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Post by nemesis on Aug 8, 2010 14:19:25 GMT -5
A whisper started in the streets that night. It echoed in the hot heady electric air, it caught and eddied wherever it found ears to hear it and always the whisper was the same. "The Spanish are sweeping the town". Throughout the bars and brothels the whisper became a shout, a heady fear inducing mix stronger even than cheap rum, stronger again than the perfume of the 'ladies of affection'. "The Spanish troops will kill all the escaped slaves" or "The Spanish will kill the pirates" or "The Spanish will close all unlicensed pubs" - this last causing real and immediate terror. As the dawn light crept tremulously over the horizon people were wheeling barrows of belongings into the thick jungles surrounding the town of St Aquila and ships were frantically loading in the harbour. High on the cliff overlooking the town to the east the sun caught on a single banner. Yellow , gold and red it flapped proud in the sun, the light glinting off the ornamented pole head in the shape of a rearing stallion.
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Post by Lord Redcoat on Aug 10, 2010 17:58:24 GMT -5
In response to this cry, the tavern-cum-bawdyhouse emptied. It was only natural. Those that were not too drunk or incoherent, or ‘otherwise engaged’, that was.
FitzKhān, former ‘captain’ FitzKhān watched impassively. It could easily have been midday for all the difference it made; all that changed was the shroud of dawn's grey veiling the town was pierced by the pinprick of stars, the morn's first rays, and the guttering light of torches, lanterns, lamps and fires. Had the noon sun in all its brightness been present, his actions would not have altered a whit: the only change was the fast fleeting veil dawn offered. A veil he would use to his advantage, adopting it as readily as any cloak. Sun or moon, night or day, he would still seek the advantage.
Behind him, two giants of men loomed, their black, bald heads glistening in the sun. Nubian eunuchs. These two hand cannon, great scimitar wielding colossuses towered above the panic-stricken crowd, and those who were wise, melted out of their way. They had only one master, and that master was at least a head shorter than them, even with his bicorn hat.
FitzKhān’s hand rested carelessly on his shashka’s pommel, the gesture subconscious and nonchalant. More arms to a throne than anything else, it provided somewhere for his white gloves to be when not hanging from his belt. Absently, he caressed the Russian sabre, feeling its strength through the patterned layers of silk, revelling in its width, its sharpness. It was a blade worthy of a prince – or so its seller had claimed. It had not been a lie, for there were many, many minor princes, many of whom were as poor as a moderately well-off English Baron, dependant entirely on their family’s good will – the least of many brothers.
His other hand rested on the shorter, recurved yatagan, which lay across the small of his back, the pommel jutting out at his left hip. It was a handy place to rest his elbow, and that is exactly what he did, one thumb hooked through his white silk sash. Under the sash was a wide leather belt, and he wished he had his ‘officer’s’ fine duelling pistol. Much to his vexation, he had lost that with the ship. His only condolence was that his Dragoon’s Wheelock had been salvaged and now hung across one shoulder, primed and ready to shoot. All it required was a target, a steady hand and a smooth action as he sent the bastard to the fires of Hell.
Long blue coat rippling in the not so gentle sea-breeze (mostly stirred up by the peasants and their panic), FitzKhān narrowed his blue-eyed gaze at the harbour. Almost unaware he was striking a pose – it came as naturally as breathing; one’s image had to be maintained – he scanned the waves and docked vessels for the accused Spanish ships. God damn those heathen swine! He would make those Spainards rue the day they had ever pursued him, and then, by God, he would take some as his slaves – perhaps their women. It did not do to remember that he had Spanish blood flowing within his veins, but his loyalty lay with the flag bearing the red cross of St. George; the might of the English crown. At least, that was what was expected. The reality was very different.
His brow knitted in concentration; then he gestured towards his awaiting retinue. The former Janissaries ringed him, their muskets primed and ready, their bayonets already attached and their yatagan loosened in their scabbards. By God, he would see the curs pay with their dignity as well as their blood. But there were too many of them; too many for a mere eleven to face – and one of those a priest. He would atone for his foul tongue later, and seek forgiveness of his many grievous sins.
With an effort, he steeled his tongue, and took captive the thoughts that would betray him into further offence; the law of the sea was one thing, but the Word of the Lord was beyond mere humans, and divine retribution, punishment and salvation was beyond the ken of all but the most blessed mortals. Another reason he kept the priest around. That, and the ‘good reverend’s’ ‘liquid bread’. Ah! Such waste; what man could know such beer, such oaken casts, from the finest wineries, now at the bottom of the sea. Surely, his foul and wretched tongue had brought the Lord’s displeasure upon himself and his crew. Perhaps the loss of his ship was the penance, the sacrifice he must make – perhaps he could yet turn aside this path of damnation, and the Almighty would spare him, hold back wrath and disfavour might become redemption. That he was still alive was another chance to turn from his vile ways.
