Boo.
It's a story. Critique it. Tell me it sucks, if you're so inclined to do so. I don't mind. But tell me why. And no, this is not the entire story.
Kellson.
IC:
Section I.
Outlined by flashes of sheet lighting, the sloop exhaustedly bounced up and down on the crashing sea. Waves rose like angry bears, crashing down onto the decks and drenching the sailors with salty spray. The rigging strained at the mast, trying to break free and drop into the raging waters. Experienced sailors staggered around, tightening ropes, rolling up the sails, and battening down any available hatches.
“Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate’s life’s for me. Yar har, fiddle dee dee, hur, hur, hur.”
A figure swayed with the ship, somehow retaining its footing on the deck by leaning against a thick mast. It had a crossbow slung across its back and held a spear much like a gentleman’s cane.
“Hur.”
Kellson chuckled as a sailor tripped and went flying into a bulkhead. Hur, hur, hur, indeed. The ship was bobbing like a cork and so were the crew, but here he was salty and dry. A miracle, to be sure. Or perhaps just skill.
“I say! You theyah!” someone called above the roar of the storm.
Kellson turned, very slowly. Anyone who said “I say! You there!” was either extremely posh or royalty, neither of which he approved of. Hell, he killed royalty for a living. Rich people were just annoying, especially if they somehow managed to tack on annoying accents to annoying verbs.
The caller was the captain. God only knew how he attained such a status, or how he had escaped mutiny. Perhaps he paid well. Kellson knew that, were he a sailor, that he would have been the one to drop the man into a longboat near a deserted island and give him a cheery wave. Bugger to you, he thought.
“Yes?” he shouted instead.
“You’re not supposed to blurgle squirgle ack,” the captain shouted as a large blast of foamy seawater purposefully hit him. Kellson wrung his cloak out.
“Er, what?”
“You’re not supposed to beeyah up heeyah,” the captain said. “You need to go back to your cabin, hwhat?”
“I like the fresh air,” Kellson shouted.
A fresh wave crested above the railing; Kellson scrambled up the mast as it descended with the wrath of God onto the deck.
“It’s a bit salty,” he added, clambering back down. “But otherwise fine. How long until we get to land?”
“Ah, ah, it should beeyah about threeyah days,” the captain roared.
“Bugger,” Kellson muttered. “All right, I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning if the storm clears up.”
“hWhat?” bellowed the captain, but Kellson was already climbing down the steps to the cabins.
***
The next morning, the storm had moved on to the north. Several sailors on watch at dawn later swore that an angel had told them to “Bugger off, you grumpy sods,” and consequently flew away towards the south. No one believed them. Humans with wings? Had a bit much to drink, eh? Eh?
***
Kellson folded his wings about a third of a mile away from the ports of the small city, storing them in the strange abyss and diving into the water. He swam the rest of the way, taking breaths as sparsely as possible, before bursting to the surface in front of a small child with a fishing pole. The boy screamed, dropped the pole, and fled. Kellson fell back in the water laughing.
The wharfs soon gave way to the more urban area of the city. Kellson found the tavern he was looking for and strode in.