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So if I were to make a piece of writing with indented first lines and some block quotes, how would I do that?

Part 1 - Shoreward

Somewhere on the Pacific
Late Summer

On a mist-covered ocean, a solitary vessel with four creeking masts and rag for sails, slowly made it’s way through the dense fog.

The wailing sounds of a fiddle accompanied the sole voice of a shantysinger, echoing across the deck of “The Fiery Fowl” spurring the dozens of swabbers into a rhythm fit for their task.

Six hellish months we passed away
On the cold Kamchatka sea
But now we’re bound from the Arctic ground
Rolling down to Old Maui

Those hardworking sailors, all of them nodding along with the tones, were dressed as if they had stepped off the set of a Errol Flynn movie, complete with ragged linen pants and shirt. Usually, this would have been the part where the crew roared along with the singer on the chorus.

Rolling down to Old Maui, me boys
Rolling down to Old Maui
We’re homeward bound from the Arctic Ground
Rolling down to Old Maui

But, there was nothing but an eerie silence coming from the swabbing sea- men. To sing along, they would have needed a mouth to form words.

And to Carmilla Cortez, who played and sang for this crowd, it would have been a lot less creepy if they also had eyes, noses and eyebrows.

After seven days in their automaton-like company, Carmilla had grown quite sick of only being able to talk with the pirate-looking, grey-bearded Eshu that captained the ship and clearly only wanted the company of his raggedy parrot.

Of course, she still kept playing those old shanty songs, as Carmilla was nothing if not professional, even through it was a lonely existence.

Her songs was her pay for her journey across the Pacific, and as her fingers darted across the neck of her beloved fiddle, she caught the eye of the monocular captain who rarely left the helm.

Vandal “the Wizened” was what they had called the eyepatch-wearing captain, who had been recommended to her in the wretched docks of Singapore, yet unsettling as the old Eshu was, getting across the ocean to America was far more important than comfort to Carmilla.

Of course, that was before she had laid eyes on the ship.

“The Fiery Fowl” was a rickety old brigantine, weaved from driftwood and dreams of nautical adventure, where Carmilla could only pray to the Dreaming that it would last until they made shore.

Thus, in spite of a crooked mizzenmast and the worst food she had ever encountered on any of the seven seas, this decrepit wreckage had stayed afloat, enduring both squall and storm along their route.

With a heavy clang, a bell tolled from the crow’s nest, breaking off Carmilla’s train of thought, as well as her playing, earning a sharp finishing note from her precious fiddle. The clamor of that rusty bell meant land had been spotted.

With no hesitation, Carmilla rushed up towards the forecastle, trying to catch the first glimpse of her destination, anticipation surging inside of her, dodging both lines and crewmen on her way up there.

That was not important to her. What was in front of her was.


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