But it was hard. It was so easy to slip, to fall. He would pay more attention to the priest’s sermons on the holy Sabbath. How many days was that from now?
Forcing his thoughts back to the present, his Janissaries took up their positions, two of them scouting while the others awaited, sheltering behind absconded carts, walls and crates. They were still in full uniform, though the colours had changed. Now they served him, and honoured his honouring of them.
No, he could not fight this. There was only one thing for it: to retreat. Yet, how long would it be until the accursed Spanish – God pardon his evil speech – hunted him and the rest of his entourage down? He needed a ship.
He was staring at a whole bay of them, and while the Spanish were here…
A smile brushed his lips, and the beginnings of a plan took shape.
Behind him, his two Nubian behemoths fingered their great-scimitars and hand cannons. Their faces were carved from rock. To most, they might have been gargoyles; legends brought to life: night demons, goliaths incarnate. Titans returned; an immense, impassable wall of flesh and steel, muscles as hard as rock, and blades almost the length of their own body. They stood tall and proud.
Then between the flickering torchlight, dawn's golden rays and the wispy smoke, he saw the young officer staring off into the distance as the speck of a ship disappeared. Interesting…
…he needed a new duelling pistol.
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Post by Captain Dusk Rose on Aug 12, 2010 17:49:55 GMT -5
Crowds scrambled, pushed, and roared in the dim light. Amidst the chaos was a naval officer. English, and very young, with a fresh face and soft features. One was given the impression of a shell tumbled by crashing waves as the officer struggled to stay afloat.
This was midshipman Slater, who caught, over the noise of the crowd, bits and pieces from the other sailors about the Diana leaving port with out them. Which was impossible.Captain Hardthrasher wouldn't set off with out the entire crew back on board, would he?
Slater finally made it out of the crowds, and stopped out of breath at the sight of the HMS Diana...shrinking against the horizon.
Something in the sailor's entire posture changed. Shoulders slumped, head bowed. The Diana had been the midshipman's entire life up until this single, fleeting moment, and now she was gone.
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Post by Lord Redcoat on Aug 12, 2010 18:05:42 GMT -5
FitzKhān casually hooked his spyglass and gestured to his janissaries to stay where they were. Those two he had sent out a few feet he recalled, and they took their positions with the rest - ready to ambush. A plan was forming within his head.
With a curt nod to the eunuchs, he silently ordered them to remain where they were. The officer wasn't that far away from him, but he wasn't one to pass up on opportunity. It was dangerous, but perhaps for the best - now, if only he could gain an audience... Snapping his fingers, he commanded sharply, “Curtain or sheet, white, go.” Then he froze, a smile touching his lips, "Belay that. Here." He pulled off his white sash, and handed it to his nearest Janissary. The green-jacketed Janissary obeyed, snatching up a broken cart axle that had been knocked to the ground during the chaos. Then the sash was tied around it.
There would be no retreat; when the Spanish came, there would be... parley. And FitzKhān would disguise himself as a Spaniard. Don Diego – or perhaps a son or distant cousin of a don. It didn't matter. His ship would be the ‘Santa Maria’ sunk by pirates, and he a Spanish noble seeking refuge – sanctuary. If there were any nearby churches, those might do.
His priest would just have to pretend to be catholic; sacrilege, but he would obey. God would forgive him, surely? In the meantime, FitzKhān strode over to the young officer, and halting a few paces away, called out clearly, “You there, stand to attention. The Spanish are upon us and we have little time. Follow my lead, and you shall live; otherwise, flee for your life with the rest of this rabble and may God have mercy on your soul.”
He had not drawn his sword – either of them – or his Wheelock, but he stood with the calm, measured confidence of any naval officer, and the cool arrogance of an aristocrat – and the accent of a gentleman.
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Post by Lord Redcoat on Aug 12, 2010 19:36:53 GMT -5
Posted with Penny
The officer turned slowly and with a grim face, eyed the newcomer. A hint of puzzlement mingled with Slater's grim expression, until the man's escorts came into view and the midshipman stumbled back in surprise.
“You are marooned.” The man fixed the midshipman a level look, “I will not repeat myself. Follow me or flee with the others into the forest, and pray the Spanish do not catch you. If they hang you you'll be fortunate.”
The sailor nodded, struggling to look away from the giants nearby, Slater moved to follow them.
“We don't have much time. You are my manservant; a bosun in training. You are an indentured servant, whom I have ‘purchased’. These," he gestured towards the eunuchs and janissaries “are my slaves and personal bodyguard, as well as the survivors of my crew. There is a priest - who shall join us shortly.”
He gestured to one of the janissaries, “Fetch him. Now.”
