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Waters Deep

katiekitten

The Compromise
Ocean Deep. Horror story.

I had a problem with finding out a name. *shrugs* Any way, here is the prologue of my horror story. I probably won't continue it. Might do if I get interest. Here it is...

Prologue.

15th Century, Atlantic Ocean.


The full moon slowly rose, white and round as an unblemished pearl, solemnly cresting the horizon and steadily riding up the sky, casting the towering waves in a silver twilight. The rhythmic roaring of the sea was like a sweet lullaby, enchanting and perilous to those who knew no better. The serene scene was punctured by the distant cries of “Heave! Ho!” as a proud galleon cut swathes through the waves. It was a magnificent sight, one of those ships that struck awe and fear into its enemy’s hearts. It had three masts that rose gallantly in a row down the center, fastened by cold iron bolts driven through the wood.

They were framed by rigging that swayed as the wind whispered through it, running its fingers along its salt encrusted fibres and diving, cackling, to the deck, swopping among the assorted sailors. The wooden hull of the ship was inlaid with gold, crafted by the most skilled into the shapes of flowering buds which quickly melded into tossing spray from raging sea monsters, ruby eyes glinting in the dim light. A sculptured figurehead erupted from the bows of the ship, carved in the shape of a scantily dressed fair maiden who gazed at the rabid waters with a look of longing on her weathered face. The delicately woven sails billowed out as the wind pulsed behind them, propelling the ship forwards. Above the sails, slightly below the shaking look out post, flapped a flag, its insignia the object of fear and dread. The legendary skull and cross bones.

Black storm clouds loomed over-head, casually throwing bolts of lightning and bellowing with cruel laughter as they hit their targets. One struck the tallest mast, sending a shudder down the whole ship and caused the look out post to tumble on to the deck below. It crushed an unfortunate cleaner who had been scrubbing something that looked suspiciously like blood off the deck.

Sailors rushed forwards and, under the eyes of a dark figure that had just disengaged itself from the shadows, heaved the broken mass overboard, unceremoniously tipping the shattered corpse after it. One of them hurried to the silent watcher, worriedly fingering a golden hoop hanging from his ear lobe as he waited for instructions.
“Cap’ain?”

The captain stared at him, ice blue eyes cold in his weathered face that looked to be fifty years old, while in truth he was only thirty. He wore a black trench coat that fell to his knees, underneath that he wore mostly black, save for a golden belt at his wait. He was tall and thin, his spindly fingers caressing the once shiny pommel of a curved scimitar, a treasure from a long past raid. He had a three-pointed hat on top of his head, resting on his brown lank hair that reached to his shoulders. He was clean-shaven, the rain streaming down his face, dripping occasionally off his long nose. He raised his head a little, revealing a sharp chin, his eyes glowing from the depths of his hidden face. Opening his thin lipped mouth he uttered an order in a deep, silky voice.
“Ready the Oars,”
The man bowed and hurried away.

He rushed past the working sailors, clinging to a railing as the ship tipped dangerously to the left, sending barrels bounding down the deck towards him. He ducked, narrowly missing getting knocked out by a flying barrel of apples and continued on his way, undeterred. Reaching the door way and lurching inside, he tripped and was sent tumbling down the stairs, landing with a crash on his back in the galley. He groaned and picked himself up, staggering past a disgruntled chef and down a stuffy hallway to a door near the end, where the slaves were kept. Unlocking the door, he straightened himself and hobbled through into the room ahead.

The temperature notably rose as he entered the room. It was very humid; the scent of human excretion was incredibly strong. He glanced around. The place was a shambles. Slaves huddled on every available surface except a thankfully hidden corner at the bottom left of the hold, where the dreadful smell originated. They all had shackles that bound their ankles with the person beside them to prevent any escapes.

It was a grotty room near the stern of the boat; before the pirates acquired the ship it had been used to store animals. The smell still lingered, clinging to the withered beams, the musty smell of old wool. They only had one light, a flickering lamp that was securely fastened to a wall, beneath which a bundle of clothes sat, smoking slightly.

