Ganelon turned his back on the stowaway for less than a minute, and she had already injured another member of the crew and provoked the captain. When he looked over his shoulder to check, she was lying on the floor with one hand over her bleeding mouth and a defiant glare in her eyes. The look she was giving Rotter, in particular, made the Crow very glad that he wasn't responsible for keeping her in line, even if he didn't agree with the captain's decision to throw her overboard at their earliest convenience. She could be useful as a cook, maybe even enough to earn her status as a respected member of the crew given enough time, and it never hurt to have a pretty face around to take one's mind off of more depressing things. It would be a waste to just throw someone like that away, literally or otherwise.<br/><br/><br/>Also, on a more personal note, he needed someone sane to hold a proper conversation with and there certainly wasn't anyone else lining up for that position.<br/><br/>With a sigh, he turned back around and went to inspect the Rotsman's latest plunder. He'd help the woman survive only if she showed more than a passing interest in her own survival first - no point in wasting his words on someone who<span style="font-style: italic">wanted</span>to serve as ammunition, after all. In the meantime, he was far too busy picking through a fishing net full of valuables in search of his beloved weapon and the crate it was protruding from. Finding it didn't take much effort - it gradually emerged from the pile as members of the crew hauled their shares off one-by-one, until a small ring of empty space formed around it that the Crow could freely stand within. When he kneeled down to dislodge one prize from the other, a smile crept across his face. His intuition hadn't failed him this time.<br/><br/>The crate, small and forgettable at first glace, was packed to the brim with fine jewelry and precious stones. There were necklaces and rings in more combinations of gems and rare metals than Ganelon could have imagined, and at the very bottom, beneath the tiny mountain of raw wealth, he found a small ceremonial blade with a golden hilt waiting for him. His next few minutes were spent struggling to carry the deceptively heavy box up the mast and laughing, both at his own fortune and directly to the faces of his soon-to-be-jealous comrades. They could feast all they wanted on salted hams and cooked turtles in the present, but he would laugh again when the Rotsman made port, and they would all know why.