Awaking to the feeling of being ripped apart limb from limb was not a fate you’d wish on your worst enemy and yet, it was one you’d grown accustomed to. After confirming that you were, in fact, not being dismembered, you surmised that the new carpenter must be making some late night repairs.

Carpenters, in your eyes, were a necessary evil. They kept the ship alive, and by extension, you. The Anubis was an old ship, well loved by weather and time. A younger version of yourself had entrusted your soul to her, so that you would sail the seas together until she no longer could. The funny thing about ships is that they can sail forever if money is no object, but as parts are replaced, it begs the question: is it still the same ship? Evidently not, because after a hundred or so years, The Anubis looked practically perfect, and yet you were fading. It was subtle at first, but the affliction was slowly seizing your extremities. IT would only be a matter of time until you all but disappeared entirely.

The stairs to the lower deck creaked in alarm as you descended them, alerting Emerson to your presence. He ceased his carving at your approach and you let out a quiet sigh as your pain subsided.

“Captain,” Emerson addressed you with a sort of detached professionalism that the carpenters always did. They knew you were who divvied up the shares of loot and treasure, so despite the fact they were aboard by force, it was in their best interest not to incense you. “Can I help you?”

You opened your mouth to reply when you saw his eyes flick down to the lantern you held. Your hands and their incorporeal nature were the reason you always wore gloves, and yet, in your haste to get below deck, you’d neglected to put them on. Emerson eyed the way your lantern appeared to float in mid-air just past the hem of your coat sleeve.

Meeting Emerson’s gaze, you could practically see the questions warring within his mind. You could try and deny it— play it off as a trick of the light. Anything would be more believable than the truth.