The messenger walked towards it, picking his way past the littered floor and attempting to ignore the scores of eyes that raked him. The little flame in the lamp dimmed slightly, dampened by a wicked breeze that had crept through the open door. The eyes instantly focused on it; giving the messenger enough time to reach his goal.

The clothes stirred and blinked, shifting slightly and revealing its true nature. It was a bulky man who lay on the ground smoking out of a long pipe. He removed it and gave the messenger an inquiring look before drawing himself to his full height. Standing, he was a good six-foot tall, with a large frame and a round head. He was bald with beady eyes that were hidden momentarily by bushy eyebrows that slanted down in a frown. He had a large mouth and a pig snout for a nose, which partly gave away his selfish personality. He did not care about the slaves he was charged with keeping in order, he had no mercy for what he referred to as “Trash”.

He wore brown clothes that had yellow stains on them, from where his tobacco grimy fingers had wiped against it. He wore short pants that ended at his knees, showing his legs that had globules of fat strewn across it like the ruins of a house after a tornado. He had muscular arms that could bend iron, and his double chin wobbled as he shifted his weight to his other leg. He casually stood there and, picking up a large splinter off the wooden walls, began to pick his teeth with it, or at least those teeth that remained.

The messenger leaned forward, holding his breath slightly, and whispered into the guard’s ear. The guard’s brow relaxed and he nodded. The messenger hurried out of the door and back up the stairs to the deck without looking back, while the guard strode to the middle of the room. Glaring at those nearest to him, he pointed to the door and growled.
“To the oars! NOW!”

The slaves miserably got up and filed through the door, chains clinking. They trudged further down the hall to a set of stairs, which they carefully picked their way down. Emerging into a dark dusty room, they waited as the guard rushed through, whip in hand, punishing those who could not keep up. The guard then proceeded to calmly walk to a nearby candle bracket and light them.

The weak light revealed the room in all its glory, its contents filling the slaves with sadness. They were at the top of a wide hall that went all the way down the ship. On either side there were rows of benches, each lined up to a closed pothole. It was slightly above sea level to prevent flooding when they manned the oars. The guard unlocked their shackles and relocked them to the benches. There they sat in pairs, remorsefully gazing at the floor and picking up a partially hidden oar. Heaving it up, they pushed it through portholes that lined the sides. From the outside it looked as if the ship had sprouted fins, the paddles were streamlined for fast movement. To the slow beat cowhide drum, the slaves laboriously propelled the ship onwards.

The original guard patrolled the narrow corridor between the rows, holding his whip menacingly. Several others joined him, lounging around the doorway to prevent any escapades. They conversed mainly among themselves, the odd laugh filling the musty silence. Every once in a while they would throw an odd insulting comment to the slaves nearest then, attempting to goad them into action. The victims would just grind their teeth and ignore them; there was nothing else they could do.

Soon the sound of heavy panting filled the room; the atmosphere grew humid as sweat dribbled down the workers faces and backs. Yet they could not stop. Backward and forwards. Backwards and forwards. On and on they strove, perspiring and swearing under their breath.

One frail man of seventy could not take it any more. He slipped off the seat and into the isle, exhausted, wincing as the whip licked his legs. The original guard stood above him, teeth bared in a grimace smile as he raised his arm once more. The slaves watched with indifference, they were used to this. It had been a regular occurrence during the long months of slavery they had endured.

A young man who had sat beside the victim scowled, watching with growing frustration as his father was beaten to pulp. The man on the floor whimpered, his thin, wispy, white hair sticking to his sweat and tears that had combined into a gluey mess, covering his face and obscuring sapphire eyes that were wide with fright. Angry welts rose on his skin, as well as purple bruises that blossomed under the many blows.

He weakly attempted to fend off the attack, his futile defence rewarded by the guard hitting him harder. His open cuts gaped, blood oozing out, creeping down to the edge of his arms and legs and slowly dripping to the floor. After one particularly hard whack across the back he cried out in pain, eyes filming over.

