Markus moved his head from side to side to stretch his neck, the sword absorbing the blood sent a shiver up his spine as if he'd been tickled or found himself particularly sleepy. Luckily he felt the effects of neither, and not for the first time wondered if the sword's powers were effecting him in some adverse way, or if he simply felt the echoes of its pleasure. Seeing as the dark elf he killed that had it did not look any worse for wear, he felt it safe to assume the latter, at least for the moment.

"Let's check to see what this bitch of a ship has below decks," He said, not deigning to look back at Emmaline. Whether she followed or not did not matter to him, as long as she didn't start screaming at any nearby gulls to alert any other potential adversaries to their position. Markus snorted at the thought, and then strode across the deck. The planks were dark and made of strange wood that barely creaked. He went to the central door, where the stairs would lead below decks. He opened it and found the assumption proved true, so he stepped down the five steps of the wooden stairway. 

The first doors on his left and right were closed. Briefly he considered opening them, but the third door, the second to the left had bars over a small aperture much like a jail cell. It drew him closer, sword held before him. Inside he could hear soft moaning and murmuring, and the smell was undeniably parallel to the unwashed streets of marienburg. He stepped to the portal, his hand slowly reaching for the latch... 

Behind him a door burst open, swinging wide as a dark elf reaver leaped out with sabre in hand. He did not gloat or give preamble, instead stabbing Markus with a killing stroke. It almost worked, the blade getting caught on a chain-link of his armor just before Markus stepped to the right, batting away the sabre with his own blade. The dark elf was quick, riposting with a sinuous feint and another stab, only held back by a wide parry from the privateer. They parried and cut and stabbed in a brutal dance, the walls scarred from their flying steel. The drucchi had the advantage, his blade smaller and his reflexes quicker. No doubt the elf had practiced swordplay longer than Markus had been alive, and if the captain had his old backsword he felt he would already be dead. 

Markus redirected his style, going for an unorthodox routine and side stepping in the tight quarters. The dark elf mirrored his movements and managed a cut across Markus's cheek, drawing fresh blood down his face. The elf smiled wickedly, pressing his advantage and stepping forward only to suddenly flinch in momentary blindness. Markus' sword had engulfed in flames, the captain stepped to the left again and swinging his sword in a terrible backhand cut that bisected the dark elf's head, cauterizing the sliced skull even as it was split in two. 

Slowly the dark elf's corpse fell against the wall and slid to the floor. 

"Close," Markus said to himself, breathing a sigh of relief. He wasn't a talented mage. In fact he was less talented than Emmaline, and that was saying something. But he knew just enough to keep himself alive in an otherwise deadly encounter. He let the top of the dark elf's head slide off his blade and bounce on the floor, and felt certain if there were any other elves on the ship, they would have come to this one's aid. Markus yet again reached for the door where he felt the slaves were kept, and when it opened, he found he was right. 

Over two dozen men and women in nothing but rags, some even completely naked, huddled together and shivered in fear. Some stared blankly at the wall, devoid of hope despite it staring them in the face, whilst others eyes darted back and forth like prey animals. In the back he saw two elves, likely high elves. They sat together, and though they had a look of defeat on their faces, he could tell they weren't husks of their former selves at the very least. They were also the only slaves to look up in surprise at Markus walking into the room. 

"The dark elves are dead." Markus declared after waiting a few, pregnant moments for the other humans to react. When there was yet again no reply, he barked at them. "Your masters lie dead!" 

A few of them turned to look at him, their brows furrowing in confusion. A woman pulled her hand out of her mouth, having chewed on her fingers so much they were mushed and broken. She blinked and stared at him, as if looking past him to some cruel jester behind the captain. "Dead?" 

"That is not possible." Another said. "No, no... not possible." 

"We will sail this ship up the harbor, who will help me?" Markus asked. They all gazed at him now, including the two elves. The natives of Ulthuan did not speak, however. They merely looked at one another knowingly. Markus found out why a moment later when one of the men began to scream, higher pitched than Markus thought possible for any man with any sort of dignity. More accompanied him and others wailed and moaned in abject shock. 

"No! They can't be dead!" A younger woman screeched, approaching Markus like the walking dead and reaching for him, clawing at his arms. "Do you know what they'll do when they find out!?" 

"We will be tortured! Mutilated to the very soul!" An older man howled. 

Gnarled hands reached for Markus, the slaves turning berserk. They bore wild eyes and frothing mouths and desperate energy erupted from them as they approached Markus and then swarmed his position. Markus saw murder in their eyes as they charged the doorway where he stood, leaping at him in abandon. He was confused, but somewhere in the back of his mind he knew they were too far gone. They blamed him for their inevitable fate. Even freedom was too frightening for these wretches. Another man might have attempted to close the door or try and reason with them. 

The dark elf blade was ensconced in aqshy, flames roaring to life as his blade called to him in its thirst. For once, he and the sword were of the same mind. He ran the first slave through, pulling his sword out and cutting through two of the other zealots, lopping off a head as his blade buried itself into a collarbone. He let the bodies fall and stepped back, hacking a man down and piercing another's throat, his eyes set and his face grim. Blood soaked the floorboards as they relentlessly charged, Markus giving ground but cutting more down as they surged like a wave of bony locusts. They tripped over themselves and their fallen slaves, but when their advance slowed, Markus took the initiative and moved forward himself, cutting through them like wheat. Poor, helpless and staved men and women, people had freed. All fell before his blade as buckets of blood and corpses fell onto the floor, until there was naught but seven slaves yet alive. The very old, the very young, and the two elves that had watched intently. 

Markus stepped over the corpses and into the room again, blood spattered on his drucchi trousers and cloak, his exposed flesh freshly cut from fingernails and the cuts of the dark elf swordsman not minutes ago. 

"Will you help me sail, or not?" He asked the elves, and to their surprise he spoke in their tongue. 

"Why would we help someone who just slaughtered his own kind?" They asked when they found their tongues. 

"Tell me, were you captured by the elves of Naggaroth by happenstance, or did you come to the new world to slay your own kin?" He asked them. They stared at him silently for many moments. Slowly, they stood up together and gave a nod.

"We will help."