The three heavily set men turn, but the one you tapped on the shoulder spins, ready to grapple.
"Who the hell do you-" he stops, goes pale and immediately assumes the posture of attention, he is almost ramrod straight and with a quick elbow, his comrades affect the same posture. "My apologies, milord," he slurs. "A petty thief, just teaching him what's what on the Captain's ship."
Behind them the bundle lies twitching, his robes are the red-black quartered of a crew serf who serves with the Techwrights. He peers from the folds of his cowl as you tower above his assailants, the glass in his left bionic eye is cracked, seeping emerald light. The whirrs and clicks of a broken mechanism are muted by the blood and oil on his face.
A closer study of the ringleader, as you rightly perceive him, shows duelling scars crossing his nose and chin. A recent, livid cut runs from above his left eye, down to his left jowl. It s clear this was earned within the last 24 hours.
"With your permission sir, I'll arrest this...thing," he points at the human heap on the floor, "and put him in the brig."
The stink of amasec is quite pronounced off all three of them.
You have remained a spectre, prowling like the wolf worn on your shoulder, marching back and forth among the bridge and the wardrooms, picking at the platters and grimacing at anyone who dares peer up at you. The night watch has taken over on the bridge and they seem to know their business. The quiet industry of the crew reminds you of the silent expectation from those aboard Hengvist, sailing the sea of stars with an undercurrent of poised readiness. The sparring cages seem like they will provide more interaction for you, but as you are about to leave the command deck, an alert tone spears your sharp ears and an amber light flashes on one of the consoles.
Since I'm working off the last information I have, feel free to give me more detail about what you may want to do if I have misunderstood.
The Armsmen and serfs who are not on duty, throng the duelling cages. Inside them two humans are warming up. Stripped to the waist, both are obviously veterans of many combats and several duels, the tapestry of their fights woven into their skins. One wears the trews of a Naval officer, he is young, but his blue eyes are old. His blonde hair is swept back, already damp with perspiration from warming up. He holds a sabre of common type, although it appears finely balanced.
The other man is grim and looks like nothing. He makes no flashy shows, nor does he even appear exerted. His blade is long and slim, a rapier, with an intricate basket hilt. In his other fist, a dagger is loosely held, but it is not so ornate as the sword, it is a plain, brutal thing of dark metal with the top of the grip wrapped in twine around what is likely a bare tang. His skin is dark, from a place other than a ship, where the sun is punishing and the earth is dry.
A burly Armsman steps forward, his bulk almost rivalling that of an Astartes, and takes a huge breath.
"Does anyone challenge our prizemen?"