Water gently lapped on compress beach, a group of four watchers were making the nightly rounds. It was a cold morning, despite the warming as spring chipped away at winter. A spring storm was swirling off the coast, threatening to approach but not quite within landfall of Bellmuse but the waves were already under their effect. The sea foam was thick, as though it were one of Creak’s well-poured beers, and radiating from the man’s very door was the pounding of a heavy fist. Inside the lights were on, yet the door refused to budge… no sound radiated from within, no happy patrons.
A little down the beach, the foam coating it’s underside, was a dingy; a small rowboat which housed a bottle of rum and bailing pail. Both of the oars were folded into the boat, leaving a small puddle within. The tide was receding; the owner seemed to know this, as the boat hadn’t been dragged far from the water’s edge. It looked rather old, brown-wooden, but it was very well kept; freshly coated with waterproofing varnish and without a single fracture or dent. It looked scarcely large enough for three people, though there were only two sets of oars.
Back at the door the pounding had loudened, but it was no longer the pounding of a fist. This was the pounding of a hammer on metal, the figure had drawn forth a tool and nails; he was pinning a notice to the man’s door. As lightning crackled in the storm behind him it was made clear, this was no letter… in the centre of the single page was an amorphous black stain. Billy “Bones” Creak was being dealt the black spot. The indicator that a pirate’s life was about to run dry, that he was to drink the last of his rum and embrace death in a joyous hug. The nailing had not been done with a hammer but a three clawed boarding hook; its long string bound at his waist.
He was a tall, lean, man with poorly spiked black hair and a small set of glasses on the crook of his nose. He war what looked to be a large baggy, red, cagoule with long black gloves and heavy black leather boots. He didn’t look happy frowning out to the oncoming storm, and began to stalk his way back toward the dingy. His eyes flicked back and forth, as though he was awaiting interruption.
A little down the beach, the foam coating it’s underside, was a dingy; a small rowboat which housed a bottle of rum and bailing pail. Both of the oars were folded into the boat, leaving a small puddle within. The tide was receding; the owner seemed to know this, as the boat hadn’t been dragged far from the water’s edge. It looked rather old, brown-wooden, but it was very well kept; freshly coated with waterproofing varnish and without a single fracture or dent. It looked scarcely large enough for three people, though there were only two sets of oars.
Back at the door the pounding had loudened, but it was no longer the pounding of a fist. This was the pounding of a hammer on metal, the figure had drawn forth a tool and nails; he was pinning a notice to the man’s door. As lightning crackled in the storm behind him it was made clear, this was no letter… in the centre of the single page was an amorphous black stain. Billy “Bones” Creak was being dealt the black spot. The indicator that a pirate’s life was about to run dry, that he was to drink the last of his rum and embrace death in a joyous hug. The nailing had not been done with a hammer but a three clawed boarding hook; its long string bound at his waist.
He was a tall, lean, man with poorly spiked black hair and a small set of glasses on the crook of his nose. He war what looked to be a large baggy, red, cagoule with long black gloves and heavy black leather boots. He didn’t look happy frowning out to the oncoming storm, and began to stalk his way back toward the dingy. His eyes flicked back and forth, as though he was awaiting interruption.