The salty sea waves crashed against the hull, breaking into a mist that drenched the tattered hemp sails on the deck but couldn't wash away the stench of mildew, sweat, and old wood!
The atmosphere here was suffocating.
On the deck, a dozen pirates gathered in small groups, either leaning against the mast smoking low-quality tobacco, squatting to gamble, or boredly sharpening rusty machetes.
Their clothes were shabby, their skin tanned dark by the scorching sun, lips cracked, eyes filled with fatigue and anxiety.
Like Lumier, their experiences weren't pleasant, drifting at sea for days like a pack of wild dogs cast out from their lair.
No booze, no women, not even a decent target to plunder.
The resentment among the crowd was like the scent of rotting fish in the cabin, oppressive and suffocating, ready to explode at any moment.
Ticky stood at the bow, gripping a brass telescope tightly, one eye squinted, staring intently into the distance through the lens.
