Pieter watched the Cap'n try and sweet talk the navy to let them go, a faint smile on his face. He'd been a pirate for a while before he met Berlin, and he always found the big mans method comical. His own experience told him to just fight or cut tail and run. The Captain had a little different way of doing things, but it worked well for them. He was glad he'd met Berlin. This felt like a home the way other ships wouldn't of been. Pirate ships had a quicker turnover rate than Pieter liked now that he wasn't so full of vinegar. It certainly wasn't a slow life on this ship, but it wasn't as.. Harsh as others. His fingers drummed lazily on the cannon as he watched. Glancing down, he noticed a chip in the paint on the cannon. Hmph. Uban should've had that, he cleaned the cannon a few days ago. It was important to keep the weapons in perfect condition, it was foolish to treat your weapons cheaply. A priest needed to be especially dedicated- the curses of the Sea and Salt fell quickly on those who didn't attend diligence. Perhaps he was being hard on the man. He'd lived on a farm for much of his life, he was still learning. And Pieter hadn't yet asked Uban into apprenticeship. It's unlikely he'd become as practiced a priest as Pieter, but the lad had the wits for it and the vinegar the Sea and Salt liked. A whistle pierced through Pieter's thoughts as the Cap'n leapt away from the other ship, the gangplank thudding first against the ship before splashing into the water below. Rousing himself, he swiveled the cannon to face the enemy ships bunched crew. The loud roar shook Pieter's ears, though he ignored the ringing and set to swabbing the cannon down, readying to fire again.

The sharpened spike Wheel punched into the neck of the pompous captain 
Wheel was grinning as he fell from the dragons claws. The ache was gone. He only saw red. As he struck the astonished sailors looking up at him, he realized that it was absurd so many men saw him as the last thing before they entered hell. Then he didn't bother to ponder as he crushed the first man with both of his boots landing on his neck. His hatchets struck the men beside him, and he yanked them out from their skulls as he looks for the rest of the enemy. Men piled out from beneath the deck and rushed him. Firing his pistols at the crowd, he launches himself into them, axes swinging faster and harder than anyone around him. And is it really a surprise? Wheel is what happens when you strip everything from a man but violence. The swords that slash his skin merely scratch, the lead balls flatten and break themselves on his skin, mottling it a dark purple. The curse hung over him, a malevolent protector who gave his arms strength far beyond that of ordinary men. Finally, the fighting stopped. The remaining sailors around him had parted, watching him, ready. 
"What are you waiting on? You fucking cowards. What? You dogs don't have enough balls to face a man? You're pathe-" He flung an ax at the closest sailor without pause. Another fired at him, but Wheel had already moved, crushing a mans windpipe with a balled fist. He took a dropped cutlass, hefting it once to decide it was good enough. The rest of the sailors had tried to board the ship, or were scrambling to put out the small fires started around the ship. Wheel chose to search the ship for some rum, descending belowdecks for the pursers office that held all the fine luxuries aboard ship. No one stood in his way as he kicked down the door to the office, nor when he filled a sack full of booze, tobacco, and silver coins, all stamped with the ram and crown of Yonin. He stumbled up the stairs happily, the curse having lifted itself from him. His body was thrumming, the coppery air filled his lungs as he breathed deeply. He felt like he had just finished in some fine Hrillian whore. The ship was listing slightly beneath him, and what he had mistaken for quiet was actually the slow roar of the burning flames, which were spreading across the ship. 
Berlin was standing at the prow, yelling for Wheel. "..ove, Now!"

He didn't need to be told twice. Bunching his legs, Wheel sprinted across the deck of the ruined ship, gaining speed before he leapt over the side, freefalling before his feet hit the deck of the Borealis and he rolled. As he steadied himself, he saw Berlin and Pieter crouched next to one another, tending to Rohaan. Fucker must have gotten hit. Groaning, Wheel stood and checked himself, scratches and bruises. A busted rib where he'd been shot. Another man would have been dead. For him, it'd be a week at most. The Berserker curse looking out for him. Checking on the sack of loot, most of the glass bottles had shattered, but the tobacco was still dry and the coins were all there. He'd get a fine cut of that, and, since the Cap'n had ordered to head East, was going to be enjoying it soon enough.