Treacherous Tides

The sea had teeth, and they were closing in.

Barnaby gripped the rotting rail as the ship groaned beneath him, each timber crying out like a wounded beast. The waters ahead churned with a sickly green phosphorescence, patches of light that pulsed and died like the breath of something ancient and hungry. He had sailed through storms off the Cape of Good Hope, survived the crushing ice of the Northern routes, but never had he felt the ocean itself *resent* his presence.

Captain Silas stood at the helm, his spectral form flickering in the unnatural gloom. The pirate captain's eyes, two pinpricks of cold fire, stared ahead at nothing Barnaby could see.