The ghoul struggled against the steel threads twisted around its body, their razer edge digging into his skin. Instead of blood, a viscous and rotten green-black ooze started to leak out of countless wounds that had spread across its body as the ghostly skin began to tear.

It barely managed to open its mouth, its throat straining against the wires as it forced out a ghastly groan fitting of a creature torn from the grave. It's breath reeked of salt water and rot.

The ghost opened its mouth slightly, before spitting right in Scar's face. The viscous gunk, just like the type that was oozing from its wounds, slapped uselessly against his mask. The pirates lips twisted into a gnarled smile, showing its mouthful of rotten and crooked teeth.

"I ain't tellin you nuffin'. Nuffin' you can do can ever live up to da Captain. You'll see. You'll fear him, just like everyfin else. So I'd rather die than tell you anything, Not that a piss ant like you could ever do tha-"

Scar pulled his finger down slightly, tugging gently on the thread it was pressed against. In response to that simplistic action, the ghosts body eagerly split apart as it was unable to resist the pressure of the threads any longer.

It's ghastly flesh politely split apart to make way for the threads, its wretched blood spilling across the grass obediently as not even a drop dared to touch Scar's body. The threads twisted into the air, stabbing their ends into the cubes of ghostly meat that had collapsed to the ground, eagerly drinking up every morsel of soul energy that was left.

"Suit yourself. I'll just have to find someone more intelligent, who understands a simple fact."

Scar turned without a hint of hurry, casting his emotionless gaze on the rest of the ghostly crew that were pouring from the docked boats like a plague. Those who were closest shivered under the pressure of his gaze, freezing in their fearless charge as they finally understood there was something they should fear.

In their eyes, the ragged cloak Scar wore turned as black as night. It stretched on further than its physical limits suggested, and the way it flapped in the gentle wind almost seemed like it was beckoning them to draw closer.

The simple mask he wore twisted in their vision, warping as if it was his true face. Completely devoid of anything human, just a pair of void black eyes that drew them in, and a set of glowing pupils that pierced their long dead hearts.

It wasn't supposed to have features, yet some of the pirate crew could swear that they could see a mouth opening on the surface of the mask. A circular mouth that twisted the wood around it, a mouth that was always open and waiting to drink up their very being like they were nothing more than a notorious smoothy.

Of course none of this was actually happening, but to this damned crew, the man before them had such an overbearing and horrifying presence that his simplistic appearance began to twist in their minds. To them, the man in basic mask and ragged cloak became a dreadful spectre of death.

When he next spoke, even though his voice was in reality low and emotionless, in their long dead ears it was a chilling whisper that drove the fear of death into the undead.

"Perhaps one of you will understand this simple fact. That however bad you think your captain is, however dreadful or powerful you think he is.

Understand... I'm Worse."

A horrifying aura burst forth from the man in rags, tearing through the pirate ranks like a tidal wave before crashing against their anchored ships with enough tangible force that they were actually forced back.

The ships swayed on the fog, their dreadful chains rattling as they strained to keep them in place.

As for the pirates themselves, the ghouls closest to the man in rags were simply obliterated when the dreadful aura struck them. There was no better way to put it. One second they existed in their undeath, the next they simply... didn't.

A simple show of power, the raw power of this individuals soul strength, had wiped them from existence.

Those who were further away were left alive, but thrown from their feet. Yet they were smart enough to take the fate of their crewmates as a sign. The man was right about what he had said. He was worse.

Any punishment the captain had for them was not nearly as horrible as this.

The fearsome ghostly pirates immediately turned on their heels and started to scramble back to the ships with their tales between their legs. However they didn't get far. Ethereal threads lunged from the fog like pythons.

Some wrapped around their ankles, causing them to trip before they were dragged kicking and screaming back towards the ragged man. Others had their arms ensnared, while a few were bound by their throats, just like the ropes they had hung from in life.

They desperately tried to stop themselves, digging their fingernails, their hooked hands or even their swords into the ground. But the strength of the threads were absolute, as were their screams of terror until they were abruptly cut off.

The pirates still lucky enough to still be on the ships could not see the fate of those damned souls, as the fog that was supposed to be under their control surged and hid the ragged man from view. It gathered around him, growing thicker than even the pockets that supported their sinful vessels.

Then again, they didn't need to see to know what had happened to them. Their screams told the tales that only dead men could.

"R-raise the anchor. Now!"

The order was barked out across the various ships. No one knew exactly who started it, but none of them dared to disagree. The rowboats were simply abandoned as the anchors were dragged back on board, a group of ghouls forcing a wheel around and around in the centre of the ship, causing the anchor to churn back across its chain at a gruelling pace.

Every second made the others panic, but there was only so fast they could do. Countless eyes darted around the fog, looking for the horrific spectre in rags. Yet they could see nothing at all, which only made it worse.

One by one the ships finally managed to draw in their anchors before sailing back out into the fog as they fled desperately from the town they had previously plundered with malicious glee, until only one ship was left by the shore.

The final ship finally got its anchor on board, causing the crew to let out a collective sigh of relief. Yet when they tried to draw in the chained harpoon, the chain rattled and drew taut.

That shouldn't be happening... It couldn't be! It didn't care for earthly obstructions, it should be able to pass through the ground when they wanted, and hold when they wanted. Never would it do the opposite. Yet it was. But that was not all.

The reel of chain started to rapidly unravel, like it did when the harpoon was plunged into the flesh of a fleeing whale. The crew desperately tried to reel it in, just like they had countless times in life, yet the strength of this beast was like no other.

The moment that the length of chain reached its end, it was the ships turn to move. It was dragged into the shore, its sickly green wood carving into the earth beneath as they were pulled from the safety of the open air and onto dry land. Only once their already wrecked ship was beached, did the pulling stop as the chain hung limply.

After a moment of silence, the wretched spectre in black leapt from the depths of the fog and landed on the deck of the ship with an eery gentleness. He didn't attack, he didn't move. He simply stood there... waiting.

With no other option other than desperation, the entire crew of the grounded ghost ship attacked. Cutlass's, daggers and Falchions were drawn as a sickly green energy coated the edge of their blades.

A few of the crew drew pistols, flintlocks that they had carried in life. Yet unlike in life, they didn't load any black powder. They simply pulled the trigger and the pistol fired, sending forth ethereal musket balls glowing with that same sickly energy one after the other. Without the need to reload, they fired as fast as their fingers could pull the triggers.

Blades carved apart the ragged mans flesh, tearing long gashes into his already ruined cloak. Musket balls pierced into him again and again, ripping holes through his chest, arms and shoulders. A few even striking him in the head.

Yet no matter what they did, no matter how hard the undead crew fought, the man did not fall. He did not waver or plead for his life. He didn't even move.

That was until he finally did, his hand shooting up faster than any one of them could see, catching a cutlass by its blade before it could cleave into his head. The sickly green energy coating the edge of its blade flickered and dulled ever so slightly, as it clashed against the azure flame coating the surface of the mans bare hand.

"Ah, So that's how you do it."

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