And for me a Pirate's Life

The wind blows hard, trying to tear the ropes that hold the foxed sail. It fills the air with the salty smell of the sea she loves so dearly and waves her white long hairs in an enchanting manner. She stands at the nose of the ship, one boot pressed against the edge of The Shy Maiden.
Her eyes are the bane of every sailor, capturing them with a warm and tempting greenness and drowning them in a turbulent blue, but her eyes are not her strongest weapon, nor are her sun kissed skin and hourglass curves. Her voice, the smoothness that rolls of her tongue and the echoing words of her songs make men forget everything until one sole thought remains: desire for her.

The sight of the never-ending dancing water calms her as it takes her away from her previous life, away from Port Lorain, a small city for ships to moor and to give comfort to sailors in various ways.
For years, the only times she saw these men of the sea was when they visited the Wailing Wench. It was described to visitors as a house of pleasures and revitalization, but she knew it for what it was: a dirty, shady brothel where single and married sailors alike came to fondle with the young girls. Lyssa Kaklamanis was one of these underaged women.

She was around fifteen years of age when she got stuck in Port Lorain. Homeless and without food, a shady dwarven pirate named Steve Waterrock took her in. He was given the nickname Stretchy Steve, because he played the accordion in the lobby of his whorehouse.
Another reason for this nickname came from the fact that he used to torture defaulters on the rack, stretching every limb beyond the capacity of their ligaments. Their screams of pain were silenced in a cellar as the screams of pleasure and the moans of hungering desire drowned the agonizing sounds entirely.
After a couple of months, she got her first client. Uncle Waterrock said she had to pay rent, but he wouldn’t let her go outside to find a job. Too proud for her own good she sang in the lobby, luring every man into her chamber, while the clothes of the other harlots stayed on and remained unsoiled.
It was only when she reached the age of twenty-two years the old dwarf became too drunk for his own good. As he was chasing her to get some of the good stuff he made her sell for the last six years, she ran out the Wailing Wench and into ten pirates. They looked at her in awe, being the most beautiful thing they ever laid eyes on, and came to her aid when they noticed her tears.
“Hand her over, fellas, and nobody gets hurt. Hell, you’ll even get a free ride with her and you can return to your ship unharmed and satisfied.”
Something snapped inside her and her tears stopped flowing. An eerie calmness fell over her face as she let out a short sigh and began to sing. With a flawless pitch a song of words that can’t be understood but only felt, filled the air and the minds of the men guarding her, taking control of them and putting them up to the task she commanded them: “Kill him.”

“Is everything well, capt’n?”
She is pulled back from drifting away, back into reality as her first mate Vincent DeRood stares at her. His short brown beard is almost as greasy and curly as his hair, both hiding multiple scars on his face from his days as a marine officer. He smiles at her, revealing his surprisingly white teeth, and hands her a flask.
“Red wine?”, she aks and takes it.
He grins. “Is there another kind of drink in the world?” They both laugh and she tips the flask until it’s empty.
“Not that I know of, I’m afraid. Be sure to tell me if you find something better, although I doubt you will.”

As the night falls and a small fire pit glows with a weak red light, laughter fills the air, while roasted fish and wine fill their bellies.
“Sing us a song, capt’n”, says one of her crew members and all others agree with a joyous applause. She walks into her cabin and removes her trusty cutlass from her hip, trading it for her favorite instrument. She holds up an old, red and black accordion, with yellowed keys and some dried stains of wine and blood on the ragged bellows.
The appearance of the item that once belonged to her captor ignites an enthusiastic roar. They all run to get their own instruments and look at her with bated breath as she bursts into song.

They joined her in one of their favorite songs she wrote, but fall silent as she sings the last four verses alone, as she always does. They can’t look away from her and with open mouths and wide eyes they would almost forget to fill their lungs with air. They sway with their bodies in a unified rhythm, as if magic controls their every movement.

“Yes, I know of hidden treasures old,
all scattered ‘cross the sea.
We’ll sell em, pawn em all for gold
to buy red wine for me.

Take up and take all
and count back at the ship
Coins and gems and jewels
will make it worth the trip.

Now raise your flasks for me,
your goddess of tits and wine.
To answer all my hexing songs
and make your bodies mine.

So, leave your jobs and houses,
your children and your wife.
It’s now a life at sea for you
and for me a pirate’s life!”