Turning his attention back to the officer, "Remember, no matter what happens," Into the young officer's ear, he whispered so low only the sailor could hear it, his mouth pressed so close as to prevent lip-reading, “We are loyal to Her royal Majesty, Queen Anne* of England, God bless Britannia. I am ‘Don Diego de le Castile’, and our ship was the ‘Santa Maria’, understand? We were attacked by pirates and we are all that survive.”
Drawing back, he smiled winsomely, and added through gritted teeth for the midshipman’s ears alone, “We parley with those ’bastardos’; we are too few to fight. Comprende?”
"I understand." The midshipman nodded solemnly, ready to do whatever need be to survive, now that there was no duty to be performed for the Diana...
"What's your name, boy?" FitzKhān asked in the same low tone, still ensuring he could not be lip read.
"Slater, sir."
“Are you armed, Bosun?” FitzKhān gestured at one of his Janissaries who promptly produced a short range pistol and handed it to Slater, handle first. “Hide this behind your shirt.”
Clearly, FitzKhān was used to issuing orders and having them obeyed.
"Aye, sir." Slater tucked it away quickly and waited for more instruction. With out the structure of the navy, it was tempting to listen to this stranger. At least he was an Englishman... or was he?
The giant bronze-coal skinned Nubians continued to tower over the pair silently, their faces still impassive as rock, and carved from the same. Emotionless didn’t begin to describe their watchful mask, and ominous presence. Likewise, the Janissaries were as watchful, and the priest appeared, somewhat ruffled, the Janissary in tow - rather than the other way around.
FitzKhān’s expression never wavered; that cool, commanding demeanour, observant and just a touch of haughtiness, betrayed only by the icy-cold calculated blue cobalt of his level stare. His sweeping gaze revealed no fear, or anxiousness, nor anticipation or excitement; only patience and watchfulness. He was a man utterly unfazed. With a single gesture, his index finger pointed Slater to sit on a crate one side of the eunuchs, beside the priest (who took his place with the same gesture), and the black haired, blue gazed, olive-tanned skinned FitzKhān stood between the eunuchs, every inch a Spanish peacock don.
To the priest, he said simply in Latin, "Speak Spanish friend, for they are coming. Lest they condemn us to the purifying flames of the Inquisitor’s pyre, sacrifice your pride for the sake of your flock, and adopt the guise of heresy. 'Mother Church' and 'Rome' be your watchword, for the salvation of all. Thou art a monk, brother. Wear thy crucifix, else it was lost with the tide as surely as God will spill out His Mighty Wrath on the pirates that sunk the Santa Maria, and dared to wound the honour of 'Don Diego de la Castile'. The Holy Virgin, Blessed Mother be with us all. Amen."
To say the black robed man did not like it was an understatement, but begrudgingly, he adhered - for the sake of his flock. There would be words about this sacrilege later.
"Now, go and fetch my 'daughters'." FitzKhān ordered the Janissary. "I want them dressed... appropriately. The corsets." That was a code word that both girls would understand: the corsets concealed blades more deadly than the eunuchs' scimitars - within the right context. There was no need to tell the man to be careful, or ensure he was not overheard, or seen. He was well-trained. "I want them out in two minutes. Their hair can wait."
Slater had obeyed and sat silently on the crate, but nervousness rose as the stranger began speaking in a language the midshipman didn't understand. Who were these people? The sailor took to toying with their hat in wait.
Then FitzKhān looked at Slater directly in the eyes, and spoke softly in English, “You need to trust me, and do nothing unless I give the signal.” He held up two fingers together, “Do so and live. Otherwise you'll wish that whore-mother that spawned had drowned you at birth, by God! You’ll do nothing.” Then his unflinching eyes waited for the midshipman to acknowledge and bow to the intensity behind the dark blue stare.
Slater swallowed. In his gut he felt that this man was trustworthy, even though his mind screamed otherwise. "Aye sir. I understand. Don't have much of a choice anyway, now do I?"
“Of course you have a choice; you can be hunted down like the rest of those ‘English dogs’, or you can live.” He nodded sharply, “Any questions: ask them now, we have little time.” Then he glanced at his two scouts, “You two – take positions in the window above us.”
They bowed sharply, and muttered, “Yes master,” and “Yes Lord Shāhkhān.” - in English no less.
"Those are choices?" Slater brushed a hand over his shirt where the pistol was tucked. "I have too many questions, I'll save them for later if I live long enough."
“Good; I like that. Live long enough, and you’ll do well.” Another sharp nod, this time relaying clipped respect; his tone and eyes did not reveal his inner thoughts, but the nod was enough to show he was pleased with his new ‘asset’. “Now – we wait.”
