had vanished; routine, no matter how ugly or degrading was comforting and safe. Dijon didn’t like how quickly things were moving, was disinclined to trust the nature of the events unfolding around him.

The Halfling looked up at him as he approached. She barely reached passed his thigh in height. Despite his observations of her disagreeable nature – she sat with the half-dead, impetuous one after all – he couldn’t help but feel a rush of affection for her. She was so small! A distant cousin perhaps, of the pygmies to the South.

She snorted. “You’re going to have to bend down; I’m certainly not jumping up to you.”

He stared down at her. Slowly, he reached behind himself, feeling the trembling Shirin in his grasp. If this felt quick to him, how must it seem to her? He brought her round, placed her in front of the Halfling, who looked at her something like affection. “Hello, my name’s Galea.”

Shirin nodded at her, biting off the word. “Shirin,” and holding shaking hands out. The shackles were unlocked. The rest of them were quickly freed and for a moment, amidst the swaying, gentle rocking of the ocean, they milled about in confusion. To be so suddenly thrust into freedom was no little thing. More then a few of them looked beyond the bars in trepidation, as though fearing a trap.

“Where is that playful bastard, then?” Dijon asked.

Startled, Galea looked up. “I-I don’t know. He killed those guards with ease though, smiling all the while.” She bit her lip.

“And do we know why he’s decided to help us? And why now?” Machavell asked.

“He said something about his master needing to protect the merchandise,” Galea said, distaste in her voice at the recollection.

Players. Machinations. How he despised the “civilised” world. “I will not trade one kind of slavery for another. First thing is first, we need to arm ourselves. Before he changes his mind or the guards stir from their slumber,” Dijon said.

They stared at him, eyes wide. He realised that was the most he’d ever said to them at one time. He shuffled his feet, awkwardly. Sudden anger made him thrust his head forward. “Well?”

They jumped and were all a-jumble in their acceptance – “Oh yes,” and “Of course, that’s the wisest option,” and faintly, behind the others, “It’s ‘we’ now, is it?” And still, no one moved. Silence for a long moment, the open door beckoning.

“Honeysuckle!” Deaven blurted out.

All eyes swung to him. He smiled up stupidly at them. Dijon blinked slowly at him, once, twice and then turned on his heel and strode out. It would be good to have a weapon in his hands once more. Into the hall beyond and once there, he carefully surveyed the space ahead. No sign of guards. He edged forward, seeking a storage space of some kind, a place for weapons and cargo. There were three doors ahead and one stood open, warm light spilling out in invitation. Dijon stopped; immediately something bumped into him. He glanced back, into Shirin’s timid smile.

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

“Be careful,” he whispered back at her. “Wait here.”

The others were spaced out behind them, in a long line. He hurried forward, rushing into the room, prepared to make use of the advantage of surprise. Of course, there was no one there. Their “friend” had taken care of that. The room was covered in racks of weapons and chests of spare armour; this obviously served as the ship’s makeshift armoury. Dijon quickly spied his gear; his boots, pants and shirt. The shirt was torn and stained; in worse condition than the pathetic shift he was wearing now. Snarling, he tore it off and with it, the last vestige of the placid slave. Modesty be damned but it felt good to have clothes on, once more. He grabbed a leather sleeveless vest such as a blacksmith might wear, found it to be roughly of size and approving, began to rummage through the weapons.

He grabbed a brace of knives, slid one into his boot and slung the other about his waist. He could see no staff - his favoured weapon - but there was a massive, vicious looking double axe. It was still coated in dried blood around the edges. Growling his approval he grabbed it, loving the heavy feel of it as it tested his muscles. He moved back to the doorway, looking out. The rage, so recently cooled, was beginning to thaw and steam. The beginning of his vengeance was at hand. He blinked, saw the group staring at him, suddenly armed and scowling and wondered what they must be thinking.

Dijon stood aside, clearing his throat. “It’s clear.”

