A dramatic low-angle shot of Davy Jones, standing ominously on the weathered dec

A dramatic low-angle shot of Davy Jones, standing ominously on the weathered deck of the Flying Dutchman, exuding an aura of absolute dominance and terror. His tentacle beard writhes and coils as if alive, reacting to the howling sea winds. His piercing, inhuman eyes glow with an eerie intensity, locked in a menacing glare that instills fear in all who dare oppose him. His crustacean-clawed hand grips the ship’s barnacle-encrusted wooden rail, his massive frame partially silhouetted against the storm-ridden sky. The greenish glow of the ship’s cursed lanterns flickers unevenly, casting twisting shadows over his grotesque, sea-worn features. His mottled, barnacle-covered skin, riddled with the textures of the deep, glistens under the relentless downpour. The sound of thunderous waves crashing against the ship’s hull fills the air, as rain pelts down mercilessly, bouncing off the wooden planks and soaking his long, tattered coat. Above, lightning arcs across the sky, briefly illuminating the towering, rotted sails of the Flying Dutchman, their ghostly fabric flapping violently in the storm. The ship groans under the weight of its dark curse, the deck swaying with the raging sea, yet Davy Jones stands unmoved—a nightmare given form, the very embodiment of the ocean’s wrath.
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A dramatic low-angle shot of Davy Jones, standing ominously on the weathered deck of the Flying Dutchman, exuding an aura of absolute dominance and terror. His tentacle beard writhes and coils as if alive, reacting to the howling sea winds. His piercing, inhuman eyes glow with an eerie intensity, locked in a menacing glare that instills fear in all who dare oppose him. His crustacean-clawed hand grips the ship’s barnacle-encrusted wooden rail, his massive frame partially silhouetted against the storm-ridden sky.
The greenish glow of the ship’s cursed lanterns flickers unevenly, casting twisting shadows over his grotesque, sea-worn features. His mottled, barnacle-covered skin, riddled with the textures of the deep, glistens under the relentless downpour. The sound of thunderous waves crashing against the ship’s hull fills the air, as rain pelts down mercilessly, bouncing off the wooden planks and soaking his long, tattered coat.
Above, lightning arcs across the sky, briefly illuminating the towering, rotted sails of the Flying Dutchman, their ghostly fabric flapping violently in the storm. The ship groans under the weight of its dark curse, the deck swaying with the raging sea, yet Davy Jones stands unmoved—a nightmare given form, the very embodiment of the ocean’s wrath.
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