The mood of the crew was like the ocean's waves; low and turbulent. The grief at Mors' end laid heavy on the crew, concealed by morose expression, But in the eyes of each of his crew members Cygnus could see the seeds of madness being planted. The rambling may have died down, but the fear remained. Grief made one do strange things, as did fear, and the both at once would create discord on the ship. Stuck in azure sea for the next few days at the very least, with limited food and water, the scene before him was looking to unfold into chaos. Mors' death had shaken him as well, but hadn't uprooted him as it did some of the others. If he didn't get control of the situation now, then later it would erupt in his face and blind him. There was only one place to start: Altair.<br/><br/>Cygnus slunk off from the rest of the crew, heading below decks. The floorboards of the ship's interior creaked and groaned in the low timbre of an old man, damp with the salt water of the sea. Strewn across the floor were a number of objects; sticks, rope, and shards of broken glass from oil lanterns that had tumbled to the ground during the storm. It smelled strongly of ocean down here, where the water had leeched into the ship's lumber.<i>I have yet to see any man set foot down here, even though they are all tired. The storm has shaken them. Could it be that the men see this as some godless place, </i>he thought. Save for the time where the slaves had been herded below decks, no one else had returned gone below decks.<i>With Altair here, they fear the wrath of whatever god or goddess that has proffered their patronage to him. </i><br/><br/>The prison had been separated from the rest of the interior of the ship by a thin wall, and he stepped past the divide and into the gap between the cage's walls and the walls of the divide. As far as he could see every slave was accounted for, including Altair, who laid curled up like a turtle on the floor. Plucking the key from the nail which it hung from, the nail embedded into the thick beam that made the entrance, he opened the cage.<br/><br/>As Altair rambled, he felt anger rising to his cheeks.<i>Forgiveness? I do as my god asks. He asks me to plunder and spread my seed so that more might plunder when I pass, and you ask me for forgiveness. The only reason I would have to do that is if I let someone geld me. </i>Altair spoke with the inflection of one who had less to fear than others, the storm having given him a foolhardy strength. Despite being choked and drained of his blood, Altair was still asking for more punishment.<br/><br/>When Altair mentioned how he prayed that the ship remained only crewed enough to land shore, Cygnus snapped. In a second he had kicked Altair in the side, drawing the cutlass that was bound at his side. The next the cutlass laid at the slave's neck, like a dog rearing on its haunches, ready to snap its fangs. "You... prayed. And your prayers were answered. My crew survived, except for one. The one you marked in blood, Mors," he snarled. "Mors had been one of my senior men. He had joined my crew when he was a sprightly boy, and I watched the salt season him into a hardened pirate. And yet. Yet, he fell overboard, a novice mistake."<br/><br/>For a moment, Cygnus pondered driving the cutlass into Altair's neck in vengeance for Mors.<i>You marked him with blood, I'll mark you with yours, </i>he thought. His blade was straight and true, the hands behind it still with indecision. Then he pressed the blade against Altair's neck, leaving a thin cut. When the cut began to bled he pulled the blade back, binding it at his waist once more.<i>No. You will live another day. But the more I look at you, the more I consider selling you elsewhere. </i>"Perhaps you should watch your prayers, because your prayer will earn you a spot in the collection of a sadist. Or you will find worse fates before we reach the shore. Oh, I won't kill you. But you've forgotten my warnings, and there are always consequences."<br/><br/>He reached down and grabbed hold of Altair's chin, coating his hand in blood. With his other hand he knotted his fingers through Altair's golden mane. Then he smeared the blood across Altair's face, all while he forced Altair to stare into his icy eyes. "The whip might terrify you, but there are worse things than the whip. Is that slave brand important to you? A pretty Dusanian bird told me, once upon a time, that brands indicated what a slave was worth. I'm not quite sure if that was true, because she said so to me before I sent her to a travelling circus of exotic fuckers. They made her fuck a number of... exotic animals," Cygnus mused. "Give me a reason to not flay that from your body."