They rushed in as he stood guard. Unmindful of them, finding himself to anxious to sit still, he wandered off toward the stairwell. There was, he could hear now, movement above. He cautiously began to make his way up the stairs, the creak of the ship and groan of the wind helping to mask his stealthy approach. He could hear voices now, as he crept onto the next level.

Two…things stood before him, backs turned. One, tall and with a shock of white air, fairly seethed with malice – a demon of some sort, but malnourished and obviously weakened; the other was small, bald and grey, looking like a wiry old man with stubs of leathery wings on his back. Dijon’s eyes widened. He’d only heard rumours of these creatures. He was just in time to catch its closing remarks.

"Suits me just fine. But scream plenty loud enough if someone sticks a knife in you."

Whatever retort the demon was going to make was halted abruptly, as he felt a knife point jab into his back. The Gargoyle’s eyes widened as his statement became near prophetic. The demon twisted its head to regard him, a certain arrogance in its movements. As though it had the leisure to move slowly and could kill him at any moment. An arrogance that very quickly drained out of its face.

“Names, now. What are you doing here?” Dijon said.

“Ballow,” the demon-thing said quickly. The Gargoyle was still staring at him boggle-eyed and behind him, Dijon could just make out another figure.

“Sweet, misbegotten balls; it’s a freaking giant!” he squeaked.

Dijon jabbed the knife into the demon, who squirmed and blurted. “The demented frog-thing is called Elias. And behind him is Lissa. We were imprisoned but we’ve been freed now.”

“I’m perfectly capable of talking for myself, thank you,” Lissa said coolly, stepping into the light. Behind him, Dijon heard the others beginning to clamber up. Despite her words, she hardly looked fit – her hair was a mess, eyes wild like one who had smoked the noxious tirsang weed for too long. There was no love lost between these three but there was more to them then met the eye; not for nothing had they been separated from the others. Individuals of power, then.

“My name is Dijon,” he said, thrusting Ballow away from and sheathing the knife. Ballow hissed and spat, righting himself with speed. “And we, too, have just been freed.” He indicated a head behind him, where the others crowded still.

“And I will have my vengeance,” Dijon said, hefting the axe once more. His voice dropped to an animal growl. “Now get out of my way.” Not waiting for a response, he strode past them, his muscular bulk crowding most of the hallway. He strode up the next set of stairs, feeling the cool breath of fresh air play on his skin once more. This, then, finally led him onto the deck. Where the playful traitor stood waiting.

“Bob! Glad to see you made it,” he said.

“I wish I could say the same, Chuckles,” Dijon growled.

Chuckles – as Dijon now determined to call him – never lost his casual stance or easy smile. “Come now, Bob, can’t we be friends? If only for a moment. I have gone to an awful lot of effort for you.”

“Pah. You’ve done this for no one but yourself. I will not be chained so easily again.” The rage was boiling and stewing in him once more, making a wreckage of his insides. This was his true self; no longer need he conserve his thoughts and feelings, his memories – the most treasured possession a body had, that which made up his identity and that which must be protected at all costs – and so he loosed the axe in his hands, readying it for action.

Unease flickered in Chuckles eyes. Dijon strode forward, swinging mightily – Chuckles dodged it easily, squirming aside and behind with remarkable speed – even as the axe hit its intended target, sending the sneaking guard flying backward amidst a veritable wave of blood. It splattered against his face and Dijon bared his teeth, making his way across the deck. He picked up the body – still gasping, still breathing in a sick parody of life as a whole section of arm and chest dangled on by the slimmest of tissue – and threw it into the heaving, hungry depths.

He turned back to the man, who stood, daggers poised. Not so ready to smile, but confident once more. Not easily deterred this one.

“But I am not ungrateful. And you best have a damn good plan.”

Machavell
Labour Slave

And so it continued.

He had been thinking, quietly; the night's events had unfolded rapidly and he was determined to twist them to his advantage. He would have to be quick.

