<table width="100%"><tr><td style="vertical-align: top; width:50%; padding-right:10px;"><span style="color: #E6E9FD"><span style="font-family: Nyala;"><span style="font-size: 120%; line-height: 116%;">There was always something about hopelessness that made any man let down his guard. It didn't matter if you were a common civilian or a trained assassin, or if you were a good or a bad person; the sight of a desperate and helpless handcuffed to the floor, attached to an emaciated shadow of a man with a face hallow with futile sorrow would make any man crumble within. Slaver or not. The futile moans and cries of hunger and pain assured any guard that there would hardly be a fight to win if they so chose to. But it was that confidence that ultimately would strike them dead.<br/><br/>There were several 'rooms' in which the slaves were held, but as bad luck would have it, he was stuck with morons. Bloody buffoons who had no better idea than to be whipped and battered with each dramatically brave protest. It wasn't fancy, decent, nor was it courageous to put yourself on the line to ultimately be tortured for your own stupidity. Many have died, and those left at this point cut their losses, but the pathetic excuse for guards hadn't removed any of the corpses from their cells as of yet. Apparently they didn't want to risk them faking it. Even though they hadn't moved on their own in over a week. <br/><br/>But they did move. The rocking of the ship and the battering of the waves caused their limp limbs to toss around in their own filth, which ultimately was the entire rooms filth. It wasn't as bad today as it was the previous week when the bodies were fresh. Because when they were battered and bloodied, the pools of water that made its way down the deck flowed red and soaked into the food they had given us. And because of the sickness and diseases the people had gotten from their own food made them vomit their disease ridden food, adding a clumpy, mucus substance to the water that trailed into everyone's cells. The smell of decay didn't make it any better as they decomposed rather quickly due to the constantly shifting salt water that glided around them. Occasionally he would grasp a massive whiff of the dead, concentrated in salt water and wonder if he was still living at all and if he had gone to hell. But he was still here, along with a child's handful of others. He was still alive. But his life expectancy didn't seem to be extending any further in the eyes of the guards. <br/><br/>As the Seymirian heaved over himself and his chain, bile piling on the ground, one of the passing guards stopped in his heavy tracks and knelt down sinisterly  in front of the pale slave. The chef shuffled away from his dastardly grin, backing up against the wall. But with a simple step, he was closer to him than before, his face close enough for his eyes to start stinging from the horrid breath of the crooked tooth slaver. A severely untrimmed nail lifted and ran its way across his prominent cheek bones in his hollow cheeks, leaving a small amount of grim behind. His voice was just as disorderly as his hair. "We're almost there now, don't give up just yet." Because if he did, they wouldn't get any money off of his cold, dead flesh. A hoarse chuckle rumbled in the man's throat and he stood up and walked his way past the many graves.</span></span></span></td><td style="vertical-align: top; width:50%; padding-left:10px;"><span style="color: #E6E9FD"><span style="font-family: Nyala;"><span style="font-size: 120%; line-height: 116%;">Glaring at the back of his head, the Mortimer slid his tongue out of his mouth, a <a class="postlink" href="http://medicinalherbinfo.org/images/BloodrootLeaves.jpg">green, soggy leaf</a> laying flat against it. With an index finger and thumb, he pulled the wet leaf off and spat out the remnants onto the floor. The man always looked too closely at the wrong thing, the poor fool. If he hadn't taken that extra step, then maybe he would have noticed the corroded chain that was only millimeters away from being two chains. The slave rolled his eyes, but no sooner than that did they widen and more yellow stomach acid spewed out of his mouth, pouring onto his arm and chain. It was only a matter of time. He quickly wiped it off his skin. The waiting game was so boring. <br/><br/>And apparently some others did as well. He didn't know what the commotion was up on deck, but it was surprising to both him and the guard that the guard immediately left his post to investigate. After the man's disappearance, it only took a matter of seconds for the deck to explode with noise.Feet stomped over top of them and blood and water fell through the deck's cracks and onto the remaining slaves below. Bodies fell with rambunctious thuds and the floorboards did nothing to deflect the sounds of swords clashing and running through flesh, nor the bangs a boom of guns and the bullet holes they created. There was a fight. And the guard wasn't coming back.