Octavius would never give up. Never. Not in a trillion years would the idea of defeat ever occur to him. He'd lost last time after an army's worth of men had died in a whole host of horrible ways. No one had died yet, and the captain was more than happy to expire, rather than lose. Of course, then Ceres accused him of falling behind. That wasn't acceptable. Captain Cuttlam wasn't a notorious pirate lord for nothing. So when his first mate made fun of him, the warlord when into overdrive, chugging the remainder of his tankard, and refilling the vessel for another go. But he didn't stop there like his opponent did. He didn't need rest, he needed victory. His flagon got refilled, and the pirate continued drinking. He had to pause after his next one, but only long enough to deal with more of Ceres' taunts. "I... Nevah geev ut!" he growled, swinging his empty mug defiantly and refilling it again. "Nah... Nah hoos beh- hine?" he taunted right back, throwing back his next tankard's worth of ale and using his new-found anger to focus. He followed the little rage-crumb trail back to the tiny, incredibly dense star that was his pool of anger, and he used his drunken imagination to turn that little star into a cutlass he could use to fend off the drunken stupor that was overwhelming him. Powered by hate and violence, Octavius continued to drink, keeping his feet through sheer force of will and his desire for victory. He muttered something unintelligible as he moved for the cask once more, his determination seeming to be inhuman...