A guard. A traitor. A key to freedom. The motives of this slaver were yet unknown to Machavell. His jovial manner and nonchalant attitude were dangerous, that was certain, but Machavell needed every ally he could find. It was just all happening so quickly....

Machavell looked around him. He was free, but it was if Kester and Videl were still shackled to him. Like hounds that have been trained, the three of them returned to the corner they had been chained in. Machavell sighed inside. They were a team now, a trio of tricksters, and responsibility was creeping back into his life. Damn them, he thought. Damn them all.

Kester looked up at him. "We're going to have to work with them, you know," he said, voicing Machavell's own thoughts. "They can all be used. We just have to play carefully. This game is getting--"

"-- interesting," Videl finished, flashing a pointed grin. Kester looked at her, surprise splashed across his face.

"Yes," he said carefully, as if he thought she could see into his mind, "interesting."

Machavell, standing in-between the other two, noticed something change. It was if a rope had loosened and been refastened elsewhere. Kester looked at Videl with new paranoia, but her stance was altogether different. She seemed more interested in the blonde man, as if she was beginning to discover something beneath the indeterminate surface of his mind. Machavell, however, had more important things to do.

"Listen," he said, pleased to see both Kester and Videl cease their staring, "I don't know what you intend to do, but if you want to survive you'll listen to me. Deaven is incompetent; allow him to fashion his own fate and he will impale himself on it." Giggles and smirks at that. "Galea and Big Man will do most of the work. They have some sort of plan, at least. Any other slaves will follow them." Machavell ran his hand over his untidy beard. "And that is what we will do until a more opportune moment arises. Understand?"

"Yes."

"You've got it."

Machavell breathed deeply, calming himself inside. He was going to need every ounce of intelligence if he was to succeed. He had to play an integral part without compromising his own safety. Things were going to be tricky. Even as the thought came to him, "Bob" gave a grunt and made his way out of the cell. Others followed on, as he had predicted.

With a glance to each side Machavell moved to the end of the line. It was never cowards who hid at the back. No. It was the survivors.

Shirin Bedros, Love Slave

Air! Real air! She lifted her face to it, oblivious of the goings-on around her. She heard conversations but did not comprehend them, and smelled a sharp, metallic scent that she remembered from slaughtering day at the farm--but they did not touch her. The moment Shirin followed Dijon onto the deck, she lost all interest in anything but air.

Below, it had been stuffy, and rank with the smell of other human beings. She hated the way people smelled, with their sweat and musk (although for some reason, Dijon's smell had not irked her in the least). She hated being trapped up close with them, too. Winter was always the worst time, in Shirin's opinion. Maybe that was why she'd refused the slop. Dijon had been on the verge of urging her to eat--no doubt to 'keep up her strength'--when the halfling had found a key in her slop.

Thus, she was here, breathing clean, clean air. It was slightly cool, and the gusts of wind were almost biting, but it was refreshing. She felt revived.

Then she remembered where she was, and tucked herself back out of the way where she could still feel the breeze, but wouldn't be in the way.

As her head cleared (and her stomach began to growl) she found herself paying more attention to what was going on between Dijon and the slaver. Have we our liberty, then? she wondered. Is this at an end?

End? Shirin looked around her. Beyond the milling escapees--why hadn't anyone from the crew heard and come running?--there was only sea, miles and miles of sea.

Where was 'the end' anyway?

Dijon

“But I am not ungrateful. And you best have a damn good plan.”

Chuckles looked positively astonished. “A plan? I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He sheathed his knives, hooked thumbs in his best, looking for all the world as though he was on a stroll on a bright, lovely day.

Dijon growled. He wanted blood. “Where are the rest of the traitorous dogs aboard?” he asked, as the others fanned out, obviously appreciating the fresh air as much as he had.

“That would depend on who they’re betraying. We’ve all betrayed someone, at some point.”

“Speak for yourself, Chuckles,” Dijon replied, moving forward quickly. There was no need, he could see no one. The sentries, he took it, had already been disposed.

