Brettonians! Emmaline's heart leaped. She had met a few Brettonian Knights, they were a stiff necked lot and remakabley unsophisticated by Imperial standards, but there wasn't a one of them that wouldn't stab his own mother for the chance to rescue a genuine damsel in distress. Even if the ship owner were not a knight, the merchant class at least paid lipservice to the ethos of their betters. If they were to free her, it would be a simple matter to convince them to set her down somewhere agreeable, perhaps Courrene or Marienburg. 

Of course this rescue fantasy relied rather heavily on the Brettonian's taking the ship and her surviving the process. For a moment she considered following Markus' order and retreating below deck to avoid a potential hail of arrows. On balance she decided she would stay on deck, incase the opportunity to leap to freedom, hopefully into the arms of a handsome knight, provided itself. Markus was shouting incomprehensible maritime jargon that sent men scrambling up into the rigging, reefing in some canvas and spreading out others. Ropes snapped and cracked as the ship swung further into the wind, heeling the deck higher as the speed of the vessel began to pick up.

"Never known the frog fuckers to trim their sails that neatly," Morgan commented to Markus, sounding uneasy. The ship was visible from the deck now, its massive forecastle rising up before a great blue and white striped forecourse. The distance between the two ships was narrowing rapidly. They raced towards each other on quartering angles as the winds demanded.