****
On deck, Atticus and Orion were busy scrubbing away the foul ichor. The stench made Orion's nose twist in disgust, to the point he almost nauseated. He eventually stopped and flung the rag into a basin
before sinking to the planks, already exhausted to the bone.
He glanced at Atticus who was still obediently fulfilling his task, and muttered a curse under his breath before speaking aloud:
"You know, you won't die if you take a moment to rest. The way you go on makes it seem as though the rest of us do nothing around here. We've spent the entire night wiping the vile filth from the surface, and now my poor back is killing me."
"With a stamina like that, how are you supposed to face the true bearer?" One of his comrades drawled, his voice lazy as he lounged back with his arms folded behind his head.
Orion muttered another curse before snatching the wet rag from the basin and brandishing it threateningly, as if ready to hurl it at the man's face.