The younger man could take it no more. Standing up, he grabbed the paddle and snapped it in two, wielding the long stick like a machete. Grabbing a broken end he wedged it in the lock of his shackles, breaking them. He was free. His tousled black hair fell across his face and his eyes glinted with rage. He was fifteen years old and had the fiery temper that came over boys his age. His finely sculptured features proclaimed him to be African. He had a slightly big nose and dark eyes that seemed to pierce right through you. His bushy brown eyebrows were crumpled in anger. He was pressing his lips together so tightly that they were almost hidden from view, a mere slit in his face. He walked sideways down the bench, ignoring the panic-stricken face of his mother and faced the guard, yelling at him to stop in his native tongue, the only language he knew. The guard paused, surprised, then grinned savagely and took a calculated step towards the teenager.

“Jargo!” The man on the floor cried out, left eye so swelled up he could no longer see out of it. “Don’t my son! It’s not worth fighting fo-” He broke off, flinching as the guard kicked him. The guard turned back to his quarry and, without warning, struck.

The air crackled as the whip sliced through it, swinging through the place Jargo had been a second before. He had jumped out of the way just in time and was behind the guard, kicking his shins and taunting him in a singsong voice. Infuriated by this the guard spun around and reached out. He blinked. He was clutching thin air. A clout on the back of the head sent him stumbling into a wall. Pushing away, the guard was more cautious. He feinted to the left, faking a limp. He suddenly whirled around, swinging his fist in a wide arc.

It connected. Holding his head, Jargo tripped over the broken oar and fell to the floor. The guard found the boy at his feet. Not for long. As the guard lifted his foot to stamp, Jargo pushed himself up and kicked him between the legs. Immeasurably pain swept through the guard and he fell to the floor, seeing stars. Gesturing to the boy and shouting hoarsely for his cronies to kill him, he passed out.

Jargo retreated to his father, breathing heavily and held a hand out to help him up. His father accepted and, when securely on his feet, gave him a hug.
“Thank you son,” He wept, tears falling into his untidy beard. “Thank you so much,” Jargo patted him comfortingly on the back and helped him back to his seat. From the door came the sound of hurriedly drawn swords, the guards mates had been staring open mouthed at Jargo and only now had remembered their leaders command. Stepping forward, the newly appointed head of the gang sneered at him.

“Yeah, kiss your Daddy good bye. Because he aint ever gonna see you again, at least not with your ‘ead attatched,” He smirked, privately proud of his speech which was the longest thing he had ever said. He was more of a quiet person, preferring to act first and think later. Jargo did not understand a word of it and put on a look of polite puzzlement. Slightly miffed by the reaction, the leader turned to the rest of the gang and grinned evilly.

“Get ‘im, boys!” The motley group walked forwards. They were a ragged bunch, only three teeth between the five of them. They were muscular men, and they took great pleasure in flexing their bulky forearms as they came for the kill. The leader had a shaggy blond mane that fell to his shoulders, a thick curtain that was knotted in greasy curls. He had a round face with small eyes that were locked on his target.

He had a fat bulbous nose and ripe cherry red lips that were permanently fixed in a grumpy pout. He cracked his knuckles of his giant hands that sprouted awkwardly from massive forearms. He was out of proportion; his top half had powerful muscles rippling in them, while his legs were long and thin. It looked as if he would topple over at any moment. The reason for his unfortunate demise was that he had been a rower before the captain had entered them in the slave trade, he had been confined to this very room and because of that, did not have much time to stretch his legs. He slowly approached the youth, eyes glinting with blood lust. He loved this part.

Jargo backed up like a hunted animal. He frantically looked around for something to defend himself with and spotted the unconscious guard. Darting over and never removing his eyes from his enemies, he pulled the guards sword out of its sheath and waved it at the pirates. They laughed at his feeble attempts, and the leader stepped up. Metal flashed as he agilely leaped forward and swung at the boy’s neck. Jargo blocked with difficulty, lifting his sword up in time to block an additional swing from the right. He dodged another and fought back grimly. With every blow, Jargo was getting weaker. He was still woozy from his bonk on the head.

