It was a dark and stormy night. Obviously.
In the narrative's defence, however, the dark was especially oily, twisting and full of thunderous roars and the echoes of long-dead screams, and the storm was vituperative and lashing in a way weather had no right to be. It was the perfect weather for a shipwreck. It was perfect weather for the taking of prisoners aboard The Flying Dutchman. It was perfect weather for some atrocity against the human spirit- ah, the usual crimes that keep immortals busy in their chains of years and sorrows.
Davy Jones, dread captain, kraken-master, jaded lover, unholy immortal, surveyed the straggling remains of the crew of the Brumufleygur, which he vaguely recognised as an Icelandic name. Like kicked animals, the men whimpered nervously away from his gaze, the heavy rain leaving white scars through the filth and blood encrusting their faces.
He enjoyed these little moments, mano a mano. He picked the man who looked like he had the most to regret (the eyes had rolled back in the hapless head, revealing stained and bloodshot whites, and the choked beginnings of prayer could barely sputter past his shaking lips), and began the set piece.
"Do you fear death?"
The man gagged and tried to focus on the eyes and not the tentacles. "Y-y-yessir," he managed. A small scream occured somewhere in his Adam's apple as Davy Jones took a luxurious draw on his pipe.
"I can offer you... an escape."
He strolled up and down the line, at ease, almost smiling. Until he came to the end of the line, where he stopped short, snarled grotesquely and twitched his head several times back and forth between his crew and the hunched, damp figure in front of him.
"A woman, bigod!" he roared, sending barnacle-laden crew and soaked prisoners alike reeling. "Get it off my boat!"
There was a dull flash of silver and, before the female could even scream, her jugular vein had been severed and she was thrown into the water.