Soldier, Poet, King

Chapter 2: Burning Pile

Smoke and ash billowed through the air, poisoning the lungs of the screaming men aboard the ship. Blood stained the wood of the deck, causing those who were still alive to slip as they tried to run away in terror. Some fled to sea, bobbing in the icy depths, knowing it was only a matter of time before the sharks came to feast on their flailing bodies. In the centre of it all, stood Blackbeard, red eyes burning like two hot coals amidst a cloud of black smoke that he exhaled like a dragon, the lone skull of the captain of the last ship he pillaged hanging off his belt.

'Look into the eyes of Death itself, and know his name is Blackbeard.' A low, almost demonic growl came from the smoke-

"Wait, wait, wait, so his head is made of smoke?"

Black Pete lowers the lantern he has been holding up to cast shadows along his face, shoulders sagging at the question. It is his turn to tell a story tonight and, as per usual, he chooses to regale you all with one of the many adventures of his fabled time as part of Blackbeard's crew. It's come to the point where he is having to recycle old plot lines in order to say anything 'new', but is doing little more than changing the name of whatever phoney villain is up against Blackbeard.

"When he needs it to be." Doubling down on his story, which earns him several exasperated sighs.

"Talk about a party trick. I mean, wowza."

Entertaining as it usually is to listen to one of Black Pete's many rambles, it is getting rather sad watching just how gullible your Captain is, who, after question after question trying to clarify and make some sense of the tale still hasn't come to the conclusion that it is all a lie. For all you know Blackbeard is a myth, an amalgamation of pirates going under one name to strike the most fear into peoples with the least amount of effort. Or he's just some guy. Your brows knit in thought, trying to pick apart what seems the most rooted in truth in Black Pete's stories and make sense of it in your mind. Frenchie sits beside you strumming ominous chords on his lute to match the mood his crew mate is attempting to set with his story, and has been quietly mocking tonight's story as though he, too, were a member of the fictitious crew.

"...and then I did a cartwheel, because I can, off of one man and landed on another, stabbing him in the face as I did so..."

"We're not calling you 'The Dread Black Pete'." Roach finally interrupts, shaking his head at the scoffing man.

"Aye, I was with him until the flip." Buttons grumbles, as Oluwande looks up from his hands in surprise to hear his voice so close.

"Wait, who's steering the ship?-" He manages to ask, before a sickening lurch knocks everyone off balance.

Your face, which had been resting on Frenchie, slams into the man's shoulder. You yelp in pain as bone collides into bone. Oluwande slides down on his back before skidding to a halt in front of you, kicking Roach in the process who is clawing at the upside down barrel table for stability. Just as suddenly as it started, the chaos ceases and everything lies eerily still, the gentle rocking of the August sea no longer cradling the vessel in her grasp.

"We've run aground, captain!" Buttons calls down, having scrambled up to stand at the bow of the ship.

"Are you sure?" Stede cries, still clinging on to the mast for dear life despite the Revenge being all but motionless.

"Quite sure."

"Well..." The man slowly releases his grip of the mast, straightening out his waistcoat to regain some sense of dignity, "Then we shall simply solve it in the morning."

It does make the most sense, the moon not yet half full and the lanterns only giving off so much light, but the thought of going to sleep while being trapped on the beach of God knows where doesn't feel reassuring in the slightest. You exchange glances with Frenchie, lute resting over his shoulders, who doesn't seem bothered by the current situation in the slightest. It seems that no matter how bad the circumstances are, nothing is able to bother him more than any minor inconvenience would. Whether that's an attribute you admire or are concerned about, you aren't entirely certain of yet. You watch him hum softly to himself while he strings up his hammock. With curious fingers, you reach up to touch where your face hurts, relieved to not be met with the wetness of blood but still worried it would bruise by morning.