Dark figures above continued to coagulate, squawking as ever. It seemed to the strapped man wearing nothing other than spoils of war they had grown in flock since last observed. He remembered waking up flat against the wood of the ship he now stood on. Looking down at Captain Blackgill laying in a puddle of blood and wine, wondering if the birds would stick around for him, too, he turned his attention back to the captain’s crew--numbered still nine. A breeze blew into the slightly bare man. He decided to address them again.

“I’m aimin’ for an... aimer. A navigaimer, something.”

“What?” came an ask from the crew.

“What? What what? Who asked what?” repeated the man near nude.

No one answered but the gulls with their cries above words. Waves reminded everyone where they were, wind of each’s propensity for the cold.

Strapped with flintlock and saber, headed by the skull crested loot of Blackgill, the man not quite naked nor quite clothed folded his broad arms. He looked over Blackgill’s crew gravely. They did not seem to return the look in any special way. Then, some six of the nine broke their statue-like stance to drag the defeated captain back onto his ship. They attempted the bridge between both vessels with groans of wood and fear. But the transfer suc=ceeded, and those six pirates after brought their leader back into his sail mounted ambulance. The drunk aboard the opposite listened a little while longer to the endless shrieking overhead. Of the three remaining pirates, who had somewhat awkwardly remained on the ship which they’d botched the plundering of, one broke off from his kin to approach the strapped looter..

“Earlier, you sore about me not copping to asking?”

“What?”, the near nudist responded.

Dark skin, dark hair, and a dour look all helped the potential crew candidate stand out somewhat, he thought.

“You some kind of fugger?” asked the pirate, interrupting his thoughts.

“Wha?”

“One o’ those crooked specialists of the seas,” the pirate continued. He stood somewhat below the horizon used to the drunk’s perception. His hair crawled out from a bandana that tucked away the rest. Wiry. And he looked fresh at whatever it was he was doing with only a slightly bitter taste to boot. That was how the drunk sized up who he realized had been the only voice he’d heard from Blackgill’s crew aside from the captain himself.

“I’m the fugger?” he asked to Blackgill’s.

“More like a fugger. Hell, I’ll call you Fugger. Or do you gotta name?”

“You know how to sail to shore?” asked Fugger.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“Sure,” the pirate began. “I’m a navigator. Don’t know what you tried to call it.”

“I don’t know.”

“Navigaimer.”

“I don’t know. Join my crew?” the cold kissed captain propositioned.

“Just hopped in this outfit. Why should I be’n yours?”

Fugger thought about it--then answered:

“I beat yer boss.”

“Yeah,” agreed the boss’s navigator. “That’s true. Thought he was stronger than that. Not looking to bet on the weak.”

The proposition was extended once more.

“Sure, Fugger,” agreed his navigator. “But I’ve gear. Don’t take off yet.”

Fugger watched the flag flipper skip back to his ship and too inside, and eventually the other left-behinds made themselves scarce. He thought himself lucky at the speed and success of the interview; himself poor for not requesting an explanation concerning the massive lettering that continued to hang in the air. Fugger thought about the significance of what “SHORE” referred to explicitly but ultimately decided to place faith in his vessel’s new addition. And then he thought about it being his--the vessel. He once more remembered the strange disoccupation of the ship and pondered further on whatever the fate of its crew must have been. He began to grumble over the unfortunate decay of his drunkenness. Fugger decided to descend down back into his plundered home.

Setting out to dress himself since having awoken, Fugger made his way to closets previously encountered and skimmed through stacks of garments. In conclusion of his raid he decided on a simple looking billowy white button up along with tanned hide as vest, the latter especially necessary for the comfort of his stolen straps. He attempted a hunt for pants. Little success was found--trousers, anything at all that could fit eluded Fugger no matter how many wardrobes were ransacked. He burst out into the main hall of the ship in a fervor, Blackgill’s stolen boots squeaking across floorboards, Blackgill’s deserter descending down a ladder to then face him, barren of expression. Fugger muttered something. He turned and walked away to search through another room’s dresser.

Fugger’s sole mate, meanwhile, explored the ship on his own. It felt oddly deserted but not as if from haste. He expected overturned tables, smashed barrels, beads scattered across the floor--typical scenarios following a fugger plundering, that which he suspected greatly of his new, once nude captain. What had he done to the original crew? Mysteries aside, a bunk needed choosing. This was much to his pleasure having to otherwise share cramped closets that stunk of sweat aboard Blackgill’s. What room he decided would be his, he set his belongings down in, sparse as they were. No more needed moving. The pirate collapsed into the cot now his, sighed a ridiculously long held expression of relief, loosened the rag that barely contained his locks letting them spilled out over all sides of his face. He brushed back that which laid over forehead and brow...

Fugger finally found his new crew member’s cabin and peered inside past the hanging drapes hung in the entrance way, his navigator fast asleep. Figures, Fugger thought, but he was not especially upset. Could breathe, he realized. A myriad of events had materialized out from nothing in such haste that Fugger forgot he was even alive. Far before Blackgill had sailed towards him, this once was not the case. He remembered everything, and he wore no pants. On his way towards the captain’s quarters, another bottle of wine fell into his hands.

It was from this cabin Fugger watched a porthole’s production of Blackgill’s vessel retrieve its bridge and escape into the horizon. He wondered if “SHORE” meant where they fled. He took a swig and dropped his clothes but found sleeping without them deeply uncomfortable. And then Fugger was in bed. Faintly, he caught the seagulls he could not seem to avoid an ensnaring by. But he too drifted off.