𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄, ( nihachu )

jolly sailor bold

REQUEST| No

CC| NIHACHU, TOMMYINNIT (brief), TUBBO (brief)

CW: multiple mentions of blood, gore, stabbing, drowning, wounds

⸻GREED IS A NOTE in the song of life. It is a rich, racuous tune that is played and sung repeatedly by equally corrupt folk; it digs its way within your ears and heart, echoing within your mind until the end of your days. The first time you hear it's calling, it's high pitched and alluring and you're drawn in. The second time you hear it's calling, it's strung up with others of its kind, and suddenly you're pulled into its depths and you can't get out. Greed is a curse; it's the singing of sirens in the deep oceans when you fall off your ship, and they're clawing at you and the sea salt stings your skin, but you're too busy listening to the melodies to notice the water staining red ( or you do notice it; you realise how much it bites at your skin; it's just that getting lost in the alluring voices and beautiful looks of the mermaids aren't as alarming to you as they should be. You've seen worse, after all). It's a sea shanty you sing with your crewmates, catchy and hypnotizing to the ears of drunkards to a level that you don't realise how dark the lyrics truly are.

And it is exactly what drives your captain out to the far seas of the Caribbean, searching for the elusive Fountain of Youth. The Ocean's Avarice had docked at no other place but the haunting White Cap Bay, home to the vicious terrors of the water.

You've heard the tales murmured to you during your childhood before you slept, passed around in dim-lit taverns, whispered amongst the crew beneath the starry skies as you prepared to sail beneath the cover of the night. Persuasive voices that lull you gently towards the deep and icy waters of the ocean, singing of wonders mortal men could only dream of. Gentle smiles hide gleaming teeth that sink into jugulars, rip and tear flesh apart with as much ease as a sharpened cutlass. The sirens of White Cap Bay cannot leave, and cannot stay. The years have twisted their minds until they are as knotted and corroded by time as the broken nets and rusted metal swords that litter the floor of the bay.

Sirens had come to be when women were besmirched and thrown away by their husbands for the sake of younger, daintier girls. As they attempted to drown themselves, one by one, the salt of the bay flooded into their hearts, coating it in layers of salt and brine, and they changed. The blood coursing through their veins turned to salt water, their legs had bound together and hardened over with glistening scales. Bitter and heartbroken, these broken women promised themselves their revenge. They lurk beneath the choppy waves of White Cap Bay like bloodthirsty sharks, waiting to drag the few men who dare enter their domain to their untimely, watery doom.

Mayhaps your captain wasn't one to believe in that of such a ridiculous tale, of beautiful sea-creatures who could ensnare a man and drag him to a watery doom, could reduce a hardened sailor to a trembling mess; or his pride came before all, his ego larger than of Blackbeard—whatever it may be, it was what drove him to take to the long boats, bellowing commands at his first mate. The crew was split so that part of his men watched from the shore, others were stationed atop The Ocean's Avarice, and the remaining few, you among them, swayed with the ocean's waves in the boats surrounding his, some blinded more than others by the prospect of eternity.

All except for you. While their eyes shine with desire for eternal youth, your stomach churns as violently as if you were sailing upon the rowdiest of seas. You peer over the edge of your boat in morbid curiosity, as if expecting a siren to leap out of the waves to claw at your face, tear your lips off with snapping jaws. You are met by nothing but an endless plunge into the deep blue, seemingly endless. The fish don't swim in these waters.

You wince as your captain, in his own boat with his closest men, gives you a pointed look. You knew better than to test his sharpshooting. Your eyes are on the pistol in his hand, it's oily barrel gleaming beneath the midday sun reflected warmly at you in the water, a natural, distorted mirror for the sky. The sight reminds you of when your grandmother would sing a tune lost to time before the ocean as you dug your toes into the warm grains of the sandy shore. With a final, remorseful sigh, you begin to strum an ancient tune.