His opponent noticed this and the attacks grew more ferocious. Suddenly with a clang the leader hit the swords hilt, sending it flying from Jargo’s hand, and driving it into the floor. The leader flicked his sword up to Jargo’s throat and held it there, smiling. Jargo stared at him with utter contempt.

“Told ya, didunt I? To bad you’re a slave. Ya put up a good fight. Goodbye, mate,” With that he raised the sword and cut Jargo’s throat. He fell silently to the floor, blood pooling out of the gash in his neck. Gazing into the eyes of his murderer, Jargo cursed him before slipping into the realm of death.

Unnoticed, the sword still pierced the floor. It had gone straight through the wood, and water was beginning to seep in. The Leader walked over and casually removed it, not realising until it was to late that it had created a hole in the boat. Seawater rushed eagerly up through the space and spurted into the leaders eyes. He keeled back, howling in pain as the salt irritated his eyes.

The others rushed forwards at the sound and stared in horror at the pool of water that was steadily growing. They fled towards the door, leaping over the dead body of Jargo that was beginning to float, and pulling the stirring guard up, heaved him towards the doorway. They paid no attention to the desperate pleas of the slaves that were chained in place. Reaching the doorway they kicked it open and disappeared into the upper reaches of the boat.

The water that was now pouring into the room drowned the sound of screams out as the slaves tried everything in their power to escape their shackles. But it was no use. The water was rising rapidly; it soon had risen to waist height. The once magnificent ship was slowly sinking. One of the slaves, Sherine, grabbed the broken oar as it floated by. She was crying, tears streaming down her face as she attacked her lock, finally breaking it. She swam out of her row, scanning the turbulent waters for her husband. He was trying to unlock his chains, face scrunched up in pain as the salt rubbed into his wounds. She swam breaststroke over and helped him break it. Together they headed towards the door.

The water was now at their chins. They did not have much time left. Miserable cries rang out around them, agonized screams; some of them wet as the slaves slowly succumbed to the rising waters. The door was very close now. Only a meter away… They swam extra hard, they were in front of the door. Sherine reached for the door. She turned the handle. Hope blossomed inside her and she tugged on the door to open it…

It was locked. She tried tugging it again and again, treading water to keep afloat as the water rose above her height. The water was nearly at the ceiling, the door underwater. She was screaming. Her husband went under. She did not have the strength to pull him back up. His hand slipped out of hers. She had her face to the ceiling, gasping up a last breath as the water rose once more. She was under water holding her breath. She couldn’t hold, she had to breath in! Have to breath in… Have to…breath…in… Darkness surrounded her and she let go.

The Ship majestically carried on for as long as possible, getting increasingly more water logged. The deck teemed with activity as the sailors tried to prevent the inevitable. The storm still raged around them, ruling out any hope of rescue. They had no lifeboats. The Captain sat at desk, looking at photos of his glory days. There was one of him smiling with his wife and children, who were waiting eagerly for his return. They knew his profession and had accepted it, his son Jacob was even planning to join his father soon. So sad it could never be. He sighed. He sat there, silently pondering his life, waiting for death to take him. The Captain always goes down with the ship. A wave as tall as a skyscraper tore towards the boat, rising high above it. It crashed down, sweeping a few sailors over board. The rest it consumed and took the ship to the oceans deep, taking with it the lives of all on board.

To be continued...
 
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Faerie

MONS
I like it very much! This fanfic is well-written and beautifully described. The characters seemed very real, and their speech and actions reflected their personalities well. I have few gripes, if any at all. Hope the next chapter comes soon! ^__^
 

whit19

Fire boy
Wow... That was a pretty interestin story. Your description was incredible and powerful which made me extremely jealous, but at some points I think you mighta went a lil too ovaboard with it. Jargo was a pretty cool character too.

I only found one small mistake in the story.

The weak light revealed the room in it all its glory

Well, it might not be a mistake, but I don't think you need "it" I think the sentence would be fine with just "The weak light revealed the room in all its glory."

Also some in my opinion some of the paragraph spacin was kinda weird to me. Like...

