It was rather hard to describe what exactly Sadri Beleth was doing during the time of the ship’s attack. Having spent the time granted to him by his privilege of not having to do chores on board, he had drunk himself to a high on the bottle of vermouth he'd bought, and afterwards, the ship’s stocks of grog; of which he had conveniently laced his own share with a tasty amount of moon sugar. The inebriation helped him sleep, and the mind boggling properties of the sugar helped him not dream of Solveig, or so he claimed. From the way his face looked when sleeping, one could easily say that he wasn’t looking all too happy with whatever it was that he kept dreaming of. Either way, it did not keep him from drinking the ‘sweet grog’, as he called it.

He’d managed to stay asleep through the first moments of the attack, likely thanks to being far too drunk to wake up. It wasn’t until he got knocked off his hammock and whacked his face on the floorboards of the deck with the ship getting pulled by the chains that he was brought (somewhat) back into the land of the living. People were rushing by him from all sides; for a moment, he thought that he was a small rodent, thrown into the midst of a stampede. Then he somewhat remembered who he was and where he was. While it didn’t make any sense to him, it did remind him how to move. He spasmed a little to get some feel for how his limbs worked, then, like a baby, he began crawling on the ground to do [i]something[/i].

A pair of hands grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him up to bash him against the bulkheads interrupted that course of action fairly quickly. He murmured something incomprehensible before raising his eyes to see who had roused him from his movement. It was no Mer, certainly, and it wasn’t Dumhuvud. If anything it was a strangely forgettable face. Who was this guy? Why were bandages bursting out of the armor piece that covered his neck? Why was he moving his mouth open and closed constantly? What was he doing? Sadri only realized that he could hear things and that the man in front of him was talking after a few moments of just... existing.

“Dunmer, you should certainly wake up! Something’s attacking the ship and it’s your duty to fight!”

“Euuwhad, wwhoareyyuou?”

“Oh, for Meridia’s sake,” Marcel muttered to himself before pulling a vial from one of the pouches strapped to his belt. He popped it open and forced an amount of its contents down Sadri’s nostrils, which immediately sent him scrambling to vomit. Sadri felt as if this man had filled his skull with vinegar; his brain was burning. He let out the contents of his stomach quickly; for a moment, the man thought that Sadri was puking blood, for nothing but a reddish liquid came out of his stomach. But he was doing far too good for someone who’d just vomited out his entire blood supply; he assumed it was wine and other drinks. Sadri immediately began rubbing his nose to get out whatever it was that the man had poured in.

[b]“I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU FUCKING CUNT YOU FUCKCUNT AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRR”[/b]

Marcel, surprised with the effects of the Cure Poison Potion he’d given the Dunmer, quickly pulled out his steel sword and climbed the ladder to the upper deck, deciding that whatever he’d have to deal with up there would be far better than whatever was happening to Sadri. Of course, finding himself in the midst of a carnage with overgrown seafood attacking the ship, and bits and pieces of people getting flung around by a werewolf, he quickly found that notion incorrect. Nonetheless, he threw himself into the fray with the discipline of a well-trained soldier, quickly forgetting Sadri and that weird situation he’d found himself below deck.

It would seem that the situation wasn’t keen on forgetting him, though; Sadri Beleth suddenly appeared on deck, a bottle of rum in his hand, yelling out a cry at the top of his lungs:

[b]“FUCKING LOBSTER CUUUUUUUUUNTS”[/b]

Marcel blinked in disbelief.

[b]“I’LL HAVE YER FUCKIN’ LIMBS FOR DINNER YOU OCTOPUS SHITS,”[/b] Sadri roared out, before jumping on top of a Dreugh like an oversized chimpanzee, trying to bite a piece out of its carapace. The undoubtedly surprised creature began flailing its arms, although whether out of pain or fear was not apparent, and began skittering around on deck with the Dunmer on its back like a child trying to fight away an angered nest of bees, trying to get the crazed mer off. Screeching in pain while trying to buzz Sadri off, the Dreugh eventually managed to clasp one of its limbs around his thigh, and pulled him off its back, and suddenly found one of its mandibles crunched between Sadri’s teeth.

The Dreugh had no way of understanding what the Dunmer was shouting; the others on deck could probably understand what [b]“TASTES LIKE YOUR MOM’S FISHCUNT”[/b] meant, though no doubt it was still hard to contextualize.

Sadri eventually managed to bite off the creature’s mandible upon pushing his foot against the belly of the Dreugh and pulling his head back, although realized that he’d thrown himself off his feet with the strength of the action. Scrambling midair as to grab a hold of something, his iron palm immediately clasped itself around the first thing that it felt nearby; Sadri felt his entire body weight pull him down for a moment, and found that he was hanging above not the ship, but the sea. He looked up and saw that his hand was wrapped around a chain. While normally he’d ask to himself [i]”What the fuck”[/i] or feel disbelief in just how lucky he had been, right now the concoction that ran through his veins made him angry. Really angry.

Reaching up with his other hand and pulling himself up on the chain, he chewed the Dreugh mandible in his mouth a bit, finding the taste fairly close to crab, and then spat it out into the sea with a look of sheer spite on his face as his eyes made contact with the Dreugh whose jaw he’d just spat into the sea. 

Sadri began yelling out shanties as he began climbing the chain instinctively, the way an ape would climb a tree by easily pulling itself up the branches. He’d spent a few years on board, and the experience was nothing new to him; his long limbs and relatively low weight had given him an edge in climbing since his very childhood. Lobbing his gangly limbs upwards with uncanny confidence, he reached the contraption that had shot out the chain like an oversized harpoon with surprising efficiency, and managed to pull himself on top of it, finding that it was attached to what seemed to be an airship. Hopping down on the top deck of the ‘ship’, he immediately pulled out the bottle of sweet grog stuffed in his sash and took a long swig before taking a look around. One of the Argonians in the party was there; while he couldn’t tell one from another by looking them in the face, its clothing implied that it was Tsleeixth, the more sociable one of the two.

“...The fuck are you doing here, lizardman?” He spat out, with more surprise and questioning in his voice than racial hatred.