A Funeral

There is no peace for any of you. Endless repairs demand your attention, and two souls need to be ferried to calmer waters.

The Captain calls the crew together at high noon. The Tattooed Mariner is wrapped in the Empire’s three-headed eagle, and golden coins have been placed over her eyes. Her dead hand grips a bottle of Workermash Rum. She will soon join the other under the waves. The offerings for his voyage have been dumped – rather unceremoniously – over the railing.

{if A Priest = 1} You say {else} The Captain says {endif} {if A Heretic =1} some inconspicuous words, praise of carefully considered virtues and an uncommon prayer {else} the expected words; praise of generic virtues and the common prayer. {endif} You drink to the sea, to bravery, and to life renewed and then say your final goodbyes to the fallen. Some cry, some laugh, and some drink too much. Others seek to prove their continued survival through another’s fleeting touch.

The remaining female mariner has taken two other members of the crew to her cot, and the sound of their moans mixes with the dirges and shanties of the funeral party. Two more steal away to the engine room, and several, their eyes on the shadows writhing deep in the dark, touch themselves under the table. The Captain and you gamble and drink, ignoring the crew’s frolics without further comment.

”It’s your fault!” The Captain throws away her hand and takes another deep drag from the bottle. Inky black stains her lips, and her face is flushed red with booze. A smirking mariner collects his winnings, and another has placed his hand on her knee, groping higher. She hiccups but lets him continue.

You say nothing. Luck has not favoured you, and you are dead tired. The rum burns on your tongue, and the sickly taste makes you shudder. She is not wrong.

”Gettin’ us into this fuckin’ game,” she says. ”Fuck the Saints and fuck these cards. Imma...” Her words disappear into slurred moans.

Two more mariners have begun exploring her body. One strokes himself in the open, and another tries to undo the buttons of her uniform jacket. Others have taken note and leer as much at her as at the shadowy threesome deeper down the hold.

”Stop it.” The Captain slaps the hands away and staggers upright. ”I oughta have you...” She, stumbling, counts something on her fingertips and then points at the void. ”...flogged.” A wave rocks the boat and sends her tumbling into your arms. ”First Officer! Take me...” There is a hint of green around her nose, and she, pawing at something, just about misses your cock and hits you in the stomach instead. ”Cabin...”