Soldier, Poet, King

Chapter 7: From Eden

Since Izzy's departure from the Revenge, it seems as though the crew as a whole has fallen back into how life was before getting beached. Days have grown long and monotonous, minutes dragging into hours with all the haste of a lazy Sunday morning. With not even the promise of battle to look forward to, the crew has descended into their most dormant state, focusing all their time and energy in progressing what little access to hobbies they have onboard. Frenchie has written three ballads, as well as tweaked most of the lyrics for 'To Death We Go', making it more contemplative than anything else. Even Roach, who usually has some sort of odd job or secret project seems to be losing any enthusiasm he once had for bloodshed and torture, instead, turned to a life of pastry. Which has led to the Revenge's current problem...

"The Swede has scurvy."

"Can't he just eat some fruit?" You look up at Frenchie with tired eyes, your ability to keep the facade of interest drained considerably after losing cards for the fifth time in a row.

"Well... About that..."

⋄ ⋄ ⋄

"You used how many oranges on a cake you didn't even share with the rest of the crew?"

Wedged between Wee John and Frenchie, you hide the lower half of your face in your shirt collar in an attempt to escape the putrid stench wafting from The Swede's mouth, feeling a twinge in guilt for having to do so. If all you are experiencing is the mere smell of what scurvy did to a person, you can only imagine how uncomfortable The Swede is, his own teeth falling from his body as though they are nothing more than dead leaves off a tree in autumn. Empathy does little to stifle the urge to gag every time the man breathes - which is frequent, seeming as he is still very much alive and in need of air - leaving you with watering eyes and choking back the bile.

"Alright, everyone stop going on about the cake... It hardly tasted of oranges, if that's any consolation, which is why I didn't bother to share. Let's just accept the fact that we need to go grocery shopping, thanks to Roach's immoderate use of the citrus." Stede wraps his robe around him, the pink velvet and embroidered flowers making him look about as much the Captain of a pirate ship as he looks intimidating.

"St. Augustine's full of oranges, and we're right in the area. Don't see why we can't make a quick pit stop if it's such a dire need." Frenchie chimes in, shielding his face from the lingering smell with his jacket.

"Lovely! A-And uhm... While we are on the subject of the vista-esc landscapes in our vicinity, it would only be natural for one to inquire about them... Now is there, oh I don't know, anything exciting to do while we're in St. Augustine? Something that might impress a world-weary adventuring type? Totally a hypothetical query, of course."

"Nope," Jim slams their hands and shoots up from their seat, the brim of their hat covering their eyes, "There's absolutely no reason to go there. It's boring and awful and the humidity? Do you understand what that'll do to your hair?"

"So?" Frenchie combs his fingers through his already frizzy hair.

"I'll just wear a hat, if my coiffure is that much of a concern of yours." Stede sniffs indignantly, as Jim storms away from the table.

" Honestly, we're too close to it right where we are now, we should turn around and leave as soon as possible. There is nothing, I repeat, nothing for us in St. Augustine."

"Why so defensive, Jim?"

"Why so many questions, Olu?"

"Uhm... guys? Are anyone else's fingernails falling off...?"

"I need some air-" You groan, averting your eyes as much as possible from The Swede, as even the thought of looking at his mangled state was enough to make your stomach churn.