The crates had already been arranged in a semi-circle, and the Janissaries ringed them, while one held up the pole with FitzKhān’s silk white sash. It served remarkably well as a flag, and struck out - while all around, the crowd panicked and fled. FitzKhān, an oasis of calm in a sea of chaos and discord waited patiently, silently, and kept his thoughts as masked as his smooth features. Only those blue cobalt eyes observed in piercing detachment.
Who was this man really?
*1713 had Queen Anne as the English Queen Regent, until August 1714, whereby King George I held the throne.
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Post by Ciel Phantomhive on Aug 12, 2010 21:26:51 GMT -5
“Father?”
Dual voices, twin tongues of one mind spoke soft and sweet, almost angelic. The daughters stood, curiosity written on their gentle faces, awaiting their father’s attention. They had hurried their dressing as requested; raven hair quickly pinned into similar styles, matching dresses of an earthy brown, trimmed in a forest green. They could have been mirrors of the other, from the elegant stance to the deep brown eyes that took in all that surrounded them with an almost childlike innocence. Proper English ladies, fair, ivory skinned angels who entered silently with a gentle curtsy.
But this was what was expected of them.
Innocence, beauty, sweetness and delicate ways. Nobody should know of the weapons concealed in those elegant dresses, would suspect murderers of the twin ladies who held the looks of girls just coming of age. Father? Ha, master. They were his loyal servants, lying in wait for his command; trained killers in service of a kind master.
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Post by nemesis on Aug 13, 2010 4:03:09 GMT -5
A drumming arose on the road, a cry arose on the wind. The trickle of fleeing men and women, bundles of rags in the shape of men, ceased. Then.. there was a brief silence. Everything in the bay seemed to hold it's breath momentarily. A bright harsh cry of a seabird split the silence into shivering shards. The drumming resumed again, growing louder. Resolving into hoof beats on hard mud lanes, the jingle of fixtures, eight horsemen rounded the corner of the driftwood shacks.
Eight horsemen on grey horses, hard ridden, sweat staining their brushed flanks. Eight men in yellow jackets with red braiding and brass buttons. Long sabres shone in the heavy morning light, fresh red blood staining the blades and hands. The lead rider turned his head, shadowed under his broad brimmed hat heavy with plumes. Nudging his horse with a knee in thigh length riders boots of soft leather the troupe approached slowing to a rolling trot sabres out. They stop drawn up in ranks four wide some 30 yards away. The heavy cloth of their coats unmoving in the breeze beneath their flowing hair from under their broad hats. The two leading riders speak to each other in a low voice that does not carry.
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Post by Lord Redcoat on Aug 13, 2010 11:54:44 GMT -5
The black haired, blue eyed, olive-tanned skin man watched impassively as the riders halted. His bicorn hat was set as a duke’s, face forward (as opposed to the side), but unfortunately the plumage was missing. He acknowledged his daughters with a wave, and spoke in fluent Latin to them, “Take your place beside our ‘confessor’, my daughters.” Then he waited; a lesser man might have shaken his coat out, or rearranged his shirt, but not he. He watched the riders with cool disdain, and his men tensed. They knew better than to finger their muskets, assemble their bayonets, or draw their yatagan or pistols. They still remained in position, and his two snipers remained hidden, but they had already ducked under the windows, bored a hole and set their musket sights on the lead riders. They had also locked, barred and pushed a chest of drawers against the door, and barricaded themselves inside – and placed the bed on its side against the thin walls. They would not be surprised easily, finding themselves, the ambushers ambushed.
Outside, FitzKhān wished his black Arab stallion and white racing camel had not perished. A camel cataphract right now, or even an elephant – an armoured elephant with a box and cannon – would be most welcome right now. Alas, but elephants did not sit easily on ships. If he ever was within Africa’s coasts, or could purchase a war elephant from India, by God, he would attain one! Or even two! That would teach these wretched whore-spawned sons of sexless goats! Yes – and against the savages of the Americas, and their steamy jungles, cotton prairies and forsaken desert wastelands, his war elephants would march – like Hannibal of Carthage against the might of Rome. However, that was far from here, and he had only seven warriors to call his own, a bosun who may or may not prove his worth, his two ‘daughters’ and a priest who abstained from violence – except the occasional non-lethal crack of a bottle or cudgel over the back of some drunk sod’s head, and a prayer as the sap fell. And himself – their greatest asset. He might not have the strength of the eunuchs, or the drill of the former Janissaries, but by the white cliffs of Dover, he had cunning, guile, charisma and the gall to pull it off.
So he waited, patiently. They would have to speak first, and lose ‘face’. It was the opening gambit. Most of all, he was not afraid. If it came down to a firefight, they would decimate the front and perhaps the second rank before they could return fire – and if they charged, they would still lose the first rank, and more. Unless they encircled him, he could make his stand and withdraw into the pathetic tavern. By God, he would not go down without a fight should it come to that. Diplomacy must be tried first.
