When one considered those spirits of the sea, the simple fact was that culture and myth had by and large declared that ships were female. And so, when they rose in the winds and seas of magic, they would become commonly known as Shipgirls. But of course, there were always exceptions, strangeness that crept in along with the magic, with the strange tides. Not all of it, despite their claims and assumptions, from either the Heavens or the Abyss. Then again, those two old enemies only really ever had eyes for each other, barely acknowledging any other existence as substantial.
Much the same, the vast majority of those spirits sailing the seas would be woken from the steel hulls of the world wars, though on occasion there was a wooden hull raised. Many dismissed these relics of the ages of sail, unable to handle the refits to make them suited for modern wars. Retired before they could fight in this new war, lacking compared to later day warships. And yet, it can be the exceptions that stand out at times, who make of the impossible just another challenge to be overcome. At times, they even seemed to be absurdities in several ways.
As it was though, there was an odd truth of the new, the odd, the rare exception shipboys. Generally speaking, they were not the most masculine of figures, small and cute ships according to those that made it their trade to learn of them (to say nothing of the shipgirls themselves), and while able to fight in formation? Alas, the usual fate of a shipboy was to be considered something of a mascot, a pet to their often more warlike and belligerent female counterparts, in a reversal of shoreside life.
Of course, modern shipboys tended towards being support and specialized ships, easily picked up by the warships and unable to escape their grasp. But all such groups have their own bad eggs. Their strange and unusual members. And chief among them was a fellow, self summoned, from Canada. He had been made by souls looking to embrace parts of their Nordic roots, or perhaps that romanticized vision of the vikings to be more wholly accurate. And yet, this ship was not attached to the Canadian military as such. Rather, to the mild disgust of the shipgirls of the fleets and the annoyance of his fellow shipboys, he was a freebooter.
Short he may be, yet muscled like a longshoreman, his fair skin bronzed, tanned and weathered by sun and spray. He wore a pair of pants and harness, not bothering with shoes or shirt... though his face was marked with laugh lines, eyes ever twinkling. Great tattoos covered his flesh, marking along his muscles, and yet few could agree on exactly what they were, as they seemed to change and shift, though never when they were being directly observed. All of that paled of course, to a simple fact.
He was a ship of wood and sail... and one that showed no respect, no fear of the steel hulled giants whose thunder dominates the battles on the briny deep. He moved with a confidence, a predators gait that was seen largely as adorable, an attempt to matter. His laughter was seen as brash, ignorant and rude, a black mark against his homeland. Some of course, noted that he was polite enough and always managed to bring booze that could peel paint.
Some, concerned and worried for this strange little boy, tried to have him show caution, to show deference. He merely laughed and inclined a mug of his moonshine at them. "What terror does death have for one who truly lives? For the brave, Valhalla Calls." Even for a race that could be called back from the grave, he lacked any fear of it. Or perhaps, as some narrowed their eyes in worry, others in scorn, he welcomed the chance to die.
It was not till The Bloodstorm that he was seen to fight. It was not until death rose as a tide to consume the living that eyes looked at the laughing ship, at that paltry wooden vessel, that his kin of steel looked to him. After all, those abyssals with their minds intact paid him little mind. At least, not until he sailed up to a demon and asked her for a dance.
It was in many ways an absurd thing, this enemy of wood and sail, a creature weak and paltry... even if the demons looked at it curiously, as he (and how disgusting that the enemy had THAT kind of taint among its ranks) moved up to them. Of course, the fact that he was never where the shells would be, that he was able to slip inside and under their guns, as he looked to a demon, as he bowed and smirked. There was the sound of something, of music rising. "Would milady honor me with a dance?"
Yet, there was something about how he spoke, voice rasping and echoing, as if he was underwater, a long tunnel between them, the sounds being scrapped by a file on bone sunk into the ice. Eyes were on him, as the demon blushed and smiled, an eager light in her eyes... as suddenly, there were hammer picks attached to chains wrapped around the shipboys arms visible, aiming to tear for the demons throat!
It was a dance of murder, of slaughter and carnage at close range, of boarding actions by crazed loons with axes and shotguns scrambling over chains, throwing themselves into wounds and digging in as they fought, as bullshit met bullshit, as abyssal steel claws slide and fought for purchase in runescribed wooden flesh, as the dreams of warriors clashed with nightmares from the deepest reaches of the abyss. Alas, he was a busy boy, and there were plenty of demons on his dance card, and the fight was over suddenly, pick blades tearing into her neck and tearing as he kissed her on the lips.
A grin on two pairs of lips, one now attached to a belt, it was a male voice, just a little crazed, that looked at the two larger warships. "Would you ladies know where I can find some more dance partners?" Despite out massing him to a laughable degree, neither of the pair was eager to come to grips with this oddity, with this laughing and fearless enemy. It was the lack of fear, the lack of contempt, the politeness of his tone as blood and oil dripped from open wounds, as he looked with that killers smile towards them.
Better the enemies demon face their own than risking their own hides!