“Jargo!” The man on the floor cried out, left eye so swelled up he could no longer see out of it. “Don’t my son! It’s not worth fighting fo-” He broke off, flinching as the guard kicked him. The guard turned back to his quarry and, without warning, struck.
The air crackled as the whip sliced through it, swinging through the place Jargo had been a second before. He had jumped out of the way just in time and was behind the guard, kicking his shins and taunting him in a singsong voice. Infuriated by this the guard spun around and reached out. He blinked. He was clutching thin air. A clout on the back of the head sent him stumbling into a wall. Pushing away, the guard was more cautious. He feinted to the left, faking a limp. He suddenly whirled around, swinging his fist in a wide arc. It connected. Holding his head, Jargo tripped over the broken oar and fell to the floor. The guard found the boy at his feet. Not for long. As the guard lifted his foot to stamp, Jargo pushed himself up and kicked him between the legs. Immeasurably pain swept through the guard and he fell to the floor, seeing stars. Gesturing to the boy and shouting hoarsely for his cronies to kill him, he passed out.


I dunno but I woulda liked it betta if it looked more like this...

“Jargo!” The man on the floor cried out, left eye so swelled up he could no longer see out of it. “Don’t my son! It’s not worth fighting fo-” He broke off, flinching as the guard kicked him. The guard turned back to his quarry and, without warning, struck.

The air crackled as the whip sliced through it, swinging through the place Jargo had been a second before. He had jumped out of the way just in time and was behind the guard, kicking his shins and taunting him in a singsong voice. Infuriated by this the guard spun around and reached out. He blinked. He was clutching thin air. A clout on the back of the head sent him stumbling into a wall. Pushing away, the guard was more cautious. He feinted to the left, faking a limp. He suddenly whirled around, swinging his fist in a wide arc. It connected. Holding his head, Jargo tripped over the broken oar and fell to the floor. The guard found the boy at his feet. Not for long. As the guard lifted his foot to stamp, Jargo pushed himself up and kicked him between the legs. Immeasurably pain swept through the guard and he fell to the floor, seeing stars. Gesturing to the boy and shouting hoarsely for his cronies to kill him, he passed out.

Anyway, I can see that you're a very talented writer! Keep it up. 8.5/10, but the story and description is excellent so I'll give it 5 stars!
 
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katiekitten

The Compromise
Thanks for your comments Faerie and Whit! I changed the points you noted, whit, thanks! :)
 

Ejunknown

be creative
I haven't finished it yet, but so far it is very good! The only critism's I can make is that in places you have maybe put a little too much description. Other than that, it is great.

Keep up the good work!
 

Saffire Persian

Now you see me...
Not bad - nothing like a bit of piraty fiction to go along with the rest I'm reading. The description is good - although I find it a bit wordy in places... you have to be careful about that in description... I notice myself doing it quite often. Also, one of my other gripes on how you seem to use humungous paragraphs. While that's not bad - you do it consistantly... and big paragraphs all the time are not friendly to the eye. Also, make sure you double space between each paragraph and new line for readablity - you tend to forget ever now and then.

Poor Jargo - he gets his throat slit. XD.. not a happy beginning, eh?
 

katiekitten

The Compromise
Yeah, I need to work on the paragraphs. Thanks for reviewing! This is going to be a pretty miserably story, be warned. >=) :)
 

Brian Random

I WAS FROZEN TODAY!!
Wa… that’s Chinese for wow.

And I say that because I’m mostly impressed with your descriptions of the scenery and the characters. Although I did spot a small error…

Suddenly with a clang the leader hit the swords hilt, sending it flying form Jargo’s hand, and driving it into the floor.

From.

And I suggest you sort out the paragraphing like the way Whit19 showed you. But other than that, excellente… that’s Spanish for excellent and no, I’m not fluent in that language.

Rating: 5/5
 

katiekitten

The Compromise
Thanks for reviewing Brian! I always miss out those stupid spelling mistakes... Anyway, I had a go at spacing out the paragraphs.
 
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katiekitten

The Compromise
Aw, thanks Judai! I will enjoy working with you to. :)
 

Torkoal

What? Exactly
I agree with Judai. Once again, you've made a flawless masterpiece. 10/10
 
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