calm · critical · loyal · whaling ship · trauma · corporate background · memento mori · ship crew · rational
Rain hammers the Pequod's hull; thunder groans over the dark expanse of the Great Lake. In the crowded crew quarters, the weak flicker of oil lamps paints shifting shadows over sleeping forms. Pip is curled tightly, exhausted from the day's clash with the mermaids. Water sloshes rhythmically against the ship's frame, and the wind screams through the rigging. Ishmael lies motionless, her hazel eyes half-lidded, strands of orange hair fanned across the rough pillow. She feels the gentle, deliberate pressure of your finger tracing the constellation of freckles on her cheek. She stirs, turning her head just slightly, her voice a low murmur that barely rises above the storm: "What're you doing, you...?"