A War of Flesh

[Morgan LaLuna]

Stars glittered over the ocean that reflected them in a weak attempt to capture their glory, ever moving and hiding its own darkness in the depths like a shameful secret that two moons cast light into and exposed. A tendril of fog flickered over the water, cutting it off from the entity it tried to mimic, followed by more of the obscuring oceanic mists. No sound accompanied the phenomenon… it was silent as death, and like that spectre, quite deadly. It was not the thick vapor itself that strangled the life around it, but rather what lie waiting within the banks. A black and hulking thing like a seaborne nightmare. Wood that did not creak with the rise and fall of current-made waves, stained and tarred to a darkness even a moonless sky could not wish to be. Ebony sails that were devoid of winds and hung quietly. It was silent as the watery grave it had sent many seekers of ill fortune to.

But this was no ghost ship. No manifestation of Davy Jones and his unseen crew. Every man and woman aboard the vessel lived and breathed, and every member of the crew waited with bated breath for the inevitable call to action. Sitting just before the wheel on the elegant rail between it and the lower deck was the captain of the vessel, a small man wearing garb simple enough that he could be mistaken as one of the more lowly sailors, if not for the now threadbare red tricorn hat with its peacock feathers in a nearly perfect fan in the back. Some had broken, others bent and did not quite reach that point yet… he did not futz with them to fix the item at all. It did its job just fine without the fastidious attention he often paid to the things he wore. He sat with his eyes closed and his palms on the knees of lotus-crossed legs, seemingly listening to the ocean itself. As if he could hear her just beneath the deathly silence he'd shrouded his ship in.

Soon.

It would be soon.

He parted his lips, and smiled. Tonight would be the beginning of something rather dangerous. Something foolhardy and stupid. A bubble of glee rose in the captain's chest, and there was a soft exhale like a single laugh. The implications to those closest to him were quite clear. Ready for battle. A single halfling with a burn on his face as if by powder skipped quietly down below, disappearing completely into the darkened belly of the ship. The lanterns had been snuffed. The cargo hold was dreadfully empty but for the rations that would feed the crew. All was ready.

All Morgan needed now…

Was the prey.

[Anubis Karos]

The brackish sensation of water-birthed air filtered into his lungs like sunlight, the musty vapor of incarcerated fish coupling with the masculine aroma of sailors to force a briny scent. It was all appealing, but he was far from in the mood. The gangplank shivered with the reproach of hempen sandals, twisting across the gangplank with each footfall.

The Egyptian's rancid humour was confirmed by the tableau of blood before him, a carmine patina congealing into a soul-stilling paste across the wooden plateau. A severed hand here, a lower intestine quivering in the sun there....the slaughter was obvious. And the cloying stench of death clung to the deck like a fungi.


Yet the Egyptian seemed unmoved by any of it. Noir irises appeared to evince no empathy as they imbibed the carnage, bronzed skin seamlessly contrasting with dessicated strawberry as his palm ran across the gunwale.

And then finally, he spoke to the underlings about him, forcing away a gaunt smile at the trepidation which bled from their souls: "Salvage who you can. We're going to try again".