they’d managed to outrun the storm for days — the more superstitious of the crew seemed convinced it was hunting them. ( though whether it was related to the weather or something more sinister varied from one man to the next ). august stands beneath the main mast on the morning of the seventh day, frown etched across his face as he stares out at the fog. it was thick enough that, should he squint, he could barely make out de vlinder's bow.
❝ i don't like this. ❞ he almost doesn't want to put it to words, speaking those ridiculous theorems into existence by acknowledging something was certainly amiss. august has never been the superstitious sort, waving off the worries of other sailors as silly nothings. but he can't quite wave this away the same. the muted sounds of the sea felt much too far away – as though he had been removed from his ship and dropped at least half a league inland. the fog itself felt heavy – as though it were holding something back, but only just. ❝ we could be sailing in circles for... ❞ why does it feel like he should say years? that would be absurd... wouldn't it? ❝ for far longer than desirable. ❞ he looks to ingvi, voice low — as if whatever is out there, if anything, would be less inclined to listen in. ❝ if master van noort is to be believed, the fog engulfed us just before the bell for morning watch. some of the men are adamant the ship has been dragging in the waters, since. ❞ august walks over to the portside rail, eyes narrowing as he unsuccessfully tries to see beneath the waves, ❝ but emotions have been running high these last few days. ❞ he wants to trust the eyes of his crew but he can't seem to wrap his head around the unnaturalness of it all. this is his best attempt at a handwave of the situation.
it feels flat — as dull as the sounds of his ship, mired as they are.
@champagneprobllems -> ingvi & august. canon timeline.