The Price of the Horizon
There were certain things you did before a battle.
First, you dug a good bottle of rum from the bottom of your sea chest and downed half of it, just to put everything in perspective.
Then, you checked your appearance very carefully in the small mirror in your cabin, making sure that your beard was neatly braided and that the beads in your hair shone like pieces of eight. You smudged kohl very carefully around your eyes, giving them an enigmatic and, to some, terrifying depth. And you put on your very best clothes, because clothes made the man or in your case, the pirate. Because a pirate without his varicolored sashes, flamboyant waistcoat, and turned down boot tops was only a coward in a fast ship.
Next, the weapons. They'd been laying ready, and now you turned to face them. A brace of pistols, primed and loaded, got shoved into your belt. The saber, gleaming from the polishing you'd given it last night, joined them. And then, draining the rest of the rum, you waited for the opportune moment to throw open your cabin door and swagger up to the poop deck, deeply impressing your men.
With your hands on the wheel you scanned the horizon, eyes peeled for the ship who's captain had got it into his head to blow holes in your beloved Black Pearl. Alternately praying and cursing in five languages at every god you'd every heard of to get you out of this encounter alive, you wait. Because niggling in the back of your mind is the fact that, someday, merely being Captain Jack Sparrow won't be enough.
There were certain things you did before a battle.
First, you dug a good bottle of rum from the bottom of your sea chest and downed half of it, just to put everything in perspective.
Then, you checked your appearance very carefully in the small mirror in your cabin, making sure that your beard was neatly braided and that the beads in your hair shone like pieces of eight. You smudged kohl very carefully around your eyes, giving them an enigmatic and, to some, terrifying depth. And you put on your very best clothes, because clothes made the man or in your case, the pirate. Because a pirate without his varicolored sashes, flamboyant waistcoat, and turned down boot tops was only a coward in a fast ship.
Next, the weapons. They'd been laying ready, and now you turned to face them. A brace of pistols, primed and loaded, got shoved into your belt. The saber, gleaming from the polishing you'd given it last night, joined them. And then, draining the rest of the rum, you waited for the opportune moment to throw open your cabin door and swagger up to the poop deck, deeply impressing your men.
With your hands on the wheel you scanned the horizon, eyes peeled for the ship who's captain had got it into his head to blow holes in your beloved Black Pearl. Alternately praying and cursing in five languages at every god you'd every heard of to get you out of this encounter alive, you wait. Because niggling in the back of your mind is the fact that, someday, merely being Captain Jack Sparrow won't be enough.