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Location: Coast, CdA Date: 13 Aug* (Backdated) Weather: Warm, slightly foggy Time: Sundown |
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(502)
Vasiliy is by me!
The fire blazed in front of him, lighting up the sand in an orange circle. Though the sun was dipping low on the horizon still, it was already shadowy and dark. Vasiliy had spent most of the latter part of the day lounging on the sand or catching fish. He had a great bucket, old plastic, in which he'd kept the fish while they were still alive. Most of his catches were thrown back -- the dusky-furred Russian desired only the largest fish for his catch. It was easy to dart through the water of the tide pool after a school of fish, harder to target the biggest ones. The best of his catch was a rather large bluefish. Vasiliy had stalked the pool from end to end after the monster. It had been the last of the day, and the first he'd cut open to cook.
Gathering firewood was the first thing he'd done upon his arrival on the beach, along with gathering several sturdy branches. They were all long and relatively straight, though thick enough to support the weight of fish as large as the bluefish. He occupied a spit all of his own, while the other fish were arranged with each other, multiple fish to a spit. They sizzled and crackled with their cooking, and eventually, Vasiliy stuck his fingers into a pouch and tossed some salt on them. He leaned back against the rock he'd chosen as his seat -- it was now serving as more of a pillow than a seat -- and exhaled his happiness. Cercatori d'Arte had a lovely coast, above all, and Vasiliy had thus far enjoyed every inch of it.
He reached in the sack he'd carried his belongings in and rummaged for his bottle. It was the first of the five bottles he'd brought from Sobirat'sya, the last of such liquor he was ever likely to taste. Vasiliy had no plans of returning to his homeland. He grabbed one of the spits and yanked it off, spilling some of the liquor out over the fish. This particular bottle was spiced, the only one of its kind, and it would add such flavor to the fish. He was careful in his pouring not to waste any, and each and every drop was splashed over the fish. Wastefulness of such a precious liquid would not do him well. When Vasi replaced the spit, he again leaned back and took a small swallow of the alcohol. It was lovely fire on his tongue, and he grinned, kicking at the sand and barking a noise of happiness as the flame slid down his throat.
A few moments later, he leaned upward and took the smallest stick off the fire. These fish were done already. The bluefish would require some time to fully cook. The dark-furred Russian appraised his catch with a proud eye, and wondered how Wilson would enjoy the snack of so large a fish head and tail.
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