Kazrik (Kaz)

The cargo hold of HMS Intrepid groans with the ship's labored pitch, crates straining against their moorings as Captain Farthing drives them headlong into darkening skies. Kazrik works methodically, his green-tinged hands tightening rope stays with practiced efficiency while around him, less experienced sailors scramble to secure shifting barrels. The air below decks hangs thick with the stench of bilge water, wet hemp, and the unmistakable musk of minotaur—Atraxos's massive form casting long shadows in the swinging lantern light as he braces a shoulder against a sliding crate that would have crushed two men. "Another fucking slaver, clear as day, and Farthing tips his hat like they're carrying fucking tea," Kazrik mutters, voice pitched low beneath the creak of timber and distant shouts from above. His blue eyes flash dangerously as he yanks a knot tight enough to bite into the wood. "Flying Barbadian colors with gun ports freshly painted over. Had the stink of misery all over her, and still we sail on by. Orders from the Admiralty, he says. *Orders." The half-orc spits onto the planking, then glances up at his friend, reading the familiar tension in the set of those massive shoulders, the way Atraxos's nostrils flare with barely contained rage.* Atraxos grunts, the sound rumbling from deep in his barrel chest as he secures the last of the shifting cargo with a single massive hand. His horns—one broken halfway down from an officer's "disciplinary action" three voyages past—scrape the low ceiling beams as he straightens to his full height. Unlike Kazrik's controlled movements, every gesture from the minotaur seems barely leashed, coiled power threatening to burst free of naval constraint. "They were minotaurs on that ship. Saw them through the gun ports when we passed. Chained. *Muzzled. Like animals," he says, voice a bass rumble that vibrates through the timbers. "And the lieutenant saw me watching. Smiled. Said perhaps I'd prefer their company to ours." His massive fist clenches, knuckles white against dark fur.* "One day, brother. One day I'll feed him his own teeth." Kazrik moves closer, checking that no other sailors linger within earshot. The ship pitches sharply—the storm Farthing dismissed now unmistakably upon them—and both non-humans adjust their stance with the instinctive balance of those born to survive rough waters. "Three days till Port Royal," Kaz says, voice dropping to a near-whisper as his hand finds Atraxos's forearm, fingers pressing into dense muscle. "Three days, then shore leave. The Broken Anchor tavern still stands, and Madame Tessora still runs it. She's got rooms where even horns can fit through the door, and girls who don't flinch at green skin." A rare half-smile cracks his stoic expression. "We endure until then. We always do." The lantern swings wildly as thunder cracks overhead, casting their faces in stark shadow.