After all, he was ‘Don Diego de la Castile’.
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Post by Lord Redcoat on Aug 13, 2010 12:42:49 GMT -5
Putting his heel to the flanks of his heavily breathing horse one of the front rank urged his horse forwards. Speaking in clear unaccented Spanish "Well met sirrah, may I enquire as to your business in this part of town, for if you have none I must move you on"
In accented Spanish, the Spanish of the nobility, ‘Don Diego de la Castile’ introduced himself as such: “And well met to you, warrior of Spain. I am Don Diego de la Castile. I would have words with your commander, good sir.”
Then he leaned forwards, in a confiding manner, “You have my gratitude for clearing out the rabble of this cesspit. My tale is one of woe and tragedy, and such...” he cast a disdainful sweep around the town, “ill-kempt ruffians are hardly fitting company for my two beautiful daughters. I had feared for their virtue, and though my men are loyal, they are few in number and we are far from home.”
Clearing his throat deliberately, he waved away the thought arrogantly, “Would that I could offer wine to share, to reward you and your men, but alas, my fortunes are linked to my tale, and blessed Madonna has not seen fit to bless us save with our lives.”
"My lord the governor, his grace Conde Iago Sant Alejandro Horacio Candia de Valencia, has his camp at the far end of the town. Alas I cannot spare men to accompany you. I suggest you head there and avail yourself of the Governor's hospitality" The spaniard spun his horse and without a backward glance the troupe trotted downhill into the dust and screams of the lower town
“And our pass papers?” The Don called out, thinking inwardly it could have gone better. As the troupe rode off, he briefly entertained the notion of his Janissaries opening fire. Two hand cannons from the eunuchs would decimate their ranks, and the muskets would pick the rest off. The horses would bolt... but would it be worth it?
Still, perhaps it was best to head for the fort than to remain here in a war-zone. Briefly, he wondered if it would be worth seizing the Dutch square-rigger.
As the cavalry rounds the corner and is lost into the lower town you hear a rapid staccato of shots, screams of men and clash of steel. Gathering your group together you begin to set off. Rounding the first corner the devastation is clear. Initially the ramshackle houses look as they always have, dishevelled and paintless dried and beaten by rain and sun. However the piles outside that lie twitching spasmodically and the pooling red red blood tell a different tale. Doors are thrown open, furniture smashed and, aside from one or two huddled shapes that twitches and groan, the street is silent.
Further into the old town the sounds of battle stop as quickly as they had begun. Just the last solitary crack of a musket, telling of victors going about their grisly task.
Keeping up appearances, the ‘Don’ turned and shielded his daughters' sight with a single wave, the Janissary that found them marching between them, keeping them close. Everyone knew that it was a facade - except perhaps the Bosun, and as they cautiously made their way, the priest muttered prayers in Latin.
“If you see any likely maidservants, nab them,” he instructed the eunuchs, then paused, “or any likely young men, in years of fifteen-sixteen, fourteen and beyond.” He paused, then considered, “and any potential youngsters.” Then satisfied, he nodded to himself and confidently marched down the street, leading as his troops ringed him.
Drawn up at the entrance to the town, beside a tavern with a sign faded to tatters, a group of finely dressed men sit on drawn up benches. About them are two twelve squads of infantry. Each infantrman in white stockings and breeches, white shirt, black shoes and yellow coats. Each with a simple tricorn hat and flintlock as well as the crossed powder flasks.
“Hail, and well met,” FitzKhān declared in Spanish. The Janissary who escorted his daughters still bore the ‘flag pole’ with FitzKhān’s white silk sash, and this time, the 'Don' decided it was best to initiate dialogue. “Warriors of Spain,” he declared in his confident, ringing voice, “His grace Conde Iago Sant Alejandro Horacio Candia de Valencia is your master? We were told by the horse he resides within the fort along the island road yonder.”
He nodded to them, “You do His Majesty the most noble Philip V proud. You are indeed an asset to our glorious Empire. The heretic British and Dutch would do well to fear you. Has there ever been a prouder sight of men? I think not.”
At this one of the men seated just within the shaded doorway steps out. An older man in a bottle green frock coat and breetches, heavy with silver brocade, a fine dueling sword sheathed at his left side, it's grip worn. His head is bare and his silver wig pulled taut at the back. Bronzed skin and thin moustache he stares at you with piercing eyes. "Boy I am Conde Iago, what is your tale?"
Executing a bow with the most courtly flourish that would put even the most foppish of peacocks to shame, FitzKhān greeted him with dignity and in earnest, “Ah! Blessed Madonna be praised! We are delivered! Your grace, I am Don Diego de la Castile, and these are my most beautiful daughters, Myriam and Alica, my confessor and tutor to my darlings, and what remains of my entourage.
