<div style="text-align: center"><span style="font-size: 15px"><span style="font-family:Open Sans"><b>Warning : Non-con heavy, floggings, and graphic depictions of torture. No, it does not get better soon.</b></span></span>​</div><span style="font-size: 15px"><span style="font-family:Open Sans"><br/>
Altair knew something was wrong. The ship had lurched during the night, and suddenly there was shouting to be heard upstairs on deck. Originally, he thought they may have hit something in the water. He was in the hold with a handful of other slaves, dull enough that they showed no concern. They were common slaves, some laborers, some older pleasure slaves. Altair, on the other hand, was part of their exotic stock, coming with a handful of goods procured in the tropical southern region of Dusan. He'd been raised there, changing hands a good number of times before having the misfortune of being transported like common grain. Dusanian slaves were not common outside of their home country but usually fetched a high price. They were sculpted from a young age to excel in many different skill sets and were often educated. Altair himself spoke several languages and could read, write, and transcribe. His major fault to foreigners was his age, though slaves in Dusan were usually treated more like fine wine. He was thirty-four, but still possessing the beauty and grace that came from good Dusanian breeding. He was tall, standing just over six feet, lithe, with the build of an experienced dancer; which he absolutely was.<br/>
<br/>
Many of his skills had gone un-noted, mostly because these foreigners knew nothing about the abilities a slave could possess. Before chaos broke out on the ship, Altair's main worry had been his sellers inability to market him properly. Now it seemed he would be thrust into a whole new set of problems.<br/>
<br/>
He was tied below with rope binding his wrist behind his back while most others were shackled. Altair was not known for trying to make any sort of crafty escape. He was raised a slave, and took pride in his role and training. He wore a simple silk sash, once elegant in its appearance, now betrayed by filth. He had braided his long blond hair, it laying over one shoulder so as keep it from the worst of tangles, still mindful of his appearance. Vanity was an important thing for a slave. His skin, though dirty, was creamy pale, though free of any blemishes and scarring aside from a Dusanian brand on his right hip.<br/>
<br/>
“If the ship sinks, will they leave us?” Altair questioned, trying to get some sort of answer out of the other slaves. Pale hazel eyes tried to decide if he should feel anxious or not. It was the first time he decide now would be the time to try to wriggle free of his bindings. If his slavers would not see to his care, instead choosing to let him go down with the ship, he would have to take matters into his own hands.<br/>
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“It's not sinking. You can hear their dialect above; just pirates. Nothing to worry over, just another change of hands,” the eldest slave clarified, seeming unconcerned.<br/>
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“Excuse me? Pirates?” Altair paused his attempt at escape to wrap his head around the idea. He knew very little about them, just stories from his childhood.<br/>
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