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"All hands!" Fahd called. "Storm brewing! All hands on deck. You, too, rookie," he said to Jericho, son of the late merchant captain Remington. "Go help with the rigging."
"Yes, sir," the youth replied. He ran to do as ordered.
Denizen climbed out of the hold. "How are the skies?"
"Blacker than the bottom of the devil's heart, Captain," Fahd replied. "I've only seen the skies like this in the desert storms."
Denizen grunted.
Fahd gripped the railing and peered out, trying to see with his night-born eyes what the rest of the crew could not. "The storm is between us and port! Might be we could sail around it in four days–"
"We may not have four days," Denizen snapped. "Bilge! Get that rookie! Ask him if he knows anything about birthing!"
"Aye, captain," the rat-like woman replied. She scurried up the ropes to find Jericho.
"Foul time for foul weather," Denizen muttered. "If that mage would wake, might be we wouldn't have this problem."
"You would trust our lives to a half-

"What do you seek?" Denizen muttered. He resisted the urge to pace, and he glared out at the other ship as though it were to blame for his present immobility.
Pacing would mean struggling with the gods-damned robe that kept wrapping itself around his legs. Tripping over it, possibly, or simply opening it to expose his scales to the air.
To expose his scales to the sun. The other crew must've seen his ship hidden beneath these cliffs. Even in the evening light, only a blind man could miss so large a ship. But they couldn't know whose ship it was. Not yet. They couldn't know that The Deep waited for them. Letting that light reflect off his scales would be the quickest way to betray his presence.
"What do you see?" he asked, addressing his First Lieutenant.
"Ierne's colors," Fahd replied. "Merchant sigil."
Denizen glanced at Fahd curiously, but he didn't question the claim. Not even keeping an eye dark with an eye patch would give Denizen the vision to pierce the dying light like t

The merchant Remington shifted his feet. He tried to keep his eyes on the ship's course, but he found his gaze pulled towards the straits.
He didn't know why he was here. He had no business along this stretch of coastline, no dealings with the things that sailed these parts.
He was no coward to run from danger, but right now he wanted nothing more than to return to the island. To see his son safely back with the boy's wife and daughter.
But his esteemed passenger had other ideas.
"Steady, captain," the councilor said. "You can sail those cliffs, can't you?"
"The cliffs aren't the trouble," Remington replied. "Sir," he added after a moment. The merchant captain outranked all but a very few of Ierne's political leaders, but their tradition of going about masked and shrouded in public made it difficult to identify his passenger. Even the councilor's gender could only be guessed at.
Always best to treat the office with respect, Remington's father had often lectur

Take any story you've read or written.
Pick a favorite line, or the title, or the tagline, or even the synopsis.
Visit BadTranslator or a similar site, and run the chosen text through--the more translations, the better.
Now use the final translation as your writing prompt.