<br/><br/>With a wide, toothy grin, the botanist looked down at his chain and pulled. He yanked at the old iron and pushed off the wall wish his legs, pulling feverishly on the small strand that still kept him bound to the ship. Other slaves watched as if with awe, eyeing the small trails of blood that started to trail off his wrist. He groaned, pulling with his weakened arms, the chain not giving away. He glared at the sloppy mess covering the metal, taking a breath through his teeth. Determined to free himself, the man stood up, grabbing the chain with both hands. He inhaled, his chest expanding. Then, with an explosive tug, he hollered as the hefty shackles tore into his skin, but with the mighty tug, the chain broke loose, causing the man to tumble in the opposite direction and onto the floor. The other slaves cheered and clapped through the bars of their cells or slapped with clanking chains around their hands. It was a remarkable escape, they had so long wished to see, yet their savior left them under deck without a single word of assurance.<br/><br/>The Mortimer climbed up the stairs and grabbed the latch handle, pushing his shoulder into the heavy wood to open it. But a man tumbled backwards, landing on the partially opened hatch, closing it immediately with his weight. The man screamed, the shadow through the cracks, raising his hand to his attacker. But no mercy was shown as the blade pierced his neck, sliding through the flesh and the crack of the door with ease. The cook dodged the red, stick blade as it came down, nicking his shoulder. With back against the wall and railing, he waits until the blade returned to the air, watching the blood trickle off of the dead man above.</span></span></span></td></tr></table><br/><br/><div><hr style="height:2px; width:100%; border:0; color: white;background:white;"/></div><br/><br/><table width="100%"><tr><td style="vertical-align: top; width:50%; padding-right:10px;"><span style="color: #E6E9FD"><span style="font-family: Nyala;"><span style="font-size: 120%; line-height: 116%;">There wasn't much time, because if another man died over the top, he wouldn't be able to open the door. So with another harsh moan and a loud thud, he slammed the hatch, it's raising a good fit before closing under the bulky corpse. The slave screamed again, shoving his shoulder into the wet wood, raising it again. But it closed too quickly. A third strike with his body weight, it lifted into the air, and before it could fall close, the man plunged his arm through the hole. The hatch came down, slamming his forearm with the dead man's weight, allowing a painful holler to escape the botanists lips. The skin instantly started to bruise, but he shoved his other arm through the open gap, which was then followed by his head. His shoulders were next, and placing his hands under his torso, he pushed himself up to support himself. However, the man's leg hung in front of his face, and the man simply grabbed it and attempted to push the body off the hatch. It wasn't completely successful, but it was enough for him to lift it enough to pull his legs through.<br/><br/>With his escape out-of-the-way, the Mortimer looked about at the scene, watching the slaves rise up against the slavers. Men were being thrown overboard, others were being sliced, other's bashed and cooked by fire. It was impossible to find anyone specific. Until you found them, of course, in which he did. Eyes falling upon the black-haired human who had encouraged him earlier, the man smiled. The slave had no weapons, at hand, but the shackle and remnants of the chain on his wrist was enough. <br/><br/>Dodging the flail of a sword and weaving through the battle, the botanist took hold of his chain with one hand and charged the distracted man. With a quick sing over his head, he launched the chain at the armed hand, ready to slice the eye of a Harpy who didn't defend itself fast enough. The chain gripped around his wrist tightly, and with a cry of effort, the slave pulled back against the man's attack, the slaver crying out in both surprise and pain as his arm was pulled behind him. He attempted to turn to the one who had caused his suffering, but he rains in the opposite direction, pulling his arm behind him more until the light frame jumped onto the man, pinning one arm with the chain and the other with his body weight. He held on with his sloppy hair, the man losing his balance and collapsing to the hard floor. Still pinned however, the escapee smiled casually in his face. His foot held down the man's free arm by the wrist, and the other arm had been dislocated by the fall that landed on top of it, so that left the Mortimer's right hand free. <br/><br/>With that hand, he took his thumb and index finger and ran it along the dirty fabric of his scarf. His wrist was still sore and turning purple from the harsh impact of the hatch, but he gripped the end of the scarf anyway, pulling it up and off his neck. With an overly enthusiastic smile, he whispered among he commotion. "Mine." Which, as a matter of fact, really was.