Hooked

"Are we there yet?"

Joe had no right to ask this question. If he possessed sailing knowledge, Joe would know that Lucas was pushing their old cog well past its theoretical max speed. It was a miracle they got here this fast.

Truly, if Joe could appreciate the level of depth — how Lucas read the winds or adjusts to the ocean — Joe would aptly describe their pace as nothing short of 'speed running'.

"Aye," said Lucas, with one hand steering the helm. His dreadlocks swished in the smooth breeze, "Keep your eyes on the horizon. These are dangerous waters."

Joe liked the sound of that. Their days at sea had been dull, to say the least. There were only so many drills one could do before one felt like jumping overboard.

"I've heard many a 'tale of the Stepstones," Joe said as he leaned on the railing. He admired the baby blue sky for a moment, "Hard, barren islands that once formed a land bridge from Westeros to Essos, known as 'The arm of Dorne'."

Lucas pretended this wasn't the 1000th time hearing this story.

"The first men crossed the arm — I suppose my Stark ancestors were among them — and disrupted the once magical populations. Giants, great direwolves, golden lions. . . All roamed the continent in plenty. Can you imagine it? But of course, Man had to go and fuck it all up."

Joe's voice suggested a certain acceptance of the fact, mixed with a spint of hope.

"And then the greenseers of the Children of the Forest used magic to destroy the Arm of Dorne," said Lucas.

Joe smiled, "And now it's a chain of rocky islands inhabited by pirates. Who knows? Maybe in a hundred years, it'll be a thriving maritime kingdom?"

Lucas scoffed. 'Keep dreaming,' he thought. But his attention was caught by something in the distance.

"Speaking of pirates. . ," said Lucas as he squinted his eyes and made out a vessel on the horizon, "Looks like eight oars on each side. That's 16 men at least."

In most circumstances where two teenagers were sailing a run-down cog into the heart of the Stepstones, this would be when they would panic and shit their pants. Lucas snapped into action mode and was about to instruct Joe to help him rig the ship for evasive manoeuvres. But when he saw that weird grin on Joe's face, he stopped.

"Joe. . ?"

It reminded Lucas of the face sailors made when land was in sight after months at sea. You could almost see them picturing the whore's they'd fuck with the gold they earned from the voyage. The only difference between Joe and any other pirate was that Joe didn't talk about pussy all the time. In fact, Lucas can't recall a single time Joe spoke of it.

'Must like it up the arse. . .'

Lucas was not one to judge. You'd be surprised about all the spicy man-on-man action he heard while on a ship.

The enemy vessel grew large as it got more close.

"Might I suggest," said Lucas, his dialect surprisingly proper for a scalawag. He was about to give Joe some sound advice on their best course of action. After all, Lucas was the expert sailor well endowed in pirate etiquette. But when he saw how excitedly Joe grabbed his gear and prepared for battle, the confidence Joe exuded seemed to stop him.

The enemy ship had ill intentions, alright. They swerved around their side, and hooks flew, easily latching onto the old cog, pulling it closer for boarding. Yet before a single hostile could board their ship, Joe leapt onto theirs, his steel-plated weirwood shield in hand, the bloody edge of Icebreaker brazen against the sun.

It started when Joe bashed his shield on a pirate's face, teeth popping out like spat marbles, raining calcium bits onto his comrades. Then Joe span and twirled, each swing of the blade fluid and concise. He felt like he was cutting ribbons. Some pirates drew swords of their own and attempted to engage Joe, but after a parry from his Icebreaker, their blades shattered like a thousand shards.

Joe lamented the irony. He spent a sickening amount of hours training his swordsmanship only to acquire a magical weapon that didn't need that much skill to be effective. Any monkey could flail this thing around, Joe imagined.

By the time Lucas peered over to the enemy ship, still connected via the boarding hooks, he had found Joe all but single-handedly defeated the pirates. Void licked his paws with disinterest, too lazy to help anyone out today.

Lucas was asking himself why he even bothered to worry when a famaliar face caught his eye. Just as Joe was about to land a killing slash to the pirate captain, which would undoubtedly have cleaved him in two~

"Stop!" Lucas shouted.

After spending time with Lucas on the ship and following his onboard directives, Joe trained himself to respond to Lucas' voice, an automatic response so that the task can be completed as fast and correctly as possible.

"Hm?" said Joe, resting the bloody Icebreaker on the cheek of the pirate captain, "You know this guy?"

Lucas hopped onto their ship, "Begrudgingly, yes. Joe Nix, I present to you Captain Hookhands."

Joe raised a brow, "Hookhands?"

Joe stepped back and appraised the man. Nothing too special; his posture could have used a little straightening. He wore a stereotypical pirate hat, sun-bleached black, with strands of wispy straw hair falling to his shoulders.

It was when Joe looked down at his hands did he finally understand the nickname. The left was removed and replaced with a metal hook, very pirate-like. His right hand was a curled pink hook in its own right, like the arching fingers of a baby monkey pinching at its mother. Under normal circumstances, holding a sabre with such a deformed hand would be impossible. Yet here Captain Hookhands was, wielding it with a natural swagger.

Hookhands darted his eyes to his almond saviour in disbelief, "Lucas??"

Joe eased, and Hookhands sheathed his sabre. The pirate captain would be a head taller than most were it not for his crone posture. Everything about this man was. . . Hookish. His spine, his hands, his nose. Joe wondered if even the man's pecker hooked. He would hate himself for the rest of the day for thinking of that salty sea dog's disgusting hook penis. Definitely a low point in his life thus far.

"That would be I," chuckled Lucas, "What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Aye, I've seen my share of things on the sea, but never a black ghost." Hookhands and Lucas seemed to be on friendly terms, "I heard about Bluebeard. Word is you're dead."

"Not yet," smiled Lucas, "Sorry about the mess. I could tell Joe had been bottling that up for a while."

Joe shrugged, "They started it. What kind of assholes pull up on another ship like that?"

Lucas could only laugh. It was good to be back, "Welcome to the Stepstones."

Joe rolled his eyes. There were more pressing matters to be addressed, "Whatever. More importantly. . . How the fuck does this guy even wipe?"

Hookhands widened his eyes, stroking his deformed hand with the metal hook on his left, "I can use my hand, cunt!"

"What?" said Joe, with admiration in his voice, "So you actually wipe your own ass with that. . . equipment?"

"Well. . , I didn't say that."

Then, some feminine heads peeked out from the brig, "M-master, is it safe to come out now?"

Out came an assortment of enslaved people, all women, and all young. There had to be at least 20 delicate hands that could do some damn sexy ass-wiping.

Joe cringed, "Oh, that's fucking nasty. . ."

Amused, Lucas released a belting laugh.

"You got that right."