Ships of War

Holt beheld the incoming broadside standing tall upon the quarterdeck. In the first moments he regarded the undeniable sight of smoke instantly puffing from the ships yonder, silently though, for the sound had not yet fully travelled. He was thereafter borne of a singular mind, assuredly a mind to which all familiarity with the outside world now fell lost. It certified within him a suffering never before deemed imaginable. It was a hostility he would soon not forget, such was his boyhood innocence.

Noted instantly were a great many astonishing sounds, all racing to rupture the virtue of his lobes, an overall resonance seemingly strange and without a doubt wholly outlandish. Having never been on the receiving end of such a broadside, it openly gave him pause. The whistling tunes aloft seared the sky and oh how they chanced to inflict the gravest of thoughts, the wind of the enemy's shots whizzing as they trespassed upon the ship. The scene descended upon him most abruptly, the horrendous tearing of sails overhead, the ripping of canvas crying aloud as the weight of spars sought to claw them down. Splinters upon bulwark and gunwale haphazardly flew, mimicking a violent winter's storm, more furious than even a hundred wood choppers madly serving their axes.

All about the planking, indeed immersed within the depths of the structure, Agamemnon shuddered and trembled, the penance of each shot hurried from the ship. The roaring of cannon reverberated within his chest, almost as if he were in fact somehow the barrel itself, the hum of each shot grabbing wickedly at his heart. The deafening turmoil within sought to impose a hideous most disturbed feeling and immediately he felt inclined to be uncontrollably ill, the vile gurgling about his abdomen finally seeping the sanctity of his throat...
 

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