He was enjoying movement far too much; it had become a luxury and he was enjoying every minute of it. “However,” Chuckles said, drifting closer. “The traitorous dogs are the ones you want alive. Those whose blood you need spill can be found indulging in their preferred beverage."

Sounds of merriment and carousing could be heard, as he drifted closer to the afterdeck. The Captains Cabin would be beneath it, he thought and on this, the opposite side of the ship, the rest of the crew’s bunkers would be held. Would they be next to his? He wasn’t sure, it depended on the conceit of the man in question. Behind him, the others had all spilled out onto the deck. Ballow immediately made for the rails and after that, slunk about and around the circumference of the ship. As he passed his gaze over them, and all around, Dijon spotted a hatch opposite the deck, immediately to his right. Ah, the rat’s hole – this would be where they slept. He frowned in thought; close quarters weren’t to his liking.

Dijon narrowed his eyes. Best to make sure no one else was about, that Chuckles hadn’t missed anything. He didn’t seem the type – but Dijon instinctively mistrusted any notion of the man being a certain “type” – too much of it was presentation. Gods, but he was sly. No, best to be careful. He wouldn’t wrist this going awry. Carefully, he treaded back across to the others. If any slavers noticed, they likely thought it the footsteps of their now-dead compatriots.

“I’m going to check out the rest of the ship,” he said to them. He hesitated, on the verge of giving them orders, He wasn’t their leader however; he wasn’t anyone’s leader he thought bitterly. Chuckles glanced over it him, a sly amusement in his eyes. As he turned to walk away, he noticed the trio – Machavell, the elf-girl and Blondie – whispering fiercely. He took a minute to wonder what they could be up to, even as they began to walk away. Toward the Captain’s Cabin, he thought, but couldn’t be sure.

“You have a very pretty shadow, Bob, my man. Some day, you will have to show me the trick of it,” Chuckles said, suddenly. Dijon turned, startled, but somehow not surprised to be looking into Shirin’s eyes. In the heat of the moment, he’d almost forgotten about her.

“It’s not safe out here, girl. Best you go back to the hold.”

She blanched at that, shook her head furiously. “No, never that.”

Dijon hesitated, torn but time was of the essence and he couldn’t delay. “Fine, have it your way then. Be careful and stay out of the reach of my blade.”

Videl Vane Va'Teir

Videl followed everyone through the doorway, sticking close to Machavell and the blond. She didn't know why, but something had clicked between her and the blond boy, some odd sense of familiarity, yet she still felt tied to Machavell. She felt as if her intentions were being betrayed; she was beginning to trust Machavell. Definately odd.

The group came to a crashing halt as Bob entered an open door ahead of them. He seemed to be the leader of the group, everyone respected him, and everyone stopped when he did. Videl wouldn't, though. She didn't want to be controlled.

She shoved past everyone in the group as Bob left the room, making her way into the small hole and scanning for her actual clothes and weapon. She spotted them on a shelf near the roof. Of course, put the small one's stuff way up high. She mentally shrugged, climbing other shelves on the wall, much to the delight of the blond and Machavell. Idiots.

Videl grabbed her vest and pants along with her Katana, and jumped down. Slowly, she removed her skirt and replaced it with her pants. Machavell was watching her intently. She smiled, then removed her shirt, revealing her scars. She stopped for a moment, lavishing the feeling of cool air on her skin, then put on her vest and belt. She turned around. "You boys ready?" She asked, indicating Machavell and the blond.

They both nodded, but something inside her stirred. Her plans for revenge, the things she would need to do. It involved deep trickery and betrayal, something she was expert at, but with these two, she second guessed herself. Shrugging, she followed them out of the room and set course to follow Machavell.

"So, Mach - you mind if I call you that, Mach?- where're we headed?" Machavell didn't respond to her first question, but merely pointed ahead towards a marked door.

They were going for the captains quarters.