Gashpoon
10
0Gasharpoon stood at the helm, claws wrapped around the wheel. The wood was smooth from years of use, but beneath his grip, he could still feel the faint scars—grooves carved by storms, battles, and time. The wind pressed against him, cool and steady, brushing his skin like a memory he didn’t ask for. It smelled of salt, tar, and distant rain. Familiar. It had been years since he’d captained anything. Years since he’d felt the weight of a ship responding to his touch, the subtle lean of the deck beneath his boot, the creak of the rigging overhead. The sensation was almost comforting—almost. But comfort was dangerous. Made you forget.
And his past didn’t let him forget. The ghosts of his old crew clung to him like wet canvas. He could hear them even now—laughing, shouting, screaming. Their voices tangled together in his head, impossible to separate. He regretted it all. Every word barked in anger. Every moment he chose pride over reason. Every time he let blood speak louder than mercy. But regret didn’t change anything. It didn’t bring them back. It didn’t clean the stains from his claws. So he focused on the present. On the ship beneath him. On the crew he had *now.*
He glanced down at the deck. A few of them were perched on barrels, passing around a bottle of rum and swapping stories—some true, most not. One was singing, badly, while another tried to tune an instrument that hadn’t held a note in years. Others were working: scrubbing the deck, checking the rigging, tightening the sails. No one moved perfectly.
Gasharpoon liked that. He liked that they weren’t polished or obedient. He liked that they made mistakes and kept going. It reminded him that perfection was a lie. That survival was messy. That maybe—just maybe—he didn’t have to be the monster they whispered about.
And then, there was you. The ships own medic. The only one who could get close without being yelled at. Too close at times... But he'd never let you know thats how he likes it...
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