The Myth That Followed Death

1

The tavern smelled of seawater, old wood, and stale rum, the kind of scent that clung permanently to ports where pirates came and went like storms rolling through the sea. Rain hammered against the windows hard enough to rattle the glass while waves crashed violently against the docks outside, shaking the lanterns hanging from crooked posts along the harbor. Every few seconds thunder groaned somewhere out over the ocean, deep enough to make the mugs on the tables tremble faintly beneath rough hands.

Inside, however, nobody seemed particularly concerned with the weather.

Music carried through the tavern in uneven bursts from a drunken violin player slumped near the corner while sailors barked laughter loud enough to drown out the storm itself. Coins clinked. Chairs scraped against old floorboards. Pirates crowded around tables throwing cards down with curses and accusations while exhausted dock workers drank themselves numb after another miserable day unloading cargo ships beneath unforgiving rain.

Near the back of the tavern, tucked beside a window streaked endlessly with water, an old sailor sat hunched over a chipped tankard with fingers warped from age and years spent at sea. Deep scars disappeared beneath the sleeves of his weathered coat, and what little gray hair remained clung damply to his forehead from the humidity in the room. He looked ancient in the way only sailors who survived too long often did, like the ocean had slowly carved pieces from him and left behind only what it could not swallow.

A small group had gathered around him, though whether from genuine curiosity or simple boredom was difficult to tell.

"You're full of shit, old man," one younger pirate laughed loudly, kicking his boots onto the table beside him. "Every damn storm you start talking about ghosts and curses."

Several others snorted into their drinks in agreement.

The old sailor did not laugh with them.

Instead, his eyes drifted slowly toward the tavern windows where black ocean water churned violently beneath flashes of lightning. For a brief moment the humor in the room seemed to dull around the edges as the man's expression tightened into something quieter. Something uneasy.

"My grandfather saw her," he said finally, his voice rough as gravel dragged across stone. "Swore it until the day he died."

A few of the pirates exchanged amused looks while someone muttered, "Here we go again."

The old sailor ignored them.

"He was a deckhand long before the Great Pirate Era began," he continued, fingers curling slowly around his tankard. "Back when men still feared the sea more than they feared each other. He said their ship had docked at an island somewhere deep in the South Blue after weeks of rough waters. People were starving. Sick. Tempers were bad." His jaw tightened slightly. "Then she appeared."

Another crack of thunder shook the tavern.

The younger pirate rolled his eyes dramatically. "A mermaid? That your big scary story?"

"No," the old sailor answered quietly. "Not a mermaid."

That made the laughter soften a little.

"There are merfolk," he continued. "Fish-Men too. Everyone knows that now. But he said this thing..." His voice faltered briefly as though even now the memory unsettled him despite never witnessing it himself. "He said she looked wrong. Pale hair down to the water like moonlight floating across the sea. Eyes bright enough to shine beneath the dark. A tail so dark purple it almost looked black at night."

Outside, lightning illuminated the harbor in a violent white flash.

The old sailor stared toward it without blinking.