The clocking brute would not go down! Brogan seethed with anger. The last of his senses lost to his rage he jabbed the knife toward the injured beasts ribcage again and again. Determined to pierce some organs that even a mountain like this fool needed to continue existing.

They were taking too long, with all of this commotion his quarry could easily slip away. Brogan Rand never let prey get away.

The bigger man wasn't exactly caught off guard, fingers tightening around the wick's head. The same motion that was meant to bring Brogan's skull into a large knee only brought the wick the opportunity he needed, tugging him closer toward the vitals. Already wounded, the human was much slower than his opponent. What was meant to be a smashing motion turned into a stumble, leaving him completely open to the highwayman's fury.

The rest was short work, really. Hands loosened their grip and slid away from Brogan's head and the human began to lumber backwards—a bloody, fading mess of angry groans and no steam.

He might have swung again, but he certainly wasn't hitting anything. Especially not the wick.

He'd be hitting the floor soon enough.

The rest of the fight continued outside the door. Brogan could hear the sound of Amber and the man who tried to get away still in an unseen scuffle. She'd caught him at least.

Now that the mountain pirate was down and bleeding, Brogan focused his attention on the hallway outside. The battle in the bunks had taken entirely too much of their already precious little time. The blood spattered wick made for the door, he hoped to help his comrade dispatch of the escapee and continue on with their endeavor. By now their quarry had been alerted to their presence.

The witch was busy cleaning off her knives on the body of the escapee by the time Brogan stumbled out into the hall. Everything was uncomfortably quiet, doors still closed, and Amber looked up with a confused shrug. A shake of her head revealed wordlessly that she hadn't seen anyone try to escape yet, either.

There were two unchecked doors left. The door at the end of the hall was more likely to be the captain's quarters, though if any of the rooms were actually occupied was beginning to seem like a mystery.

The ship moaned and rocked in the foggy Harbor. It was raining again by the sounds of things above deck.

A nice, lethal companion this Amber was turning out to be. Brogan made a mental note to personally thank Cor when he got back.

"This is taking too long beata, let's take that last room. I'm starting to feel bloody as all clock and we need to get this captain out of here before I'm forced to gut him." Brogan croaked, his face spattered in the blood of the crew. His brown eyes stared out from the crimson mask and were starting to lose some of their clarity.

Without waiting for an answer, he strode down the hall and kicked at the door he assumed was their Captain's. His feet were saturated in the large pirates blood and left a sticky boot print on the wood of the door. He gave it several more kicks attempting to break it in.

"Ent anyone sleepin' now, that's for sure." Amber scowled at Brogan's observation, making sure to stand well out of the way as he approached the door of his choice. Her field was taut, and she shifted her stance into something more defensive with a sly grin once she realized the wick wasn't going to simply slip in the door so much as bash it in.

The door wasn't locked to begin with. Nor was it particularly well-braced. It didn't take much effort to bash it in, flooding the hall with a wash of yellowish phosphor light.

The small room was obviously the captains quarters, but it wasn't so much the decoration that gave it away. The well-carved, impressive desk at one side of the room (opposite the sleeping area) was occupied. Occupied by a tall, whip of a wick with a pistol in one hand and a tastefully expensive bottle of rum in the other,

"It would've been more convenient if you'd arrived earlier." The older man bristled, dark eyes bloodshot and weary underneath an unimpressed expression, thumb sliding away from the hammer of his now-ready weapon. Shaggy, unkempt dyed-red hair was the brightest of his dark-skinned, worn-clothed figure ... though, his boots were shiny.

The lean captain was somewhere between sober and not; the horizon had blurred but it was obvious by the weathered lines of his face that he was capable of understanding and dealing with the situation. In fact, he seemed to have an impressively strong field for a wick.

He leveled his pistol at the one who'd so politely broken his door but didn't bother to slide his feet from his desktop or stand,

"So, this is a clockin' mant hour for an uninvited visit. I suppose y'ent here to be friendly."

Brogan's face split into his serpent's grin. "I don't do friendly, Captain." He practically spat the last word. His famously short patience had long before been snuffed out.

He pulled out his own pistols, leveling his new favorite at the Captain.
"You'll be needin' to come with us, there's some folks I know that are interested in talkin to ya."

It was exquisite torture for Brogan to keep from unloading his firearms into the man, they weren't here for his blood however. This particular parcel required careful handling.