I stare out over the prow as we sail into the bleak and unknown dark. Unknown to myself, at any rate. The good captain must have some idea of where we are. He regularly peers into that compass of his, ornate brasswork and gold, and loses himself for a time. His eyes shine like silver moons as they check and re-check our bearing.
When he breaks from his thrall, he whispers directions into the helmsman's ear, who nods assuredly before swinging the wheel this way or that. We are never informed of our heading. It is of no concern to us. It is the arrival that is important, not the journey, and the route we take is not ours to know.  I do not care for one path is much the same as another. There is no difference that I can tell. We shall arrive regardless and when we do the course of our journey shall be as meaningful as the colour of a blind man's hat.
It is not just our captain that obsesses like this. I can sometimes lose myself also, staring off into the dark and unknown ocean through which we sail. The gentle turn of the ship soothes me as I enjoy the schools of fish that swim past our vessel. I often spend hours at a time watching them, dancing through the deep around us . They are beautiful to watch, glimmering with all manner of colours as they swim, red to gold to blue to violet. Shattered rainbows of instinct that shift and break form, spraying apart and coming together in hypnotic rhythms. Sometimes they keep pace with us for hours on end and I measure them, try to understand their patterns, delight in their presence. Three-Twists suggested catching some once, by way of dropping a net over the side of the ship and into their path. I dislike this idea as much as I dislike Three-Twists. As strange as this may sound, some treasures are not meant to be taken.
The main sail ripples and booms behind me, breaking my thoughts. A particularly strong wind rises, pulling hard at the sails, and I watch the captain eye his infernal compass once more. I sense an excitement coming from him. I can taste it in the air, almost as if he sweats anticipation itself. We must soon be calling to port once more. I duck as the boom swings past and the vast silver nets above toil in the intangible wind. I cannot feel anything myself, but with the sudden change in their buck and sway I am certain we have picked up speed.
I watch the fish swim away until they are specks of colour in the distance and I tighten the straps that hold my mask in place. 
The captain is calling to us.

"We shall be drawing to port soon," he cries, "And as ever, there is nothing I want of you but to enjoy in the revelry of your choosing. We shall drop anchor for 1 hour before we depart. If you are not returned to the Frightful Sorrow, you shall be left to a new life in a new world," Oh, how his voice calls to me. There is not a place I would not go for my captain, not a throat I wouldn't open in his name. Yet, I think, as if there is any choosing for our revelry! Menzo chose us all and knows us to our cores. We would not be on his ship otherwise. We would not be on this ship if we did not delight in devilry.  " For those of you new to our life, do not despair from lack of understanding. Your quest is a simple one," His voice is a drug and we are all addicts, though none so much as I. "Go to frenzy, go to chaos, go to pleasure, and go to rediscover yourselves once more!" A great cheer from the crew erupts as our captain waves his sword, a wicked curved blade, above his head. 
Now, as the crew disperses to prepare their weapons and make ready for Breach, I watch Menzo gleefully check his compass once more. As much as I adore him, and would paint my own throat red before I thought about questioning his command, I do wonder if the man is somewhat mad. I am not as foolish as the rest. They are half-wit murderers and bandits, perfect for his intentions. This, I am not. We were all brought here for what he needs and what suits his selfish quest, but he has miscalculated. I am not so base. I can guess what that compass is for and I know why he needs us and our chaos.
I do not resent him for this. If anything, I admire his drive. 
As the crew scatters and each prepares themselves for the Breach we are approaching, I reach up to my mask and toy with it. A weighty and constricting thing that stifles and makes each breath a chore,  I am told it is a necessity. I daren't guess what might happen if I removed it in this peculiar atmosphere. I have been warned about removing it. The risk, I've been told, is not worth  the freedom. I tease at the protrusions that slip from the underside of my mask and rest below my chin. They are made of firm metal, yet are pliable to my touch. It pleases me to change their shape from time to time, to make the eight tentacles writhe together or arrow apart in striking rigor. The others do the same. It makes it difficult to put a name to a mask at times, but most of us keep some manner of consistency to our patterns and even those who don't have subconscious patterns that you gradually learn to remember. Zig-Zag and Four-Spine, Curve-Out and Tangles. They have names them all. And, of course, blasted Three-Twists. I know who they are. Every last one of them. I currently have mine in eight tight spirals.
Spirals please me. They always have. Distant memories haunt me at night sometimes, foggy dreams of sitting in a room as a child, drawing spiral after spiral on my books and on my hands and over my walls. Delicate winding patterns looping in on themselves of all different colours and sizes. I remember this affectation causing unpleasantness. Shouting, screeching, clouts that regularly left my ears red and stinging. I forget who gifted me the blow that scarred my cheek. I do not recall their name either. They are nothing but ashes to me now.
Watching the filament websails, great silver nets of vast expanse toiling in the wind, I remember the feeling of a breeze upon my neck. This wind that drives our ship, it is not a wind that can be felt, not by myself nor any of the crew. It drives us through this abyssal void, caught by the ancient magic of the websails, but to us the everlasting night is as still as if there were no wind at all. 
I feels like a long time since I last felt the touch of wind upon my skin, be it a gentle breeze or the violent and rapturous thrill of a storm. It feels like such a long time since we last Breached. Can it really be as short a time as Menzo claims? That does not sound possible, but I have no way of knowing. There is no sun. There is no day nor night. There is nothing but the eternal black, our ship, and the occasional leviathan that swims or crawls or lurches through the aether around us.
The ship turns now. I  feel the gentle sway under my feet. The helmsman, Menzo at his ear, pulls the wheel hard to port and we turn smoothly to face our new heading. The sails are billowing now as if a hurricane is driving us forward, but still I feel nothing. 
We are approaching the Breach.