Blogarama
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Location: the waves, the ocean

Hoist the sails, raise yer bloody goblets, ahoy & onward me laddies!

Thursday, May 26, 2005

The Moon, the Pale Sickle

Laddies, I bid ye each the tip o' me cap, for the morn be fresh, aye, & methinks me tastes bounty in the air. For a healthy bout there, lads, me spirit seemed delfated by ease of conquest, for what me crew began in northern climes with the paltry little vikings we continued through to the present, aye, in the form of easy victory. Fighting a viking is akin to fighting an inflatable doll, lads, such is the pussilanimous stance of their defensive entrenchment. Aye, they be carrion, little more, & here in equatorial waters me finds the same lackluster challenges, aye, & as such me sails turn northernly & let the winds blow me where they will, lads! Me sword bares only the slightest red sheen & me peg sports no new licks, maties, & belowdecks the cards & rum can only do so much ere mutiny must rise of the unbearded young knaves. Let them come, for something to do, for Dagger's done away with mutinies afore, aye, single-handed & single-hooked, & seen his crew's blood repaint me decks. There be strange currency in new foreboding, lads, 'twixt the frenetic sense of a burning filament when mirth interweaves itself with expectation & the sense of dread that washes o'er a swashbuckler on the eve of grand warring. Aye, there be a taxonomy entire to anticipation, lads, & one with which ye'd do well to familiarize yerselves, if e'er yer intentions plot to take ye seawards. Know ye what to expect, aye, & ye've a peg up on yer foes. Also, me recommends a fine jolly roger the likes ofwhich are foreign to the eyes of rivals & friends alike, in the spirit of Blackbeard's goblet-clutching skeleton, lads. Steady yer ensigns, aye, & know ye yer currents, but ultimately lads if ye be a pirate ye know it from yer bloody sobbing birth, & piss on ye for it, for the life oscillates wildly, lads. If ye take unto the seas be ye weary of Dagger, but hone yer abilities in the northern waters, where the vikings sit in fragile rows like dead & dying otters, ready for the sabre.

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