His bare chest rose and fell, sweat beading off of his suntanned skin as he worked. Markus' eyes were closed, better to keep himself focused solely on the task at hand. Twisting his left wrist as fare as he dared, he dug the small tool of shrapnel he had procured with his feet into the right manacle, but after countless minutes of attempting to unlock the manacles, he realized the tool was too wide and burly. Instead he began to poke and prod at the old stone that had the steel locks in them, hoping to the Gods the stone had been eroded from constant use and erosion of the constant moisture over the years. 

He'd lost feeling in his hands and arms hours ago, and it was difficult to tell if he was damaging his bones or muscles by the strength he put into chipping away the stone and yanking, but luckily they weren't privvy to his spellcasting ability and it gave him some aid in his efforts, shielding his skin from the worst parts of the exertion to save his sword hand for later, but it had been so long before he had seen any progress that he believed he wasn't making any. 

A crank and a latch being open betrayed someone's entrance into his small room, and he dropped the piece of shrapnel to the floor and cleared his throat loudly to hide the cling-a-ding of the steel. A guard in casual corsair garb with a smell that surpassed Markus' expectations entered and closed the door behind him. Inside his sweaty palms was a meal of what Markus could only describe as lard with a hint of gruel. Truth be told, he had a small feeling of nostalgia for the rancid slop. He remembered when he lived on it for years as a penniless orphan on the streets of Kaerdwyn.

The pirate placed the tray at Markus' feet, and the Swordmage looked between the guard and the slop. "How am I supposed to eat that?" He asked, wiggling his hands for emphasis. As he did, he briefly felt a small bit of give on his right manacle, and it took all of his willpower to keep himself from showing his dawning surprise. The man chuckled wickedly. He opened his mouth to reveal three teeth made of ivory, with his two canines carved of sharpened brass. Evilly he leaned forward to lower his face with the Captain, and he said. "Prisoners who are truly starving find ways to get it." 

Markus hadn't even listened, his eyes suddenly opening wide and his bare chest heaving as he mustered all of his strength in one sudden lurch forward. In an instant, his right manacle was free and dangling along the chain of his left, still stuck locked into the stone. Just as the seriousness of what was happening began to dawn on the corsair, Markus kicked out and sent the man onto the floor, his groin now covered in slop. Markus pulled again, standing to his feet and using all of his weight to pull. A loud snap echoed across the stone when his manacles tore out of the ruined stone, and he stumbled ungracefully over the fallen Corsair. 

Both pirates did their best to get to their feet, looking drunk and dazed but moving swifter by the second. Unfortunately Markus' was a bit slower having fallen second, and the man stepped above him and stabbed downward with a wicked knife. The spellsword used his chains to redirect the thrust, and he curled his left leg behind the Corsair's and kicked with his right, causing the terrifying pirate to stumble and hit the back of the wall. Shifting his weight, Markus lifted his legs in the air and used the momentum to shoot to his feet with what little acrobatic ability he had, and lunged at the man before he could recover. Wrapping his rusted chains around the Corsair's neck, he twisted his wrists and pulled so hard he began to bleed, the blood from his arms slicking the inside of his freed manacles. 

When the thrashing ended, Markus leaned down to catch his breath and strategize, rubbing his arms and hands to get the pins and needles back into his realm of feeling. "Think, think damn you," he whispered to himself. He knew they were going to execute him anyway in a big show. Why else would they keep a Captain alive? Killing one of their guards likely wouldn't phase them overmuch. But he also knew he needed to get out of these chains, and his eyes followed the sunlight from the barred window onto the floor where the small steel tool was... 

He scrambled for it with a renewed energy and began to attempt to pick the lock on his cuffs, but realized it was still too wide. He cursed himself for a fool, before looking at the deadman laying on the floor. He realigned the tool in his hand from holding it like a tool to a small knife, and growling he crawled over to the dead man who notably had no keys save the one leading into the cell, and he pulled the corpse to the dark edge of the room, yanking over a left over, piss covered cloak on the body. He pulled the arm out from under the blanket and began his bloody work. 

