The massive man sat hunched over in one of the corner seats of the bar in The Raft — a lawless pirate haven unlike any island on the map — was not born of land, but built atop the sea itself with countless derelict ships, stolen war vessels, merchant schooners, and even broken Marine frigates had been lashed together with thick ropes, rusted chains, and wooden planks to form a floating fortress city.
Even though the man, known as Jorher, a captain of a well-known pirate crew in the East Blue, was surrounded by his merry crewmates, his mind had drifted, haunted by a previous, horrific event.
The woman he had taken after pillaging and burning an island... she had run. She ran from his cabin after he tried to force himself on her. The bitch had kicked his balls and grabbed a bottle of rum before bolting toward the deck.
He ran after her and found her standing still on the bow, a figure of disturbing, unholy serenity. He saw her standing there, on the dock, in the dead of the night, shrouded in a chilling mist that hung thick and low, muffling the sounds of the sea.
Her voice, a soft, ethereal melody that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, broke the eerie silence. She was singing an eerie song, her eyes vacant and distant. It was a chant that sounded of the deep, of the endless, unforgiving ocean.
"The tide rises, the tide pulls,
The price is paid in blood and salt.
The current drowns the blasphemer's plea,
The depths will claim the sinner's fee.
Our hands will buy our place,
Our hands will seal their fate.
Lady of the Sea, Lady of the Tide,
Open the gates, let our souls inside!
For we are the Children of the Waves."
As the last word faded, her lips stretched into a wide, sinister laugh, a raw, guttural sound that seemed to mock the very concept of life. She then broke the bottle on the ship railing, its jagged, glass edge glinting in the pale moonlight, and with a single, swift motion, she slit her own neck, the blood that spurted from the wound painting her white dress a gruesome, shocking red.
"Captain." One of his crewmates, a scrawny man with a very common face, woke him up with a gentle shake. Jorher blinked, disoriented. He didn't know how much time had passed. He looked around and found his other crewmates had already fallen asleep from drinking too much. Only two of them were left, including the one who had just woken him up.
"Something on your mind, Captain?" his crewmate asked, his voice low and concerned.
Jorher remained silent for a long moment, his large hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey he hadn't yet touched. Then, with a sudden, jerky movement, he lifted the glass and gulped it down, emptying it in a single swallow. The strong alcohol burned his throat, but it did little to extinguish the haunting memory.
"It's the damn woman," Jorher finally said, his voice dropping to a low growl.
"What about her?" his crewmate asked again, leaning in closer.
"That something was wrong with her, her song..." Jorher's voice trailed off, a shiver running down his spine.
"Ah," his crewmate said, a grim look on his face. "The chant."
Jorher's eyes snapped to his crewmate. "You know something?"
The scrawny pirate nodded slowly, a grim look on his face. "Aye, Captain. I do." He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's a chant. From where I'm from. A chilling thing, a chant from a cult that's beginning to spread across the Blues."
"A cult?" Jorher growled, his mind still haunted by the woman's disturbing serenity. "Where?"
"The West Blue, Captain," the crewmate replied, a subtle tremor in his voice. "From a place they now call the 'Wailing Island.'"
Jorher's brow furrowed. "Never heard of it."
"You wouldn't have," the crewmate said, his eyes distant. "It used to be known by a different name. Shell Island."
Jorher squinted at the man, his one good eye scrutinizing the plain, easily forgotten face of his crewmate. "How are you, from the West, you bastard?" Jorher growled, his voice thick with suspicion. "We're pirates from the East."
Then, a cold, sickening realization slammed into him. He didn't know this man. He had never seen him before. His heart hammered in his chest, a frantic drum against his ribs. How could he not have realized this unknown man sat and blended in among them as if it were something normal?
The man, whom he thought was one of his crewmates, comically hit his own head and muttered, "Me and my big mouth."
Jorher, his head spinning, tried to stand up, but his body was weak. He staggered, then fell. His mind, still lucid, was filled with a terrifying clarity. They'd been drugged.
He heard the man's voice then, a low, menacing whisper. "Don't bother to struggle." As the words left his mouth, he saw the man pull a black, featureless mask over his face before he lost consciousness.