Dance didn't seem to be what it was in Dusan. Altair would have needed to be born privileged to carve out any sort of success for himself whereas in his country it was largely skill based. Well appreciated as well. Perhaps his novelty would be enough to attract attention. He wasn't aware of Weiss dances but was well learned in many other styles. Those that weren't successful in the arts apparently became laborers, an area Altair lacked knowledge of. Generally, he was fit, well tended with discipline and exercise, but never by manual labor. He was not that sort of slave, but then again Cygnus had no idea how to properly utilize him either. Altair was a conversationalist, often used to political settings where he might help to seek gain for his master, and in turn, himself. Sometimes that was simply showing off. Other times it was seducing another for useful information. Nothing Altair knew seemed to have much place in Weiss.<br/><br/>“I would guess. I doubt your brothels are anything like our own,” Altair answered. It wasn't something he wanted to risk, not to mention the thought of laying down with anyone in that moment made his skin crawl. His marked skin might only attract sadists, something he imagined more common given his experiences so far away from home. If most were full of women he would guess that was what most Weiss citizens preferred, so even in that Altair would be an oddity.<br/><br/>Diens promised to share his knowledge of Weiss for however long they were together. If he wasn't even sure of that Altair had no way of being. Once on shore, his future seemed uncertain and confusing, and so he prayed. Diens didn't seem as if he cared one way or another, going back to his silence. Altair had lost track of time when he stood, hardly comprehending what he'd even been muttering about. Altair wasn't so weary of Diens now, even when he reached to place his hand on his forehead and re-situate him. He couldn't bring himself to care, at least until it became apparent what Diens was doing. The blankets were pushed aside and Altair was only mildly irritated by that as a chill came over him. When he reached for the linens wrapped around his body Altair made an effort to push his arms away. He hadn't wanted anyone to see the marks across his back. They were evidence of his shame and a hideous reminder of his loss in value.<br/><br/>They'd not been well tended after they'd graced his flesh. He supposed he had himself to blame for that, and then again when he'd further depleted his body by being made to toss himself overboard. Altairs struggle to keep Diens from unraveling him would only last so long given his state. He'd only have to wait and the slave would cease his movements, resigned to letting this man see the grotesque crisscrossing that was once beautiful unblemished flesh. Altair didn't even know what it looked like himself. He could only imagine it and what it would look like once healed, if infection didn't take him first. The smell told him it was festering beneath the bandages, sticking to scabbed over skin in some places, other areas producing clear viscous liquid.<br/><br/>“They don't look like marks of pride, do they?” Altair asked, sounding bitter. They were what his pride had earned him, something Cygnus was quick to remind him of. “I don't know what I would have done differently if I had it to do all over again.” This was said more softly, like the musings of a madman.