Diens had extended his arm forward to Altair, though he did not encroach any further into the slave's area. If t<br/>he slave wished to accept the aid, then he could — if not, then he could continue to sit on the floor and let the planks leech the heat from his bones.  Some men could be like that, unwilling to accept help, even if it were apparent that there was no detriments to come from it. There was no use in him expending energy into a sullen child if he wasn't tasked with them. Altair soon reached for his arm, clasping his fingers around Diens' steady grip as he was braced and made to stand. Altair could stand, but there was nothing stable about his posture; immediately, the lithe man placed himself against Diens for support.<i>No wonder, </i>Diens thought.<i>Chilly as an icicle but without the stiffness of one. You tremble like a branch. Your wound has started to fester. </i>"Come, now. It's only a short distance to the bed."<br/><br/>There was a scent that came from Altair which tickled his nostrils. The scent of illness. Undoubtedly Altair was ill; his wounds were fresh and untreated. A pirate ship would likely lack the elixirs and remedies that would stave off infection, and even if they hadn't lacked such medicines they wouldn't be eager to use them on a common slave. Snow had promised the man that he would be nursed back to health. His lord would deliver upon the promise, and spend every bit of medicine they had upon them if he needed to. But even if they did squander all of their cures, would the slave pull through? He was a slim man with the pallor of a ghost, possessing a will of one who had long existed bent to the whims of a master. Often the strong-willed only prevailed in a battle of soul and shell, and what he had seen of the slave thus far was cowardice and weakness.<br/><br/>Altair had settled himself back to the mattress, this time seating himself on the edge of the bed coiled in Snow's blanket. A curious tone greeted his ears as the slave spoke, asking him about himself and what he had been before. "I have served, and I have always served," Diens said. "Before Snow I had served his father. Before him, two others. And before that... I was a boy before that, training to become who I am tonight." The man was blatantly showing his ignorance, of the politics of Weiss and its hierarchies. "Some were born to serve. Others to lead. More are both."<br/><br/>"I serve in whatever ways I can. In the ways that I have been trained," Diens explained. "Here in Weiss, there is a place that has long  been called the<i>Rookery. </i>A cluster of spiraling towers, tendrils upon tendrils wrapping themselves together to form a hold of sorts. A place crafted out of magical stone, earth and ice, protected by dragon's radiance. They say that the first King of Weiss, Tilmaris Snow, had the place built after seeing his people begin to slay kin for perceived birthrights and inheritances. Many younger sons are sent there, educated, trained, crafted into<i>corvuses. </i>A<i>corvus </i>serves as a wise man to whoever he is bound to, to protect his lord and guide him through to the bitter end. I myself had been sent away to the Rookery, raised to serve."<br/><br/>Diens was not amused in the slightest at the slave's suggestion. "You may think of me as a guard, but never presume me to be a bed warmer. It would be a shame and taboo to share a bed with my lord. I was there to see him emerge from his mother's cunt with my own eyes. I was there to watch him grow. The very thought of it is wrong. Speak no more of that," Diens declared. "Words like that will be your undoing, and there are some who would add more scars to your body for uttering such drivel. I will not deign to hear you slander my lord."<br/><br/>Altair told him that he bore Snow no malice. "As should be. If you did, then I would not hesitate to hurl you from this ship with my own hands."