“Mine is a tragic tale, one of treachery most foul, and heretic pirates, those most wretched of all, the accused Anglo-Dutch alliance. I, and these few, were all that escaped, but my fair lady, the Santa Maria was not so fortunate. God, in His mercy, chose to deny us all but the clothes we carry and our lives; yet praise be to His mighty and most merciful name, for He who forgives all our sins has seen fit to allow us a chance to atone. “It is with heavy regret that I must beg your hospitality, and though it shames me, sanctuary. Will you aid a fellow Spainard, a most devote Catholic and his two daughters in their time of need?”
FitzKhān beseeched the man, but his voice was stained with pride, fleeting, battered and in all but tatters, but pride nevertheless. It seemed clear that he was lowering himself, not for his own sake, but that of his ‘daughters’. There was no guile, guilt or lie in his cobalt gaze, and his eyes remained piercing, unyielding, and defiant. Only when he spoke of his ‘daughters’ did they soften.
"As you will see we are currently engaged in the routine task of purging the excesses of this rat hole. Perhaps you will proceed to the fortress and make yourself known to the steward. I will hear more of your story later." He turns and goes back into the inn, coming out some seconds later carrying a finely embroidered bicorn and fine white calfskin gloves. It is clear from his demeanour that he considers this interview over for the moment
“Ah, may the Blessed Virgin shower you with a thousand blessings, your grace.” FitzKhān paused, “Might I place myself and my men at your disposal? If we might be of any assistance...” His eyes flickered to those of his daughters, and he shook his head sadly, “Alas, I must see to their safety - but if two of your men could be spared to lead the way, two of mine could escort them, and perhaps I might join you? “I am eager to exact swift retribution on all who harbour such foul wretches. Piracy is a plague, indeed, there are few worse diseases, and I would welcome the chance to stand alongside such worthy men. Might I assume your grace knows a sabre? It would be an honour.”
"Your generous offer is well taken but I believe from the latest reports that the situation is well in hand. You might, however, if your stomach is strong join me tomorrow when I must stand Judgment over those wretches taken prisoner in this sorry affair"
“It would be a privilege to see swift justice exacted. God's judgement stands over the condemned, and I pray that He will grant mercy to their souls, for there can be no mercy for the damned.” He inclined his head graciously, “I thank you again, your grace. May God go with you, his saints and angels watch over you as you purge this vile nest.”
With a second bow and flourish, he waited for a response and if none was forthcoming, turned and led his men away. His face was shining with righteous zeal, confidence in the divine authority of the Spanish crown and His Majesty's appointments, law and governors... and the passionate flame of life.
The governor acknowledges with a brusque nod "Saints watch over you child" before mounting his horse and moving off with a squad of foot soldiers marching behind.
Gesturing them all to silence, to remain still, FitzKhān led his ‘troupe’ along the road, and as soon as they were out of sight, in a secluded area with trees, and cover, he steeled his gaze, and waved everyone to relax – except the guards did not. It was more for the Bosun’s sake. A lesser man might have released a loud sigh, but not he. “You had questions, I believe?”
Posted with Nemesis
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Post by Captain Dusk Rose on Aug 18, 2010 23:26:04 GMT -5
Slater just raised his eyebrows and looked at the ground, as if searching for words that could cover what had just happened. "How...did you do that? Who are you?" He looked up again to meet the FitzKhān's eyes. "Why do you speak Spanish? Where did you come from? Was the story true about your ship?" The questions were flowing now.
FitzKhān simply waited patiently, and when he had finally run out of breath, paused, then answered deliberately, "I told you who I am. I am the captain of the late 'Lady Jade', sunk off the coast by a sudden squall. Some of my tale was true. I just... altered a few details."
He met his eyes evenly, his tone level, though his tone had been mild and deliberately understating for the use of 'squall'; storm would be more accurate. He seemed too experienced to let a small wind take his ship out. "As to why I speak Spanish... I speak French, Italian, Greek, Latin, and more besides. A better question would be: why you don't?"
The sailor looked taken aback and fumbled for an answer. Suddenly it seemed strange he hadn't. "I had my duties as an officer before fun and petty trivia..."
"How old are you boy?" FitzKhān inquired, his cobalt eyes penetrating, though not unkind. "And you should be thankful; I saved you from the gallows, or at least prison. For now. We'll see what happens in the fort itself." A slight frown creased his brow; even though he did not voice it, he seemed troubled.
"I am thankful." The officer adjusted his tricorne, ignoring the question about his age and wondering about this man. What sort of ship was the 'Lady Jade', and what sort of storm could sink a man like FitzKhān?. "So, what now?"
"You begin by answering my questions, as I have answered yours." There was no coldness, but there was a cool almost disregard, just off disdain, but brimming with unspoken authority.