</span></span></span></td><td style="vertical-align: top; width:50%; padding-left:10px;"><span style="color: #E6E9FD"><span style="font-family: Nyala;"><span style="font-size: 120%; line-height: 116%;">Wrapping the scarf around his arm, he smiled deviously at the man, who for some reason returned the favour. A shadow loomed over the pair, and before it spurred any reaction from the cook, a crack boomed in his ears and blood splattered across the deck. The Mortimer scream in agony as the whip ripped a deep gash in his bare back, but the man below him merely laughed and slipped his hand out from under the slave's weight, socking the cringing face until the man started to back up. Once he was over his leg, the opponent kicked up, causing another scream and for the botanist to collapse onto the wet deck, the salty water soaking his fresh wound. <br/><br/>Another crack rung through the air, slashing his shoulder with another agony filled holler. The original man stood up and removed the chain from his arm with groans of his own, but generally left the arm be afterwards, rendering the dislocated arm useless. But with hefty boots in hand, he didn't need an arm. There was another crack from the whip, scraping his back yet again, making another bleeding gash before being kicked by the hard toe of a boot. The men went to strike again, but before the yellowed toothed slaver could raise his foot, another slave with grey scales tackled the man with all the weight of its dragon body. It slashed the man's face until he couldn't scream, the second slaver startled enough to hesitate raising his whip. But when the shock left him, he lifted it into the air. However, the crack did not sound before the red teeth and claws turned to him and he was torn apart as well. <br/><br/> Weak from new injuries, the botanist groaned as he moved, blood covering his back and staining what little amount of clothes he had. His arms shook as he stretched them out to try and push himself up to stand, but the process was slow as each muscle protested with pain. Be made it to his knees before looking up at the faceless slaver, eyeing his belt and key chain with a single key attached. The rusty loop and sturdy key were covered in the red iron of the man, but the Mortimer crawls over and grabbed it anyway, unhooking the key chain.  <br/><br/>A weak body had a hard enough time lifting itself without the aid of abuse, but the slave tried to push himself to stand, wincing at the salt filled wounds. However, it took more than just strength to get up, because after a couple of attempts, water ferociously spewed across the deck, blasting the slavers like a beam of hope eradicating evil. But as helpful as the water gun was, its harsh spray splashed all across the deck, stray droplets of water delicately layering onto his back. He hollered at the sting and threw himself to his feet, taking the keys in his teeth and rushing over to the hatch he had previously escaped from. He kick the body away and threw it open, fleeting into the dark and away from the battle. The slaves that remained chained all quickly rose to their feet, begging for their savior to rescue them first or to unlock them next. But all of them went free as the injured man inserted the key into each lock with shaking hands. They were glad to join the battle above, and the sounds of fighting slowly began to die down, but it wasn't finished yet. But he wished to gather one more thing before taking his leave. Well, maybe a few things.</span></span></span></td></tr></table><br/><br/><div><hr style="height:2px; width:100%; border:0; color: white;background:white;"/></div><br/><br/><table width="100%"><tr><td style="vertical-align: top; width:50%; padding-right:10px;"><span style="color: #E6E9FD"><span style="font-family: Nyala;"><span style="font-size: 120%; line-height: 116%;">He needed to rest first. There was no use in trying to join the fray yet again if he couldn't even walk properly. So he stayed down under to take a few deep breaths, sitting in the old slaver's old wooden chair. The entire floor was now covered in a hefty amount of watered down blood, thanks to the new water hose and the amount of blood shed that had commenced before it. But the top of the deck must be sparkling clean. At least if the moonlight hit it just right it would. It did for just about any body of water actually, which made the night time out on the open seas seem magical, like a Fey's instinct. Even when the night was filled with floating bodies as it was today. It was funny to think that while all this cold blooded murder was commencing upstairs, it was a buffet table for the Merfolk. Selfish bastards probably wouldn't even share their finds with the fish.<br/><br/>The Mortimer laughed to himself in the dark, it seeming far more loud now that he was alone. But his time was up. Standing up with a brief wobble, he grabbed the railings of the stairs and left the belly of the mechanical whale. His dark eyes watched his surroundings carefully for sneaky predators who would lash him yet again. But the water cannon that a clever Fey had crafted did a good job of keeping them in their place, even when it looked as if it's pressure was starting to drop. He took this opportunity to make his way to his favourite room on deck. The kitchen. <br/><br/>You couldn't expect much variety of foods or plants on a slave ship, seeing as they only served stale bread, mushy beans, and limes, but it was worth a glance. They had taken his spices and supplies when he was captured, so perhaps they stored it with their things. Greedy pigs. Who would steal someone's paprika? Pots and spatulas hung from small hooks on the walls of the kitchen and cabinets were locked closed with a simple chain to prevent dishes from falling out. Large bags without labels scattered the floors, but what he was after was