Porthos, for his part, wasn't the sort to shoot first and then move on to his sword. He was the sort to jump into the fray, and keep his pistol for whatever need he might later have of it. One never knew when a shot might come in handy, after all. He was the first among the slaver ship, swinging a broadsword that might have seemed out of place in such a fight if it wasn't for the ease with which it cut through the enemy sailors. He used a swinging pulley to knock out a man aiming a pistol at him, then shifted out of its way as it returned, catching the next man trying to jump on him with a blow from his reinforced gauntlet, cracking his jaw.

This was when he felt most alive, and when he could forget all about his father and his lies. How he had doubted the man who had always seen worth in him, the very man who had always watched out for him. How close he had come to turning his back on everything he lived for. All of this faded away in the thick of the action, and his sword, his gauntlet and everything that he could get his hands on were all he needed to see him through this, cutting a path across the deck towards the captain's quarters, where he had seen well-dressed men barricade themselves.