Day One has ended.
The scream would have been blood-curdling, but the crew's blood was far too pickled to go off.
In any case, the poor bastard kept screaming for a long fucking time, so whatever killed him must have
been painful. A few members of the crew finally dragged themselves from vomit soaked bunks to check
on just what the hell had happened, and discovered that Mockra had suffered a horrible, horrible death by
an obscure poison from the hinterlands of Australia. Which was strange, because Iocane powder usually
killed swiftly and painlessly ... it didn't leave you with you spine twisted so far backwards that your head
had literally been shoved into your ass.
"The iocane must have been spiked with something even deadlier, something utterly vile and sickening, like Canadian Whisky,"
the First Mate concluded confidently and concisely, with a few of the crew members shaking their heads sadly at the narrator's faux-pas. You're supposed to avoid alliteration, always.
"Fortunately, I have spent years developing an immunity to both iocane powder and VO, and also have a pair of rather thick gloves and the cunning ability to wash stuff in water." With that, he swept up the dead man's gold, ignoring both the mutterings of the watching crew members and the lethal precedent set by Blackbeard.
Mockra is dead, he was Lisheo, the Cranky Old Bastard, Pirate, and had 20 Gold.
It is now Day Two.
There was no Night.
This post has been edited by Path-Shaper: 19 February 2009 - 06:05 PM