"Seventeen, sir." He bent and picked up a fallen branch and tested its strength as if to use it as a walking stick, mainly to avoid FitzKhān's gaze .
"Cut a fresh one, from the hickory tree." He gestured with a white-gloved hand, and one of the Jannisaries offered Slater a long, wickedly curved knife. "As to what next..." His gaze became distant, and he looked towards the fort's direction, "We go there as instructed, and God willing, we won't be lined up, shot or hung. I suspect we will be 'guests' while our tale is verified. It will be... difficult. If we escape in there," he gestured at the forest, "there will be a manhunt."
He looked at his guard, "A shame no more of the crew survived, and these men have been counted, or I would have sent two into the forest to await us. It would be wise to have some on the outside." FitzKhān shook his head, "It can't be helped. We continue with the ruse, and after that... we find ourselves a ship, if there are any to be had. If we can earn 'his grace's' trust, perhaps he will send us off, perhaps even let us work for him. It won't be easy." Meeting Slater's eyes, he paused gravely, then continued with equal gravity, "You're sure you're ready for this? You can still flee into the forest."
The young officer snorted. "What, and be hunted down like an animal? I'd much rather give your ideas a go." He eyed the trees, hoping the one he picked to cut a branch from was really hickory. After a moment of silence he finally turned to FitzKhān suspiciously. "You're not really Catholic are you?"
"Of course not," FitzKhān sounded disgusted, "any more than you're a girl with those baby-soft cheeks of yours." Then he paused, "To quote from the man who taught me all I know of the sea and her wiles, 'I run a tight ship, boy, on land and on sea. Cross me, and you'll answer for it. If you're right, I'll reward you; if you're wrong, you'll not make that mistake again. I do good to those that are mine, and they do well by me. I expect nothing but your best, an' if you can't give me that, then give me the best you can. Nothing but your complete loyalty is good enough, 'cause it's my life I entrust to you, and yours that are entrusted by me. Remember this, an' you'll go far.' "So that's it boy, my conditions. Serve with me, an' serve me well, and I'll look out for ye. I take care of me an' mine. Remember that. If doubt creeps in, remember." He paused, "And if you've got any questions, you may ask 'em, but you wait. If something doesn't make sense, I may explain, but I want you to trust me. It's my life as well as yours, and it'll depend on you doing as I say, when I say it, no questions asked. You do this for me, and I'll treat your life as if it were my own. I won't ask you to do what I'm not prepared to. Have we an accord?"
The sailor’s eyes saddened. FitzKhān’s speech reminded him of the ship he’d left behind, or, more truthfully, had left him behind. “Aye, sir.” ((Posted with Colin))
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Post by nemesis on Aug 19, 2010 13:32:59 GMT -5
As the party round the curve of the dirt track, over the flank of the high hill they see the keep. Down by the sea it squats, low, dark and brooding. A single solid wide tower and a long low body of the keep, made of dark stone. A glimpse of the slate grey sea can be seen beyond it. As you wind down the side of the hill and get closer you can see the limp yellow and red flags hanging from flagpoles on the top of the keep.
As it reaches midday the sun air is hot and humid, life sapping and heavy. The insects swarm about you and dark clouds pile up in the sky. A single large bird can be seen flying laboriously inland and the only sound is the rustle of small animals in the undergrowth, the sound of your footfalls and the incessant whine of the insects.
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Post by Ciel Phantomhive on Aug 22, 2010 14:36:20 GMT -5
The twins followed silently, hidden neatly behind darkly colored parasols.
"Father always leads us into odd situations." One whispered to the other, though it was impossible to tell which had actually spoken beneath their well placed shades. Linking their arms, they waited for his command, for the moment he might need them, the way it had always been.
Well... not exactly.
It was not uncommon for sleeping children to be stolen from their beds; a healthy set of twins was rare, traded for a high price together, and the one who stole them must have know they would make wonderful pets some day. Fair skinned and sweetly voiced, they were a fine treasure many a man desired, for reasons not always so innocent.
Their first master had seen fit to teach them to defend themselves when it was needed. Couldn't have anyone else touching his things, you know. Unfortunately, shortly after he felt the need to taint his treasures, his first mate found his throat slashed.
Such sweet, innocent children couldn't have committed such a crime. The girls were traded again...
As they began to blossom into lovely young ladies, their masters kept mysteriously dying, in some of the most unfortunate of ways....
Then FitzKhān had gained possession of them.
Even with a name as terrible as the one he had gained for himself, the twins still lovingly called him "master". Mary and Ann, as he had personally named them, began training under his care, learning attacks and strategy that would save them time and time again. FitzKhān was a kind master, though it was sometimes wondered if he was simply smart enough to tend gently to the vipers he kept so close...
