Random Imagines

Imagine being a Pirate Queen

A Specific OC. 

Florence gulped, surveying the woman in front of her cautiously. Her hair was a chestnut brown, roughly chopped at her shoulders. Her eyes were coal-black, and her face was tanned bronze from hours in the sun, no doubt. Her left arm was patched with various, intricate tattoos. She wore two hoop earrings that framed her face, a white blouse that was belted to her body, and pants that hugged her legs and no doubt allowed her more mobility—or at least, more mobility than Florence's baggy dress. A sword was strapped to her belt, hanging across her thick thighs. Between her lips sat a single cigar, smoke wafting through the air between them. She looked Florence over, clearly unimpressed.

"A stowaway?" she mused, removing the cigar and blowing smoke into the room. Florence watched, fascinated, as the grey-white plume spiraled upwards, weaving through the air, up and into the sky.

"What's your name?" the girl demanded, and Florence swallowed hard.

"F-F-Flo-Floren-ence," she stammered, her breathing reduced to quivering little intakes. The girl before her barked out a sharp, harsh laugh that made Florence jump slightly.

"You better find your backbone before you meet the Captain, deary, or I'm afraid it's the plank for you."

Florence's eyes went wide. She opened her mouth to say something, anything—beg, plead, cry, scream—when suddenly the sound of a large door opening filled her ears. She glanced up at the quarterdeck, as did the rest of the crew, where the sound seemed to have come from, and found that there was another woman standing there, leaning with her hands wide and against the railing, peering over the edge and looking thoroughly disgruntled. In her hand, she was haphazardly clutching a bottle—filled with what Florence assumed was rum—and it seemed to be tipping forward and backward to the lull of the wind. Florence couldn't see her face, but she could only assume that she was the captain.

"What have you got there, Imelda?" the girl's voice punctured the air, cool, crisp, yet soft and deep. Imelda straightened.

"A stowaway, cap'n."

"Oh?"

"Yes."

"What's her name?"

A low chuckle rose from the crowd, and even Imelda smirked. "Florence."

Florence watched as the girl effortlessly grabbed the rigging, lowering herself onto the main deck. As the girl's face came into view, Florence had to resist the urge to gasp.

Holy shit.

She was clearly a gypsy girl—that much was obvious. She had the soft, cream-and-coffee skin, tanned dark gold in the sun. Her eyes were big and thickly lashed—a trait common among the gypsy women she remembered from her own town. However, they were a sea green—a color she was sure she had never seen before. She was considerably tall—about 5'6—her frame was willowy, her curves covered with a white silk blouse and tucked loosely into black, thick pants. Over that blouse, she had draped a black captain's coat, heavy-looking and hanging close to her knees.

And her hair. It immediately drew Florence's attention. It was thick, raven-black, soft to look at, and luxurious—thick, aggressively curled locks fell straight down her back and to her knees, bound by a red bandana. On top of her head was a black leather tricorn hat.

The captain arched a brow. "Something wrong, Florence?"

Flor blushed. "N-no, ma'am."

She blinked down at her, before glancing at Imelda with a small smirk.

"Throw her overboard."

Two hands clamped roughly onto Flor's arms, and her heart rate spiked. "WAIT!" she all but screamed, and the gypsy looked back, arching a curious brow. Flor swallowed, shifting nervously, panic stabbing at her chest.

"I-I c-can be of use to you," she stuttered, "I studied plants and such in my younger years."

The gypsy blinked, before widening her arms out toward the ocean. "If you haven't noticed yet, we're in the middle of the ocean. Plants will do you no good."

"Please," Flor protested, "I have studied herbage all my life. I can heal your sick and tend to your wounded. The next time you make port—"

"We don't plan on making port for a long, long time," the gypsy replied coldly, "and I have no interest in keeping little girls who strayed too far from home."

"Please," Florence tried again, lower lip quivering, "I stayed in your boat for an escape. Life was horrible where I was."

The gypsy tipped her head back and laughed—a musical, lilting sound that sounded as sharp as it did harmonious. Flor flinched a little, as the captain turned her amused eyes on her.

"I'm sure it was, milady," she snorted, "but here, it will be infinitely worse for you. The daughter of a nobleman, clearly. You wouldn't survive a minute on my ship. Trust me, I'm doing you a service by leaving you to the sharks. Sharks only have teeth, but we have much more than that."

The dark smirk on her face made Flor grimace. Still, she didn't give up.

"Please, I can help. I am trained in medicine. I can take care of your wounded."

Imelda grunted. "We do need a healer."

The captain turned her gaze sharply on Imelda. "Oh?"

"Aye, Captain Lovell. Training gets a lot of the girls mussed up and bruised. We could use someone with knowledge of herbology."

The Captain blinked, before cocking her head with a dark grin. "Are my gypsy ways troubling to you, Imelda darling?"

Imelda stiffened. "Of course not, captain. I just thought perchance you would want to delegate the duty. After all, you are our captain. It would be beneath you to have to tend to our wounds."

The gypsy hummed thoughtfully. "I suppose. Though I must teach a lesson, to ensure that people know not to stowaway on the Red Lady."

Red Lady.

A shiver of cold dread ran up Flor's spine.

"This is the Scarlet Maiden?" she asked aloud, watching as all the heads turned to her. Immediately, she shrunk into herself, eyes lowering in embarrassment and fear. The gypsy stepped forward, suddenly amused.

"You didn't know?" she asked, and a sudden realization sparked in Flor's mind. If this was the Scarlet Maiden, the gypsy was their captain...

I'm talking to the Medusa.

Flor paled. "Y-you're Medusa," she stuttered, "Reaper of Souls, Slayer of Men, Gypsy Queen of the Seven Seas, The Viper-Headed Contessa..." she trailed off, her voice disappearing somewhere in the back of her throat. Medusa smiled.

"You know, some people think I'm the actual Medusa."

Flor's eyes widened. "Are you?"

The gypsy grinned. "No. But it's always nice to be appreciated."

Appreciated? Being compared to a vicious snake-headed demon was a compliment?

She tutted. "Yes, little Florence, I am the Slayer of Men, The Gypsy Queen of the Seas, the Viper-headed...whatever you said." She popped the cork off the bottle of rum, taking a long swig.

"But most aboard call me Captain Lovell or refer to me as Captain." She studied Florence with a sideways smile.

"And seeing as how you're about to become a part of my crew, you will do well to remember it."

Florence wilted in relief, her knees buckling. Still, she couldn't help the uneasy tension curling in the pit of her stomach. Somehow, she knew this was far from over.

I still may not survive.

Apparently sensing her fright, Lovell stepped forward, grinning darkly and clapping her hard on the shoulder. Florence winced, wilting under the captain's bold gaze.

"Welcome aboard Scarlet Maiden."