"Well."

Gallus, First Watch of the Imperial Guard, was eyeing him ferociously.

"Here you are, Percius, the drillmaster. You've bled High Rock dry from its gold with your cunning. I don't like you. Perhaps I am agitated at this moment because we are on a bog-infested ship to the East, but I'll leave it soon- you won't, but I will." Gallus was itching all over, despite his hefty armour. "I can't help but dislike you, Percius, I'll say it again. You have the gall to call yourself a drillmaster. That's meant to be an honourable profession; you are not honourable. You do no drills. You extort money, even if your victims are ever too innocent, and you ever too inconspicuous. I would spit in your face if I could, in truth, but, regretfully, you aren't charged with criminal offences. We are only silently deporting you. You are to be shipped to the East; you shall be pecked by nix-hounds before you get to be the drillmaster again, at Vvardenfell. You will be away from any chance of hindering the interests of the Imperial Census and Excise. May the Divines watch you now, Percius."

So said Gallus Vintus, First Watch of the Imperial Guard, and he stood up. He was sweating; he was the only one in the confinement room who did not remove his armour. The heat was getting to the ship, and Gallus was swatting away flies. Nothing else seemed to move. He clicked with his teeth; then he clicked with his fingers on the table. "Off my sight…" he silently grumbled, and Percius came to and saw that arms launched to drag him away.

He was now out. He went up to the deck (the interior of the Imperial barge was reserved for the ranking officers), and there, he saw Quintus, with a tankard clutched desperately with almost both his hands. He was giggling, and he was drunk. "You…they-" he began, then he quaffed. He gave a giggle. "Gallus drives hard. Look at you! Percius! Look not so sad at me. Remove that long face, not here, not against me, not against all the good chaps of the deck here (for we here are the only true Imperials of the Colovian West). Rest you, we will do our mutiny yet. Here, have a pat on the shoulder, on me." Then he drank again. "Tankard?" he asked, but Percius was not a drinker. That earned him another laugh.

Surely enough, mutiny was the topic of discussion at the front of the deck. Quintus barged right in, offered a hearty drink, received hearty replies, and they all drank while they conspired. Varrus, a built, yet somehow sly man, led the conversation, just like he led the ship: he handled the wheel. "Lads," he began, contemplatively, "we of Colovia will revolt. We drained nothing that they claim - no gold, but our lives which we spent in the Imperial Watch in Old Colovia." He hiccupped. "Colovians…agh…let's strike. Here is my spear, and I see that you are armed (yes, Flarrus, I see yours, it's very nice). Let's at it. Gentlemen!"

Varrus was hearty indeed, yet a bloody and spiteful mutiny did not break out like that from just the words of the upper deck. It was necessary, to be sure, to incite one, but now the men had to fix their minds on their arm, and the pathetic and corrupt enemy, and they would have to strike down, in a sort of organised way, those that stood in their way. Quintus was still standing; he lent his weight on a spear much larger than himself. Varrus and the rest started dashing off somewhere, but Quintus stood. "Have a plan?" he asked nowhere in particular, not Percius, certainly. He raised the spear like it was the heaviest thing in the world and charged with a drunken roar. It was a cacophony of the mutineers charging, and Percius decided that it was best to stay with the crowd, despite its elusive acrobatics, and hope to sustain his life.