placed on the counter next to cooking stove that was being unused. A belt with small bags roped to it. Five bags to be exact. <br/><br/>The man grinned and snatched the belt, checking each bag for it's substance. Paprika, a few leaves of Aloe vera, garlic, ginger, basil powders, and his life saver- Bloodroot herbs. If it were for that herb, he wouldn't have been able to throw up nearly enough to rot the chains and break free. It really was a useful plant. If only he could have gathered Bloodroots instead of the leaves, then he would have gotten somewhere. Too bad the slavers decided to crash his search party of one. It's actually a funny story, because if it weren't for his bickering, he never would have been on this ship in the first place. Oh well, old habits die hard and you can't change the past and all the rest of those profound clichés that everyone loves.<br/><br/>With a wince as the belt grazed a whip lash, the escape artist tied his belt around his emaciated waist and poked his head out of the kitchen door. The gun had stopped firing and it appeared that the free slaves were now lining up the survivors. What perfect timing this was! Excited as can be, the botanist rushed back into the kitchen. he needed a pot and water. Luckily the pots were hanging neatly on the wall and a tub of fresh water was stored on every ship. Grabbing the pot and setting it on the poor excuse for a counter and then pouring some water in, the man took a handful of Bloodroot leaves and stuffed them in his mouth.</span></span></span></td><td style="vertical-align: top; width:50%; padding-left:10px;"><span style="color: #E6E9FD"><span style="font-family: Nyala;"><span style="font-size: 120%; line-height: 116%;">He chewed the green substance until it was hardly nothing but mush, but even so, he didn't spit it out. Instead, he simply spat his saliva into the bowl a couple of dozen times, leaving white streaks and small bits of the chewed up leaves in the concoction. But with a little mixing, nothing looked abnormal about the water besides it looking somewhat dirty because of the floating green specks. Which was perfect. He set down the pot after analyzing it's content and held out his hand, spitting the green mush into his palm. He threw Bloodroot onto the counter, grabbing more fresh water and rinsing his mouth. He rinsed and gurgled it several times before satisfying himself and spitting out the water onto the ground. It wasn't his ship after all, why should he care?<br/><br/>Lastly, the man picked up his creation and put on a smile, exiting the kitchen with a look that probably stated he was trying not to keel over. The remaining slaves were standing around the deck, and as he passed the small crowd, it appeared that their shock of new-found freedom was dissipating, because murmurs of what it is they should do with the remaining crew had started to come out of some mouths and run through some ears. The words 'kill', 'revenge', and 'overboard' appeared a lot in these short murmurings, which made the Mortimer frown. He quickened his pace to get to the prisoners and exclaimed above the crowd, shattering what was left of the silence.<br/><br/>"Before we make any rash decisions, I would like to state that these are men." Oh great, another boring speech about dignity and honour and blah blah blah. Still, holding the pot, he finally made it through the small crowd and in front of the remain slavers. "Men, just like us, who wish to get on with their own happy, little lives." He smiled in a friendly manner to the strangers before him. "They were just doing what they need to survive is all." Although that comment sounded sarcastic because of his stifled snicker (knowing perfectly well that was complete bullshit) he continued on with his position. "The night has seen enough blood spilled, and really, do you really want to continue feeding the likes of those below us?" Many understood what he meant, but it was no mystery that where there is death upon the sea, there was Merfolk. "If one would care for my opinion, I say we wait until we reach shore to decide what to do with them." He grinned yet again. "And if that decision is ultimately to end them," he shrugged casually,"then so be it. But please, I ask you to not encourage the fishies down below?" His voice raised a bit towards the end, but he smiled innocently. He looked at several members in the crowd specifically, including the young man who sat on top of the cannon. "After all, we don't want them hanging around any more than we do these folk," he pointed carefully with his pot to the short line of prisoners," and at least with these gentlemen we can use as hostages." He brought the pot back to himself to make sure it didn't spill. " And who doesn't like a good hostage?" He cackled, finding it abnormally funny. "What do you say?"<br/><br/>His posture had weakened with pain during his short speech, slouching quite a bit and looking like he wanted to sit down. However, upon his conclusion, he forced himself to straighten out, grinning all the while at individuals in the crowd. He really did hope they wouldn't slaughter them right here and now. It would be a same if they did. Because some people didn't seem to understand that it was extremely hard to poison a corpse.</span></span></span></td></tr></table>