#pellek

Whispers and legends and drunk fools told their stories, in taverns late at night, though a sober man would speak their names not once. Tales of ships sunken and treasures found, of a crew bound by destiny, of long lost gods. The people did not know who they were, and those who had met them had never returned to tell. But they were myths, lore woven around them, prayers cried by sailor and pirate both. They were wisps of air, droplets of water, grains of sand, and while they were so known and feared, they were nothing but stories in the end, because one saw them and forgot, and would remember all the same. 

It is strange and difficult to understand for those who have not listened once, for those who have not sat on dirty benches in taverns and shared their ale with strangers in the dark, for those who have yet to find their faith in the sea - but those that know, they fear their ghosts, their gods, their pirates, for what they’ve done and what’s been told they have. 

—————

Laughter filled the air, songs in languages from places left far behind, and mate after mate stumbled and swung and downed their ale, the ship swaying on the waves, as though the sea danced with it.  The captain watched his crew, expression unyielding as it always was, but joy loosening the tight knot in his chest. He was an intimidating man, the captain. Not once had they seen him smile. He brought fear upon whoever faced him. And he was skilled, an experienced fighter, a gratefully accepted leader. He wore his hair down, his attire flawless, and his hat marked him as truly what he was - never did he take it off. He was stone, had stone been mortal, and not less handsome a bit no matter he was older than them all. 

“Cap’” His right hand slumped down beside him, amusement written on his face. He was a shrewd boy; young, and charming, and he’d brought more trouble with him than he’d fought. But they needed him, they did, with his wit and his reflex. He was always just a heartbeat less perfect than the captain was - his blond hair down shabbier, his hat pointier, his shirt more revealing and his coat's sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He had more charisma than he ought to have, and often enough he had won the upper hand through it.  An ale was shoved in front of him, its content swapping up the sides, creating a little puddle on the wooden table. He did not have to look up to know who it was. 

“Use your fingers for something more useful, thief, and hand me back my compass” The pirate stared at him from above, a fist balled and another around the spilling cup. There was warning in his eyes, but less of the dangerous rage his enemies found themselves facing and more amusement, though never willingly would he show that. He brawled with the captain’s right hand daily, such a contrast to the cunning man yet so similar to him in many ways. His mane was tamed half-heartedly under a head rag, his arms freed of clothing for surely more than one purpose in those warm weathers they travelled through. He was strong and quick and smart, too, often underestimated at first. He had a ready mind, and not a single thing did happen that he missed, ever. 

A throaty laugh came from their left, a man not much younger than the captain himself, dressed in dirty blue he said to resemble the sky, his pear coloured parrot on one shoulder. There were marks in his coat from where it sat day and night, and left him only to eat and drink and sleep. He, perhaps, was the mildest of them all, no less deadly whatsoever - an adventurer, that was what he called himself, and it described him better than anything else could have. A cutlass in hand at all times, he went through life with laughter and joy, courage and determination. Though often enough lost in his own thoughts, he enjoyed nothing more than a good meal and an even better conversation. 

“Where’s mine?” The youngest of them had his brows furrowed and gestured at the empty space in front of him. His hands weren’t rough as were the others’, but long forgotten was the paleness of his skin, and just the jewelry remained of what once had been his life in luxury. He perhaps hadn’t as much experience, less craftiness, less charm, but he found himself often in the spotlight, and no less was he in the crew’s heart. Clumsy, head in the clouds, and still as vital as anyone could be, for his profession was creativity and imagination that led them to the horizons they conquered, over unknown land to explore and to foreign isles which brought blinding fortunes. 

“I wasn’t aware you’re old enough to drink, lad, down your water”

—————

They were monsters as much as those they faced, the whales they brought, the ships they sunk, the gold they spent, the people would whisper in the dark of the night, when many would listen and never forget, years and decades and centuries after the last of them had left this world. But on their ship, back to back, cutlass out and enemy walking the plank, they were no monsters. No men, either. They were pirates, one would say, gods, another would call them. They were with bliss in their hearts and thrill in their eyes, stories in their ears and adventures in their minds, and as they lived and fought and travelled the way only they could, they were admired and adored, and feared, too, for longer than their memory lived on.