[center][img]http://txt-dynamic.static.1001fonts.net/txt/dHRmLjE1OC5kYmQyZDIuVTJsc1lYTSwuMA,,/seven-deadly-sins.regular.png[/img][/center] “I said put him [i]down[/i], Silas.” His fingers were tacky around the elf’s throat, bloody from where his nails had bit through callouses to try and pry them off. Now the refugee clung to his wrist for dear life, wide white eyes flicking between Silas and the sea below as his legs danced on thin air. The grip tightened, ever so slightly, the watching small waves lap at skinny bare feet. The Warden, however, was not playing games—a dagger flicked to her fingers and he knew full well that she would use it. Not a pretty thing by any stretch, her eyes were by far her best feature. They locked to Silas’ flinty greys and, for a moment, it looked like there might be blood. The elf came back on board with the thud against wet wood, coughing past the bruising on his windpipe and snorting the clotted blood from his broken nose. The refugees that swarmed the deck reabsorbed him quickly, tugging him behind the line and watching the Grey Warden and the strikebreaker with dagger-sharp glares. For a moment it looked like there still might be blood, the big man’s eyes locked and even with his escorts until finally he spread his hands. Turning back to the vessel he sat placidly on the railing, looking as calm as it was possible for a man that had just ripped an elf off the deck and threatened to send him seaward could look. If the sigh that passed through the crowd was relieved it didn’t show it—as one creature they watched, and that made them dangerous. Warden Halise knew it, and knew it was their turn to stand down.“Get some rest!” She barked over the crowd, eyes flicking to the boatswain who was already biting his lip and eyeing the potential bloodbath nervously. “Rest!” She repeated again, more sharply this time, dagger still in hand. “There are hundreds more like you crowding the docks of Nevarra. You’ll need to look strong and healthy if you expect to work, not like you’ve been crawling the decks!” “You heard the lady! Off you get, make yourselves scarce!” The relieved deckhands began breaking up the mob, making their way back to their stations. Only an hour out from port they could already see the weathered sails swarming the docks—getting in would be tricky enough without stumbling over their Tevinter cargo. “No trouble, you said.” The boatswain hissed to Halise in passing, catching her by the boiled leather bracer on her lean bicep. “On and off, you said. Keep your people in line, Warden, this was a damn favor.” “A favor we’re paying for.” Ripping her arm free of his grip, she returned her dagger to the sheath at the small of her back unceremoniously. “Just get us to the docks, Felipe. You’ll get yours.” As the man grumbled his way across the deck she rounded on Silas, sighing and kneading her temples. “Si-“ “Don’t start with me.” Raising a thick finger to her pointedly, Silas watched the distant shore from his place on the railing. “Wasn’t me that picked the fight.” “No, but that doesn’t mean you have to choose to make it worse.” “If he’s in the drink, he’s not pointing his knife at me.” “If he’s in the drink, every slave on this boat would have torn you apart.” “There’s worse ways to go.” “Really?” She snorted, shaking his head and running her slim fingered hand over her face. “Really. I can’t think of any off the top of my head, but whatever you say. Maker, if you live long enough to be a Warden—“ “Find better things than slaves to tear me apart.” His gaze didn’t leave the shore. She turned with a roll of her eyes, making her way back to the cabin. Warden Halise didn’t ever wonder if Silas would make it into the Wardens. She just wondered if she’d wind up killing him before they got there. ------------------------ Rousing speech. The grizzled old Commander had obviously grown used to telling it, especially recently, but it was nothing new to Silas. The Praesumptors were hard bastards too—they were there to see Tevinter go to hell and get paid for the trouble. Empathy was a professional hazard, and not one that most would have accused Silas of. Still, as he looked around the crowd, he couldn’t help but sigh slightly. It took all sorts, but half the men here, half the women… Well. Everyone died someday. He’d woken up and dressed as ever, scratched stubble from his craggy face with a razor that needed to be sharpened and tugged on the shirt he’d at least managed to have washed. Like Tythius, he noted the assortment of arms and armor loaded around him and appreciated that he at least didn’t look completely bizarre amid the assorted dregs. Tall enough to stand out above most and broad enough to shoulder his way past almost anyway, the black duster he wore almost muffled the mail and plate sewn inside it. He was dressed well enough beneath that, hardy cottons with a black leather vest over his broad chest, dark jeans stretching down over a pair of hobnailed boots. Flicking his eyes from one person to the next, he resisted the urge to spit. The Wardens took anyone, which meant all manner of idiots. Refugees and slaves, nobles and thieves, there weren’t many of them that Silas would have put stock on in a fight. More than a fight—a war, he reminded himself. The kind that actually mattered. The good old fashioned kind with enemies that would kill and torture and shatter everything in their path, that didn’t deserve anything less than total annihilation. Ancient horrors, spawned by men who thought they were Gods. Damn. Put like that, it almost sounded like fun. Not far away a little cluster seemed to be forming, a knot of irregulars—[i]very[/i] irregulars, he corrected, watching Captain Pantomime and the Colorful Chavalier go through their little rigmarole—seemed to be forming. Anyone who wore armor like that either knew how to take care of themselves or had absolutely [i]no[/i] clue how to take care of themselves, but he had a guess for the former. That the other assorted seemed like they had more tricks up their sleeves than they let on didn’t hurt, and so he hefted his luggage and lumbered his way over. Which was saying something, considering the child-sized leather crate he hauled at his side by a chain with a wrapped leather handle. Between it and his other assorted weapons he looked all but ready for the coming war—which, admittedly, he liked to think was basically the case. By way of introduction, Silas dropped the crate to the floor with a heavy thunk and took a seat on top of it, ready to wait out the wardens. Who the hell knew how long they were liable to take.