Post by Knowledge on Oct 16, 2013 15:32:48 GMT -5
A bottle you hold in your hand,
Aged and from a foreign land.
An invite to a distant shore,
A summons that you can't ignore.
"Come feast with us!" the scroll within proclaims,
In you desire it inflames.
To a far-off island it gives direction,
And reveals no more upon inspection.
In the rainy autumn gloom,
Your home feels like a dusty tomb.
And in the Caribbean shade,
Attend you will, this masquerade.
October in the Caribbean. Hot days, cool nights, and a tranquil breeze that could turn into a tropical storm at a moment's notice.
The azure waves lap softly at the pure white shore of a small crescent-shaped island, and in the distance a squat fortress has been erected on a bluff overlooking the bay. A lighthouse towers over it, tall and proud, and the stark architecture of the fortress accentuates its almost monolithic appearance against the backdrop of the lush tropical greenery and sandy beaches below.
A ship lies at anchor in the bay, a sleek and modern-looking pleasure yacht, but the men crewing it don't look half as modern as the ship itself. They're moving what look like supplies into a dinghy and transporting it to the shore, their sweat gleaming in the sun. Some are wearing shirts, some not, but their clothing looks like it would be more at home in the late 1600s. The sea breeze carries their voices on the wind, and their coarse shouting is an eclectic blend of British English, French, and Spanish.
The breeze stiffens, and several of the crewmembers look out to sea, the sun at their backs. Evening is rapidly approaching, and with it comes a hint of thunder, the electric taste of a brewing storm. They pick up the pace, but the shouting has ceased. They work in silence.
In the safety of the fortress, the coming storm is of no consequence: the lighting is warm, the atmosphere cheerful. Here, the men are clad in well-pressed tuxedos, but there is still something rough in their features despite the immaculate clothing they wear. Torches burn smokily in brackets along the walls and jack-o'-lanterns are spread across the parapets haphazardly. Out in the courtyard, the decoration is sparse and grim in preparation for the hurricane, but just inside the double doors the chill is kept at bay by roaring fires, even more jack-o'-lanterns, and the generous open bar along the back wall. In front of it, the dance floor is empty for the time being, and the men are erecting tables along the walls for those afraid they might embarrass themselves. In one corner, the band is warming up with a cheery sailor's melody.
A passage off to one side of the bar leads down into an old mine shaft—a slightly more intimate alternative to the great hall's dance floor—and here, too, the rock walls and hefty timber braces are bathed in an orange light from the grinning faces of innumerable pumpkins. The shaft leads down, down, into the heart of the island, the air steadily getting warmer, until finally it opens out into a gigantic cavern, heated by volcanic activity and bathed in an eerie green light. Nestled among the pillars of bedrock, an old ship looks almost as if it has run aground. The music from above seems to disappear into the darkness high above, lending an almost ghostly silence to the cave.
Alone on the ship is a man clad in a white tuxedo, the host of the party. He seems lost in thought, idly flipping an intricate coin, but he seems to perk up as a sound reaches him: a solemn chant from above pierces through the veil of silence surrounding the derelict ship, and it brings a smile to his lips. A golden tooth twinkles in the sickly green glow, and he gets to his feet, slipping a brilliant blue gem into his empty left eyesocket. It shines softly, its smoothly polished surface catching the light.
He knows the song his men are singing well, and he heads up to join them, humming the tune to himself as he walks up the mineshaft.
He nods to the men as he passes, coin still in hand, and he climbs the spiral staircase to the top of the lighthouse and looks out across the ocean. The hurricane is bearing down on the little island, and a small fleet of ships is approaching. His guests are arriving. Evening has fallen, and the storm is about to hit, but the man isn't worried.
Never shall we die, he thinks, reciting the last line of the song to himself as the first raindrops start to fall.
Have at it, boys and ghouls! No posting order, and I recommend you maybe hitch a ride with a friend or two—boats are pretty big, after all, and it's an excellent way to get right into the groove.
Costumes mandatory, and yes, the bar is open.
;”)
