Invasion

Flotsam froze, the bottle half-way to his chapped lips, as a tiny mote of dust drifted from the ceiling.

Both neurons fired rapidly, as he pondered the disturbance.

Something had changed. The Isles were no longer deserted.

Buxton, normally found in a comatose slumber, now whispered in his inebriated sleep. His eyes, usually screwed tight shut, now, ocassionally glinted reflections of the guttering candle light as if he might be spying on Flotsam's movements.

Broken cobwebs marked passageways recently entered. Faint scrape marks on the dusty floor hinted at cases of grog dragged off in the night. An almost subliminal murmer from behind the stacked cases along the back wall sparked a sense of unease in the old privateer.

And the faint, intermittent aroma of salt, rotting seaboots and sheep dip, pointed to one, inescapable conclusion.

Argon had returned to the islands and was gathering his old cronies.

"Where were these decrepit old seamen coming from ?" Flotsam wondered.

He thought they'd all been permanently consigned to the deep long, long ago.

Flotam's memory flew back to happier days.

Long before the red tide spread its stain upon the ocean, a band of dashing young captains had swept the old fossils from the sea in the great Newby vs the Oldtimers battles.

It remains as one of the greatest naval engagements recorded in the post beta era.

But now, it seems, the oldtimers are returning.

Up until now the grizzled old privateer had never paid much attention to dry land intrigues. But with his ship still on the high seas, being repaired and refueled courtesy of an unwitting Argon's resources, Flotsam knew he would have to eventually deal with the new developments on shore.

"Where to begin?" he pondered, sipping inspiration from some of Sam's finest.

Subtle clues had been gnawing at his subconcious over the past weeks. With a growing sense of alarm, one thought suddenly crystalized.

All the disturbances seemed to radiate from a spot behind the grog cases stacked thickly along the bar's north wall !

With his current fortunes firmly anchored to Sam's Bar & Grill, high on dry land, Flotsam realized he would eventually have to take action. But this wasn't a naval engagement with room to maneuver and shells to spare. He needed more information before dealing with the intruders. He would have to learn their plans quickly, before they were fully prepared.

With a renewed sense of purpose, Flotsam vowed to drink a tunnel straight through to the back wall.

The counter gambit had begun.

flotsam

...the mist rolled thick along the dock where the stoop, illuminated by Sam's coal oil lamp shone the way inside the establishment. The weathered wooden crest carved in the thick wooden door long ago showed signs of age as a small flake of paint fell like a fall leaf silently to the threshold below. He stood, knowing all too well that things could change in an instant should he be found out. Would the guise pay off? The stakes were too high to turn back now.

Many-a old salts left their memories awash in the heady brew here, and tonight should to prove to be no different. Many year had passed, he thought amusingly to himself, that Sam would indeed be serving his finest to the very one he'd thrown out so long ago after embaro episode played out.

Slowly he turned to face the door and stopped to adjust his fake hump and re-inflate his second-hand parot perched upon his left sholder... slowly it stood upright as the night air serged from the bulb tucked away in his smelly armpit. With shaky, dirty, hairy hand he reached up to place the eye patch down over his brow to cover his steely bloodshot eye.

He took a deep breath as he slid his sleeve down to cover the one thing that would give him away. The tatoo that bore the emblem of the dreaded Assassins. With pause he snickered to himself as he slowly opened the heavy creeking door. The air was weighted with grog and rum. The fireplace glowed dimly as the coals popped with the insergance of moist air as the door slamed shut.

Every eye was upon him now. He stood as if to be challenged, daring anyone to make their move. Heads were now back to their cowardly state as he walked to the bar. Every head except Sams. The burley barkeep studied the dark figure as it approached the polished mahognay beer-satined bar. The dark figure reached into his pocket, as sams hand reached for something below and stayed there. The dark figure of a man pulled a gold debloom and droped it in front of Sam. The distinctive sound of gold rang is Sams ear. His hand withdrew from benieth the bar as he said, "what flavor be ye, friend". It was then the dark man knew he had Sam right where he wanted him...

Following Argon's rules of High Sea's Warfare, all gun placements were tossed overboard to make room for the Bar, Hot Tub and Sheep pen. It was explained to the crew that one well place shot was all that was needed to defeat the enemy, to that purpose one 5" deck gun remained. The decks were cleared for the dancing girls and vessel was considered ready for action. The crew could not help but wonder just what kind of action they were ready for.

Hard to Port set a course for the Central Isles we need to resupply. The stores on board are inadequate. Make room for more beer and pretzels. Dump the lifejackets and raft no one abandons my ship.

And the little Red Corvette sailed off toward her rendezvous with fate ??

...the dark figure replies looking at Sam, "Gimmie Ur best rum, Sam! Not that thin'd down stuff ye throw at the mid-shipmen". Sam rumages through the bottles whos labels are somewhat faded because of all the salt water they'd been in before they could be salvaged from Cye's sunken cruser. Sam props the bottle up onto the bar with a sly grin and adds a shot glass to round out the order. The dark figure pushes the shot glass aside and pops the cork from the bottle o rum then takes a big swigg. He violently swishes the the liquid around in his mouth for a minute, then swallows hard making a grimace face as he does. A moment passes as time seems to stand still...

Looking back at Sam, the dark figure nods his approval and spins around to have a seat at the table near the fireplace. Sam looks around his tavern noteing all the regulars and some new patrons straggling in from the damp cold outside. He slips the gold coin in his vest pocket and puts a renewed spit-shine on the shot glass before returning it to the neat stack behind him. The place is buzzing with boastful chanter as the dark figure looks about. He thinks to himself that if one more person walks in with a wooden leg, Sam would'nt have to go out back to the timber pile and could feed the fireplace for a week or better.

The old german made clock on the wall kept it's rythematic 'tick-tock' in the background which made one patron notice the time. He looked over at Sam and made a signal with his hand. Sam knew exactly what to do as he turned and grab'd a wooden box and placed it upon the end of the bar. The patron slid over to the box and opened it to pull out a violin and a bow then moved his chair from his table so that it was against the wall just under the clock. He proped his wooden leg atop the chair seat and raised his bow gently to the instrument listening closely to the clocks sound to get his timing, then let go with a fast-paced tune that had the whole tavern taping wooden legs on the sawdust strone floor.