Flotsam Conquers The Central Isles
Posted: Tue Dec 20, 2005 7:04 am
Beaching his rusty corvette on the spit below Sam's, Flotsam limped ashore.
The north wind swept the empty streets as he climbed the last hill into town.
A feeling of dread had decended over the once thriving, if ill reputed, hamlet.
Once home to boistrous, drunken mariners, and those who longed to become so, the fabled islands have become no more than a land-locked ghost ship. The garbage strewn streets and shabby buildings remain, seemingly untouched, but no voices break the wind's shrill song.
Flotsam, realizing at last that the islands had truly been deserted, quickened his pace. To some, this lonely, long-awaited homecoming would chill their souls.
To the old privateer, lurching quickly up the street, it was just the realization that, somewhere behind Sam's long bar, was an unguarded barrel of rum, anxiously awaiting his arrival.
Flotsam paused, briefly, at the door to Sam's. He looked out over the darkened, lonely islands, his eyes, squinted protectively against the windblown sea spray. His gaze swept searchingly over the broken windows lining the narrow, wet street, then paused, for a moment, on the rusty, unmanned gun emplacements, before coming to rest softly on the achingly empty, whitecapped lagoon.
"I claim these islands in the name of... uh, ...Me I suppose." he growled, then, turning to push through the front doors, he headed round back of the bar in search of grog to toast the apparent victory.
flotsam 8)
The north wind swept the empty streets as he climbed the last hill into town.
A feeling of dread had decended over the once thriving, if ill reputed, hamlet.
Once home to boistrous, drunken mariners, and those who longed to become so, the fabled islands have become no more than a land-locked ghost ship. The garbage strewn streets and shabby buildings remain, seemingly untouched, but no voices break the wind's shrill song.
Flotsam, realizing at last that the islands had truly been deserted, quickened his pace. To some, this lonely, long-awaited homecoming would chill their souls.
To the old privateer, lurching quickly up the street, it was just the realization that, somewhere behind Sam's long bar, was an unguarded barrel of rum, anxiously awaiting his arrival.
Flotsam paused, briefly, at the door to Sam's. He looked out over the darkened, lonely islands, his eyes, squinted protectively against the windblown sea spray. His gaze swept searchingly over the broken windows lining the narrow, wet street, then paused, for a moment, on the rusty, unmanned gun emplacements, before coming to rest softly on the achingly empty, whitecapped lagoon.
"I claim these islands in the name of... uh, ...Me I suppose." he growled, then, turning to push through the front doors, he headed round back of the bar in search of grog to toast the apparent victory.
flotsam 8)
