From his face-down position on the Pervy Freedom's deck, Ganelon could hear approaching footsteps even through the crew's shouting, which he assumed was about him even though he was too focused on his pain to actually listen. Blunt force trauma seemed to be the worst of his injuries, as he didn't feel like he had been stabbed by his own knives during the fall, although it was well beyond his abilities to guess at how badly he was hurt otherwise. He tried moving a leg and found that he couldn't, or at least, not without intensifying the pain several times over, and instead settled for using his arms. They proved to be in better condition, if still incredibly sore, and he almost managed to push himself off the ground before someone grabbed his head and pulled it upwards. Staring into his eyes was a woman with dark hair and an even darker hat, adorned with black feathers like some sort of sign that he was definitely in no state of mind to interpret. She patted him down thoroughly before bringing his face level with her own once again to ask a simple question.<br/><br/>"Can ye speak? I can only fix ye, if ye speak."<br/><br/>"Knives", he uttered, not doubting even for a moment that his priorities were out of order. "Where... where're my knives?"<br/><br/>His question was promptly ignored, and a cup was brought up to his mouth. It smelled enough like alcohol that he didn't hesitate to swallow the contents completely, but they tasted like no rum, ale, or wretched grog he'd ever had the misfortune to consume, and weren't much more pleasant either. After his choking made it apparent that he had done as the woman asked, he was laid back down onto the deck and given a small amount of space to himself while she looked around for something. With considerable effort, he shifted his weight sideways and pushed with one arm to afford himself a wider view of the floor, but seeing neither of his precious weapons through the sea of legs running back and forth across the floor, he rolled over onto his back and looked in the other direction. There, somewhere amidst the chaos, a glint of sharpened steel caught his eye.<br/><br/>The Crow stretched out his arm as far as he could, still coming up several times too short to reach his two lost knives, and paused for a moment to register that many of the pirates running past him were still looking upwards, a great shadow being cast upon their faces. With a sense of mounting dread, he turned his gaze towards the clouds and saw nothing but a twisting mass of bandages dangling mere inches from his face. After a slight hesitation, Captain Rotter's stray leg stuck out from somewhere inside of it and the entire thing exploded, snaring Ganelon's limbs along with those of several unsuspecting bystanders and dragging them all inwards. He was in no condition to resist their pull, but his bladed coat did an excellent job in his absence, shredding the bandages as they tightened around him even as he was lifted into the air. Unlike their attitude towards the captain, they did not persist in pulling him closer and he was allowed to fall once again, only this time head-first and without a parachute.<br/><br/>Ganelon's second impact with the deck of the Pervy Freedom was in many ways harder than the first, and he was only spared a broken neck by the fact that the sail still tied to his legs was caught on something, limiting the distance he had been dragged into the air. As he lay on the deck watching the shapeless white blob rise further and further away, the world became blurry and confusing, and he lost the ability to focus on what the people around him were saying. Two of them took him by the shoulders and slid him out of his coat, tossing it into a large sack nearby. The rest of his weapons soon followed as they were yanked from his belt, boots, wrists, and midsection. Even the stilettos in his hair were carefully untied and tossed into the bag, and when the men finally became convinced that he was disarmed, he was lifted off his feet and carried away, still too helpless to resist and too dazed to speak.<br/><br/>When the world stopped moving, the Crow found himself sitting in a dark room filled with stagnant water all the way up to his torso. There was only one exit, which was closed and presumably locked by the two pirates who had brought him there, but he lacked the energy to check. More accurately, he lacked the energy to do anything at all, and merely sat in the water with his head slumped downwards like a corpse as he silently contemplated thoughts of revenge. He needed to earn his freedom first - as a traitor or an escapee, that didn't matter - and find a way back aboard the Rotsman, which was a daunting task in its own right. He needed his weapons back, down to the very last blade. He also needed...<br/><br/>Sleep. Although, that wasn't possible. He was ready to collapse after everything he had been through, but his consciousness was the only thing keeping him from drowning on the spot. With his neck down and his limbs refusing to move, he did the only thing he could to keep his head above the water, and began to quietly mutter the first thing that came to mind: an old shanty that he remembered from the first day he set sail on the waves.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic">"Come cheer up m' lads, it's to glory we steer,<br/>To add something more t' this wonderful year.<br/>To honor we call you, as free men, not slaves,<br/>For who're so free as the sons of the waves.<br/><br/>Heart of oak're our ships,<br/>Heart of oak're our men.<br/>We always are ready,<br/>Steady, boys, steady,<br/>We'll fight and we'll conquer, again... and again."</span>