He stabbed between the bones in the radius and ulna, parting them with three shoves until he could fit his fingers inside. He pushed into the muscle tendons and began to pull with all of his strength, splitting the arm and two and leaving the wrist ruined. He cut the rest of the wrist off with a few more cuts and slices, bones pulling apart from ligaments and cracking like a chicken breast. The blood covered the ground as he worked his way up to the fingers, tearing the skin off of each until he found a bone that could fit in the lock on his manacles. Three fingers in, he found a winner. 

He furiously placed the forefinger bone in the locks, hearing footsteps outside that made his heart thunder in his chest. Another clink, and suddenly he felt a small latch unwinding and the manacle opened. The footseps within the hall mercifully kept going, and he breathed easier. Quickly, he wiped the blood off of his extremities as best he could on the piss covered cloak, and then crawled back to where he had been, placing everything seemingly in place again, awaiting whoever would take him next. 

A few hours passed, and he nearly fell asleep when the door opened again. Alert, he looked up and saw three guards this time, all luckily looking at him and the spilled food, figuring he had tried to maneuver it to his mouth and failing. The middle one grinned, and stepped forward to unlatch his cuffs from the wall, pulling him up awkwardly rough. "Come on, Prince of Pirates." He mocked, the Blood Axe men using that term as a jest at Markus' expanse. He might use it himself if he made it out alive. 

Through the dripping stone corridors of the mountain fortress, the men shoved Markus along, edging him forward by the tips of their Scimitars until he made it to the vast central chamber, or more precisely, the throneroom that overlooked the chamber. A hundred roaring sea brigands were below, and at their front was the chained crew of the Weathered Witch, on their knees and prostrated, swords at their necks. 

"Took you louts long enough. Bring him here," the Chief said, eyes filled with dreadful glee. Markus was shoved forward toward the center of the chamber, now flanked by two of the largest pirates as Mahal-Sabim looked at him with a terrible grin. "So, Prince of Pirates eh?" He asked, and without warning he punched Markus in the stomach. The Captain fell to a knee, not expecting such strength, but not unused to it either. Slowly, he got to his feet without being pulled up. 

"Is this who you lot follow!?" He called into the cavern, arms wide. It was clear he was speaking to his crew though the words were meant for those of the Weathered Witch. Cries of "No!" rose like the tide. Mahal called again. "Who do you follow!?" He roared, and they raised their weaponry in fierce devotion. "Mahal Sabim!" 

The uproarious display continued, but Markus with his head down began to hum. Among the jeers and cheers, no one could hear him at first. Calliope, chained to the side of Mahal, though only one not shouting began to hear the tune, and soon the words of a song. It was a shanty Markus had not sung in years. 

[center]A song to sing for beggars, a song to sing for saints, 
A song to sing for wealthy men all wrapped and bound in chains. 
Our treasure's not in gold, or in our piety. 
Our wealth is in an answered call, the longing of the sea.[/center] 

Markus lifted his head until he stood like a proud stallion, dark hair matted and long. His whispers became louder, until he could be heard by Mahal and his closest guards. A few looked between each other, and Mahal punched him again for interrupting, but Markus merely stood tall again and continued, eyes with the promise of death in them.

[center]
Stormy oceans carry us to lands we've never known, 
To mysteries and buried secrets from the tales of old. 
So hoist the sail and raise the flag, we do not stop for night. 
We'll ride the wild winds and waves until the morning's light! 

In smuggler's caves and tavern halls, we live by no man's rules. 
We fly the colors of the living, free and proud and true! 
We set out on the ocean blue to escape tyranny. 
We'll keep our merry hearts alive so long we roam the sea!   
[/center]

As soon as his song ended, the others realized he'd undone his manacles. He reached down and yanked the left guard's basilard out of his belt, stabbing downward as if to sheathe it again, only the blade went into the man's upper leg. He howled as Markus cut open the throat of his fellow in a visceral spray of blood. He didn't give any warning or word, and tossed the basilard to Calliope as he reached for the Corsair's cutlass, barely able to meet the blade of Mahal in time to save his life. The sparks flew between the two Captains as they grimaced, locked in combat. 
[@Penny]