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milliways_bar2010-06-24 11:52 pm
bushel-o-apples.livejournal.com) wrote in milliways_bar2010-06-24 11:52 pm
Barbossa's Saint John's eve.
He doesn't expect anybody to join in, not in here, so he started work early. Some of the wood he can gather from driftwood strewn along the beach surrounding the Caribbean inlet, but most of it, enough to build a pile almost as tall as himself, has to be cut, which is hard work for a balmy mid-summer's day. Thus Barbossa can be seen at the lakeshore during most of the morning, cutting and assembling the wood, his hat and coat neatly placed on a flat rock, his shirtsleeves rolled up to show wiry, weathered arms, his hair held back by a faded yellow brocade bandanna.
Once the pile of wood is assembled, and after taking some rest, he goes inside and holds a whispered conversation with the Lady Bar, after which he bows deeply and proceeds to move one small table to a spot near the firewood. Other supplies soon cover the table, provided by the Bar as well. A large but shallow earthenware pot, several unlabeled bottles of clear liquor, a handful of roasted coffee beans, a couple lemons, and a generous portion of cane sugar. That done, he sits on the flat rock to wait for nightfall.
When evening begins to turn into dusk, he starts to get busy once again. The bonfire is lit, and the flames roar high and bright in the purple Caribbean sunset. As the darkness of the sky deepens, the fire consumes the wood and the beacon-like pile collapses, leaving the flames shorter but still quite impressive. At the small table, Barbossa arranges the ingredients and prepares a punch of sorts in the shallow pot.
As dusk turns into full night he strikes a long match and touches its flame to surface of the drink, the eerie blue glow of slow-burning alcohol spreading and flickering. Slowly he marks a beat, dipping the ladle into the burning liquor, then raising it, letting a thin line of blue fire trickle back down into the pot. And over that beat, his cavernous voice starts to chant. The language sounds almost like Spanish, almost like Portuguese, but is definitely neither, the tone solemn and sinister as he stirs the burning drink.
And at midnight, after the incantation has been chanted and the Queimada has been drank, Barbossa's gaze meets the still-roaring flames of the bonfire, and his lips curl into a smile. Slowly he walks at an oblique angle, approaching the fire and at the same time keeping enough distance to get a good run-up. With a whip-like snap of his arm he flings the hat aside. Then he shrugs his coat off and somewhat laboriously manages to slip his boots off his feet...
And then he breaks into a run, his limp momentarily forgotten, scraggly long hair streaming behind him, and leaps over the fire with a short, ferocious yell of sheer enjoyment, flames licking his bare feet before he lands on the cool sand on the other side. Then he seems to remember something, turns around and leaps again, and once more for a total of three times.
(OOC: Party post, kinda, Millitimed to the 23rd of June. Threadhop at will, me hearties!)
(ETA: Player is going to bed, will continue tomorrow. Post remains open forever for people to tag in.)
Once the pile of wood is assembled, and after taking some rest, he goes inside and holds a whispered conversation with the Lady Bar, after which he bows deeply and proceeds to move one small table to a spot near the firewood. Other supplies soon cover the table, provided by the Bar as well. A large but shallow earthenware pot, several unlabeled bottles of clear liquor, a handful of roasted coffee beans, a couple lemons, and a generous portion of cane sugar. That done, he sits on the flat rock to wait for nightfall.
When evening begins to turn into dusk, he starts to get busy once again. The bonfire is lit, and the flames roar high and bright in the purple Caribbean sunset. As the darkness of the sky deepens, the fire consumes the wood and the beacon-like pile collapses, leaving the flames shorter but still quite impressive. At the small table, Barbossa arranges the ingredients and prepares a punch of sorts in the shallow pot.
As dusk turns into full night he strikes a long match and touches its flame to surface of the drink, the eerie blue glow of slow-burning alcohol spreading and flickering. Slowly he marks a beat, dipping the ladle into the burning liquor, then raising it, letting a thin line of blue fire trickle back down into the pot. And over that beat, his cavernous voice starts to chant. The language sounds almost like Spanish, almost like Portuguese, but is definitely neither, the tone solemn and sinister as he stirs the burning drink.
And at midnight, after the incantation has been chanted and the Queimada has been drank, Barbossa's gaze meets the still-roaring flames of the bonfire, and his lips curl into a smile. Slowly he walks at an oblique angle, approaching the fire and at the same time keeping enough distance to get a good run-up. With a whip-like snap of his arm he flings the hat aside. Then he shrugs his coat off and somewhat laboriously manages to slip his boots off his feet...
And then he breaks into a run, his limp momentarily forgotten, scraggly long hair streaming behind him, and leaps over the fire with a short, ferocious yell of sheer enjoyment, flames licking his bare feet before he lands on the cool sand on the other side. Then he seems to remember something, turns around and leaps again, and once more for a total of three times.
(OOC: Party post, kinda, Millitimed to the 23rd of June. Threadhop at will, me hearties!)
(ETA: Player is going to bed, will continue tomorrow. Post remains open forever for people to tag in.)