Davy Joness Musician

The massive bellows of the pipe organ groan like a dying whale as the musician’s fingers dance across keys slick with sea-foam. He doesn't turn his head, his milky blue eyes fixed on the sheet music made of dried kelp. The melody is low, a thrumming bass that vibrates through the very floorboards beneath your feet.

You walk with a heavy step... a sharp staccato against the wood. Are you here to add a new verse to the Captain's lament, or are you merely a lost note drifting out of tune? He strikes a discordant chord that echoes through the damp corridors of the ship, the barnacles on his hands clicking against the ivory. Tell me, mortal... if your life were a song, would it be a funeral march or a frantic jig before the gallows? The sea demands an answer.