The large vessel tipped and turned as each wave pounded incessantly at its underbelly. The dark skies rumbled in tune with the seas, giving no indication of being night or day as jagged bolts danced to this macabre tune in the distance. Onboard the ship were men; men at war with the ropes and water, screaming and fighting for every last inch. As they struggled, a jaded old man grabbed tightly to the main mast in one hand and raised his cutlass with the other. His single glass eye glistened with the dark color of the sea with every crack of lightning.
"These are the nights that summon fear and swallow the frail!", screamed the man above the roar of the tempest. "Stand your ground as brethren and Davy Jones himself will tremble in panic!" The crew clamored in agreement, as the ship shoved against each wave, fighting. The men knew that the crash each time the ocean heaved upon the sides of the ship, the crack following each lightning whip in the black skies, were all equal to the clash of swords and the burst of gunfire. It was a battle. A battle between the deep and mankind. The men knew that there would never be peace, only an uneasy tension. They were at the mercy of the spirits of the sea.
The din of the rushing water grew louder and louder, and sailors struggling near the bow looked ahead to see Davy Jones' eyes staring back. The sailors struggled no more, only fixated in horror at the whirling cyclone that lay ahead. Some broke free and ran back, in hopes the Captain would have the necessary actions. The old sea dog stood silent, lips pursed. From his experience, he knew what he was facing. He was facing the fickle waters of the sea. The waters that would gamble upon the lives of men. And the sea had not rolled in their favor this time.
The weathered wood of the vessel cracked and flooding began as it began to sink. The men that had accepted their fates dove right in, their date with the abyssal plain had come. Others fought tooth and nail to the bloody end, breathing air for only seconds more than their weaker brethren. Chaos described the landscape, a typhoon of lumber, cloth and lives, masked by a storm of screams that echoed in the air.
And then.
Nothing.
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Bodies would wash up days later upon the shores that marked the map. The map that was now lost, torn into mulch by the arms of the ocean. Carried by the currents, the empty carcasses would rest, only footsteps away from the faint X in the ground. The X that marked the spot. The spot that would always and forever, be out of reach.
Much imagery...
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