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Barbossa held his quarterdeck, boots planted wide on the planking he could not feel. Pride kept him stock still, pride and caution. The crew watched; any sign of weakness could mean the end of his hold on them. They were too close to success for him to falter now.
Port Royal was theirs. Barbossa bared his teeth. Soon. Soon he would taste life again. He wanted to feel wind again, salt spray. He wanted to smell the tar that bubbled from the deck in noonday sunshine. He wanted a woman, he wanted wine.
Most of all, he wanted an apple.
December 18 2006, 19:40:19 UTC 5 years ago
December 19 2006, 23:55:37 UTC 5 years ago