#seadecade

davill ship is sailing 2k17  |  @seadecade​

In the morning the sun greets them with cold rosy spilling at the horizon and tender purple veil thrown over the waters that for once have changed their affinity to grey and green. Here and there dolphins show their back fins, following their route peacefully, bypassing the great bulk of the Flying Dutchman rocking upon the timid waves. Save for those miniscule stirrings, the sea is perfectly tranquil, as if foreboding a big storm. Every day they stray further from God’s light, docilely abiding the captain’s choices: the deal with the unholy, the love for the demons of the sea, the fate of cursed sea devils, and today the first mate feels it in his soul as clearly as he feels the wet, dank sort of cold that nestles in every corner of the ship during a tempest. They are too far from the shore of human world, and they are going farther and farther.

The crew does not hide the gloom and sprouting dread gathering in their eyes. They’re a drab collection of men that used to yearn for a jolly night, a good drink and a soft bosom, but now they only have thoughts for cowardly ruminations with their own selves: should we trust the captain anymore?

He will not take it. He’ll bark commands and shove his way through the crowd of somnambulas he condemns them to be as he treads the path towards Davy’s cabin. At the permission to enter he slips in quietly, so unlike the usually noisy. cumbersome grace of the first mate.

“The men are changin’, cap’n.”

In a thick-veined, sinewy hand of a man familiar with ropes and weapons for a great chunk of his life, there is a measly clump of a rug he unweaves to present the strange evidence to captain Jones: a constellation of barnacles smudged with red, as well as fresh, shallow wounds upon the first mate’s forearm.

“I tore ‘em off me flesh this morning.”

He pulls up the hem of his shirt. On his left flank, amongst the abundance of scars found on any seaman of wicked ways glistens a vision of silver, an agglomeration of scales, in their roughness reminiscent those of a shark,  as though the bite of the tiger of the sea possessed the ability to contaminate with its essence akin to werewolf or a vampire, but his heart is not at peace knowing yesterday it was but a mere scratch.

Another wave beat the hull, cresting the ship higher than a mountain… or so it felt, as it slammed down into the sea once more, wind howling through the floors, and down into the dank where Willow found herself. Though she was thankful it wasn’t too damp, mainly dark, and cramped within the small galley, hardly fit for three people to stand shoulder to shoulder. Luckily, she was trim… and short. Something she lamented most of the time, especially when the top shelf might as well be set upon the moon.

The cabinets were nice for such a vessel, barely standard for passengers, but with the recent influx of those that wished to sail to the Americas, it was hardly surprising they’d reoutfitted it. With just enough posh and delights to satisfy the elite for a few months upon the sea, and to keep the commoners mostly fed, the Singing Siren had set off from the coast of Spain towards Jamaica. Willow was quietly thankful she could keep busy, honing her skills against the tongues of aristocrats, who were at first appalled she’d be handling their delicacies… Only to later compliment her, in their own, backhanded sort of ways. One of the ladies had even spoken of hiring her to cater their wedding.

Willow smiled at the thought, only to sigh when she realized the cinnamon had once again – somehow – found its way to the shelf furthest from the deck… Which meant far beyond her reach. The ship pitched again, a frightful creak sounding from the belly, and she gripped the cabinet – half staggering, half flailing – to keep her balance. Eventually, it settled once more, though there was a steady groan, and whistle that sang from the rafters.

Willow bit the inside of her cheek, rubbing her shaky hands upon her skirts, and counted herself lucky she wasn’t of nobility. They were upstairs, closer to the Captain’s quarters, and no doubt were holed up… terrified. She paused, her eyes roving back to the parcel that lay on the cabinet. It was one of the few possessions she had brought with her… her ‘inheritance’, the only thing her mother had left her that had truly belonged to her. Willow watched it, halfway expecting it to unravel, and reveal the treasure she’d hoarded. She nearly snorted. Treasure? Hardly. Just a dingy old blade with silver accents…

One she’d never unsheathed. She didn’t know why exactly, she’d just never felt the need to.

The ship was quieting, an eerie silence to combat what once was only thunder and hiss and roar. We must be leaving the storm, finally… She longed to go back up top, look out upon the sea, but first –

Willow pushed a chair over, beneath the cabinet with the cinnamon, and then put several heavy tomes on top of that… Then a box. Why am I so bloody short?! She inwardly snarled. And why does everything have to be built so bloody tall?! Hiking up her skirts, she climbed her makeshift tower, carefully balancing nigh upon the edge of the wooden crate, and reached with small, pale fingers.

                   ❝ mmmm , sea wench is such an un - flattering term —— when it wasn’t  ME  that you took to bedding in your captain’s quarters .... sir. ❞

her gaze followed his , and from where she sat  ( on the railing of his ship ) , the siren could see the silhouette of the ship in davy jones’ sights. poor things. she wondered if they might’ve had a most  MAGNIFICENT TREASURE  on board .... and if he would allow her to keep any , on completion of his task. ———— unlikely , but it would be worth asking. 

❝ of course.  what was it that you required of us? ❞

for the dutchman, fair winds and following seas are a given.

she waits, dark hand splayed upon the mast, eyes of obsidian dancing in the warm sun. lips twist into a smile as she watches the object of such amused affection labour under the salt spray, his hair whipping in her own conjured fair winds. 

❛ davy jones, what spirits are you out for today? ❜

dad!carlisle f uck