Even now, hidden beneath their delicate lace and parasols, two killers with a mind of one waited, watched the proceedings with a wary readiness.
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Post by nemesis on Aug 22, 2010 15:03:29 GMT -5
The fort sweltered in the heat, the deep grey stones sweating to the touch. In her room on the 4th floor lady Estella Valeria Isabella Candia de Valencia looks out of the peeling white painted shutters at the hills. The hills are shadowed beneath the clouds and a small group winds down the hills as the skies begin to weep. But not, as Estella hopes, her father back already. Twirling three steps of a dance routine her satin slippers brush across the imported italian tiled floor, bringing her softly in a rustle of fabric to the next window. This one showing the long sweep of the walls, the yellow coats of the guards darkening in the steadying rain, a couple wrapped in heavy cloaks, the long tarpaulin covered shapes of heavy guns lowering with dark intent across the bay.
Taking another couple of steps across the fleur de lys tiles Estella picks up her lyre, plucking a melancholy tune as the sky opens into a roar. The zigzag of lightning across the hills lighting up the small group picking its way towards the gate. The corners of her Carmine mouth curve into a smile, maybe today won't be completely dull after all.
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Post by Lord Redcoat on Aug 22, 2010 20:29:04 GMT -5
The heavens opened, and the skies wept - perhaps praising he, 'FitzKhān' for his 'victory'? What victory? He had staved off certain death and-or disgrace temporarily. He had heard the Twins’ mutter, though perhaps he should not have. He rather liked the ‘Spanish’ names he had thought up: Myriam and Alica. It suited them.
But what to do now? One calculated risk led to another, and another. Right now, the problem facing him was the fort. He withdrew his spyglass – the rain fell in sheets, and lightning danced, illuminating the laden clouds. Would that ship – the British one – survive? Was she far from the isle yet, or would she be caught by the whipping gales? Thunder crashed, and he sighed inwardly. The rain had just ruined their powder – it would be nigh on impossible to fire should it come to that.
He considered his options. There was no choice but to press onto the fort, and the chances of them retaining their weapons were slim to none. Even if they did, well, a breakout would be even chancier than firing their damp powder in this deluge. Which left what, their knives, dirks and sabres? Unlikely. No, they needed something more subtle… the beginnings of a smile twitched at his lips, and with an odd quirk, he stilled himself.
“You men, it is unseemly that we should be soaked any more than need be. While it is a mere shower, and we are men, not witches, who melt, there is no need to weather this without cause. Go into the forest and cut staves – no bigger than your thumb, and as long as the eunuchs. Use the biggest leaves you can find, and twine to bind them. Use enough twine to cover your arm twice over. We shall have parasols, my fine followers, and we shall enter the fort in style. Let it not be said that we were defeated by the elements on land!”
…And of course, when the leaves were taken away… the odds were notched a single point in his favour once more. Better to prepare for the worst.
His ‘daughters’ he would keep in reserve.
Then it dawned on him: his ‘daughters’ shoes - they would be ruined. Not to mention their skirts, underskirts, stockings... No ‘father’ would allow his ‘daughters’ to track through this mud! “And men! By God, you’ll cut a poles for a litter. Be quick about it!”
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Post by Captain Dusk Rose on Aug 22, 2010 21:08:49 GMT -5
Slater continued to carve away at his walking stick as they walked. The hickory proved excellent to work with, and he set his mind to creating a proper cane.
Though his intent had been to use it as a distraction, he constantly found that the cane in his hand faded into the one his father had used. A vision of his father standing on the deck of his ship; a full hat, and a decorated uniform, he stood tall with a hand on the delicately carved cane that was his trademark.
What would his father say if he saw him now? Now that Slater was stranded on an island, left behind by his Captain like unwanted cargo? His father had been Captain of his own ship, his Grandfather Admiralty. All he could do was hope that he’d be reported dead, though he felt a pang of guilt at that thought, his mother... Guilt faded to anger, and the bitterness of betrayal as his thoughts passed to Captain Hardthrasher…
No point dwelling on that now. Perhaps he would manage to catch up with the Diana sometime in the future. Should that happen, he would confront Captain Hardthrasher… Slater grinned bitterly at the thought of giving him a hard thrashing.
Beneath his bitter musings lay one simple concept…duty. A captain’s duty, his captain’s duty, was always to put the ship first, above anyone, even himself. If it meant saving the ship, what were a few crewman? The flames of his anger dimmed and left simple emptiness. As long as the Diana still sailed…what did it matter what happened to him now? The only real casualty here was his honor.
His eyes slipped over to FitzKhan with a disapproving look. Was this man insane, or a genius? Slater supposed it didn’t matter as long as he was alive himself. At least he wouldn’t be bored while he was trapped on land.
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