There are dozens of other stories born of each great or minor tale we tell. Stories that travel in directions other than that of their parents. Like embers from a fire, these asides are often overlooked, but hold within themselves the potential for a beautiful dance of flames, or a horrible conflagration.
When Hook ordered his crew to bombard black tooth cove and take the fight directly to Peter and the lost boys, they also managed to incur the wrath of the mermaids who made their home there. A mermaid's wrath is a slow, painful thing. Perhaps, that has something to do with the nature of the creature.
The juvenile mermaid is hardly a threat to anyone. her teeth and claws are dull and her powers of allure ar like those of teenage virgins: unrealized at their worst, and undirected at their very best. Her teats are small and her hair too wild and short to distract from her shell shaped ears. They linger along the shore mostly, as all young sea dwellers know that this is the best place to practice hunting. The adult mermaid is fairly better off. her breasts are full and her hair luxurious, and in the water her speed and strength are unmatched. the elder Sea Hag, on the other hand, looks precisely as frightening as on would imagine, though not because she is ugly. After about a century or so the sea turns her hair a pale green and her breasts sag, though she still has dark, round nipples which certain men find alluring the way a wet tongue exploring bright red lips can distract the mind from the absense of teeth, or the way the smell of cheap perfume on a lady of the night can cause lust and curiosity to override disgust or self-righteousness. No, the Sea Hag is terrifying because, for as much as she is obviously inhuman, to a man longing for shore, she is irresistably beautiful.
The Hag also has a voice, one which defies simple description. Simply put, it is the kind of voice that can cause as much as five fine, regular men to cast off the thrill of battle to clamor quickly and stupidly into the sea. "MAN OVERBOARD!" The call came racing along the ship. By the time the crew had gathered for the rescue three of the men were already eaten. A fourth man, the salty brigand known as Jonal Blackheart, was seen in the water laughing and weeping simultaneously as the mermaids surrounded him. Four of them swam with him at the surface. Their hands carressed his sun-beaten skin. Their teeth sunk deep into the flesh of his chest, his belly, and his legs. A single hand grasped passionately at his matted hair. Later, at his wake, the men would remember that the tho only time jonas had responded to something with anything more than a miserable grunt was that day. "Don't save me, gents" he'd manage to say just as he kicked away the buoy and rope meant to save his life, or at least give him hope. "Oh god. Oh heaven. Oh hell what awaits me! If ye could feel what I'm feeling ye'd beg for the same. Don't ye dare save me!"
For Jonas the sky, the sea, and everything around him had grown exceptionall bright at that moment. Several points of light danced before his eyes. The feel of the mermaids' hands reminded him of a time long ago, when he'd had too much to drink in Tortuga and the bar wench had allowed him to sleep it off by burrying his beard in her mountanous bossom. It was the only act of affection he'd ever been shown, and in his secret mind Jonas called it love. The feel of their mouths on his flesh was something immensely better. The saltwater burned his eyes, the pressure hurt his ears, and each breath of brine was like fire in his lungs. It was all so exquisite, even as the dancing points of light faded into the stark white glow of death.
When Hook ordered his crew to bombard black tooth cove and take the fight directly to Peter and the lost boys, they also managed to incur the wrath of the mermaids who made their home there. A mermaid's wrath is a slow, painful thing. Perhaps, that has something to do with the nature of the creature.
The juvenile mermaid is hardly a threat to anyone. her teeth and claws are dull and her powers of allure ar like those of teenage virgins: unrealized at their worst, and undirected at their very best. Her teats are small and her hair too wild and short to distract from her shell shaped ears. They linger along the shore mostly, as all young sea dwellers know that this is the best place to practice hunting. The adult mermaid is fairly better off. her breasts are full and her hair luxurious, and in the water her speed and strength are unmatched. the elder Sea Hag, on the other hand, looks precisely as frightening as on would imagine, though not because she is ugly. After about a century or so the sea turns her hair a pale green and her breasts sag, though she still has dark, round nipples which certain men find alluring the way a wet tongue exploring bright red lips can distract the mind from the absense of teeth, or the way the smell of cheap perfume on a lady of the night can cause lust and curiosity to override disgust or self-righteousness. No, the Sea Hag is terrifying because, for as much as she is obviously inhuman, to a man longing for shore, she is irresistably beautiful.
The Hag also has a voice, one which defies simple description. Simply put, it is the kind of voice that can cause as much as five fine, regular men to cast off the thrill of battle to clamor quickly and stupidly into the sea. "MAN OVERBOARD!" The call came racing along the ship. By the time the crew had gathered for the rescue three of the men were already eaten. A fourth man, the salty brigand known as Jonal Blackheart, was seen in the water laughing and weeping simultaneously as the mermaids surrounded him. Four of them swam with him at the surface. Their hands carressed his sun-beaten skin. Their teeth sunk deep into the flesh of his chest, his belly, and his legs. A single hand grasped passionately at his matted hair. Later, at his wake, the men would remember that the tho only time jonas had responded to something with anything more than a miserable grunt was that day. "Don't save me, gents" he'd manage to say just as he kicked away the buoy and rope meant to save his life, or at least give him hope. "Oh god. Oh heaven. Oh hell what awaits me! If ye could feel what I'm feeling ye'd beg for the same. Don't ye dare save me!"
For Jonas the sky, the sea, and everything around him had grown exceptionall bright at that moment. Several points of light danced before his eyes. The feel of the mermaids' hands reminded him of a time long ago, when he'd had too much to drink in Tortuga and the bar wench had allowed him to sleep it off by burrying his beard in her mountanous bossom. It was the only act of affection he'd ever been shown, and in his secret mind Jonas called it love. The feel of their mouths on his flesh was something immensely better. The saltwater burned his eyes, the pressure hurt his ears, and each breath of brine was like fire in his lungs. It was all so exquisite, even as the dancing points of light faded into the stark white glow of death.
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