Keelhauled

	Rats skittered across the algae-crusted floor of the brig, and the pitch and yaw of the ship in the water tossed the griffon from his cot. He pulled himself to his feet and put his hands on the cell bars to steady himself. If the claw-gouged tallies on the wooden back wall were to be believed, the griffon had been in the brig of this galleon for ten days. He had been fed a meager diet of stale bread and vaguely salty water, though the occasional stray rat served to ease his hunger by a small amount.

	The door to the brig was thrown open, and sunlight streamed into the pitch-dark room, momentarily blinding the griffon, and he holds a forearm in front of his face to shield his eyes from the harsh glare. Heavy bootsteps approach the cell, and the clinking of a set of rusty keys in the cell door caused the griffon to step back from the figure.

	It was a stallion, dressed in a dirty shirt and ripped canvas pants. He grins at the griffon, showing his rows of yellowed and rotted teeth. As the door swings open, he locks a pair of heavy shackles to the griffon’s wrists and binds his wings. “Cap’n called fer ya, be on yer best behavior.”

	The griffon glares at the jailor, but is shoved through the door and forced up onto deck. He blinks several times, trying to get his bearings. Crew members stopped their tasks at hand and stared at the prisoner, some jeering and others throwing bottles and various debris. The griffon can’t bring his hands up to defend himself, he ducks his head to the side to avoid the brunt of it.

	He is lead towards the aft of the galleon. A set of double doors sat in between two twin staircases that lead to the helm. Two crewmen step forward and open the doors, and the griffon is pushed into the captain’s quarters.

	It was a rather nice room, all things considering. A smaller-scale model which looks painstakingly handcrafted sat on a table to the side, a mannequin that wore a leather-armored hooded cloak that the griffon recognized instantly, sending a chill down his spine. Maps and charts covered the main desk in the center, and the captain himself sat behind the navigation desk in a high-backed leather chair.

	“C-Captain Kenway…” the prisoner stammered, his pupils shrinking to the size of pinpricks.

	The dread pirate captain stands from his seat, walking over to the prisoner. The two griffons lock eyes for a few moments, one filled with fear and the other with anger.

	“You didn’t even realize who you were stealing from, did you?” Kenway asks, genuinely curious. He drags a sharpened talon across the prisoner’s beak. “Or maybe you did. Who are you working for, Belmont? Or perhaps Ricardo?”

	“No sir, I would never– “

	“Silence.” The captain commands, and the griffon falls quiet. “No matter. The crimes of which you are accused are most grievous, and my verdict is given.” He grabs the griffon by his shackles and pulls him along out of the captain’s quarters, up the deck to the bow of the ship. A deck hand ties a rope to the metal shackles binding the prisoner.

	“Keelhauled.” Kenway says, shoving the prisoner off the gunwale into the ocean below.

	He impacts the water with a hard splash. Surfacing and gasping for breath, he desperately tries to kick with his free back legs away from the ship, but the galleon’s speed is too fast, and it quickly overtakes him. Kenway watches the guilty disappear below the hull with a look of cold resolve.

	“Let this be a lesson to the rest of you.” Kenway says, turning to address his crew, who either loudly voice their affirmation of weakly nod in the sight of the imposing figure. Feeling his message was read loud and clear, Kenway cuts the rope tied to the gunwale with a claw, returning to his quarters.