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Post by nemesis on Aug 23, 2010 9:41:03 GMT -5
As the small party traipsed wearily down the hill, their strength was sapped by the ankle deep mud, the afternoon was, and is, dark as night. The party is repeatedly half blinded by brilliant flashes of lightning. Eventually, with relief, the party comes to a cobbled road, marked by three black iron cages holding the grisly remains of convicts sentenced to die. To the left the keep looms up over the bay, to the right the road runs steeply down into a small town strung out across the steep curves of the bay. Small stone built houses with steeply pitched roofs line the cobbled streets and rain lashes down lending everything an ethereal gleam as lightning strikes. The bay itself is a glistening wild thing, inky black heaving seas with long streaks of white delineating underwater rocks.
(Decision point - do you go to the keep or the town? Answers by msn and I'll giove the appropriate context post)
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Post by Lord Redcoat on Aug 23, 2010 11:02:01 GMT -5
FitzKhān withdrew his spyglass and through the sheets of rain, he looked straight at the keep, through any and all windows or bolt holes he could, turrets, balconies, and tried to get a lay of the land. The cages filled with their dying prisoners did not faze him; he barely even noticed beyond a cursory glance. A note registering at the back of his mind. He hoped his 'daughters' would have enough sense to shield their eyes, or look away. All part of the ruse.
His eunuch held the makeshift umbrella over him, providing some degree of protection, but not much. Like 'Bosun' Slater, he had refused to partake in cutting an umbrella, as had the priest. The priest was exempt from menial tasks for the most part anyway. The black robed man - who now wore a makeshift crucifix (much to his despair for his intrepid leader's eternal soul, but accepting some sacrifices must be made for the good of all) - was there to pray, serve food (though not as a Catholic) and feed his flock. That the man was an excellent - well, modest - cook helped too. Something about following his heavenly master's mortal example and washing the feet of others? Of course, FitzKhān decided, the master the priest followed was also a carpenter, if folklore was to be believed, so perhaps he should have set him to cutting umbrellas. Still, there were better uses for the man - and it simply wouldn't do. Priests were meant to be venerated, revered even. The man had not liked it at all when he had ordered him to threaten others with 'ex-communication' if they did not obey the 'Lord's word'. Well, he understood why not, and it was not something to be said lightly, but still it was the most powerful weapon in the priestly arsenal. Fear of brimestone and hellfire. Of course, the priest would say that prayer and faith was more powerful than fear, and fear was not something to be spread, but that was dreadfully Church of England and not the image he was going for. And image was something that had to be maintained. So the priest would damn well put up with it, and everyone was to address him as 'father', or by God, he would see them thrashed for it.
Regardless, now the priest looked the part a little more. Now, if he could just get his hands on some rosary beads that were not his 'daughter's' borrowed necklace... ...Details, it was all in the little details. And now to the task at hand. Peering through the glass and tube, he swung it around to the town and looked for anything of note, namely, the garrison, ships - if indeed there were any - escape routes and more.
He handed the spyglass to the Bosun - which was to say, he held it up and beckoned the boy. "Tell me, boy, what is it you see?"
Then without looking at the others, he declared, "We head to the keep. No use being out in this rain any longer than we need to." Then he looked Slater directly in the eyes, "You can come with us, or you and two others can head towards town and scout around. His grace might be less than happy if you were to stop over at an inn, and we are expected at the keep. For 'my daughters' and I, we have little alternative: we are bound for the keep. As is the priest and the majority of the 'guard'. "Still, this may be our only chance to scout out the town. But, if you go now, it may seal our confinement. Both have their risks and rewards. So, 'Bosun', what is your choice?"
It was clear FitzKhān was testing the boy. His keen astute and level cobalt gaze ignored the rain and fatigue and pierced through the depths to the boy's core. Or at least, that's was the intention - and FitzKhān had had a lot of practice over the years at perfecting the look. Perhaps the boy would be 'officer material' yet. Presently, FitzKhān did not seem to have a second-in-command, and the man always seemed to be on the lookout for talent. Could this be the first of many trials for Slater to prove his worth?
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Post by Captain Dusk Rose on Aug 23, 2010 16:41:34 GMT -5
[[WIP]]
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Post by Lord Redcoat on Aug 23, 2010 16:42:19 GMT -5
As the group approaches the keep the dark grey rain slick walls tower above them. The high oak gates studded with iron are open and a couple of soggy soldiers in heavy cloaks stand just inside the bulk of the gatehouse. "Halt who goes"
"I am Don Deigo de la Castile, and I have spoken with your master, his Grace Conde Iago Sant Alejandro Horacio Candia de Valencia. He invited us –" no emphasis on 'invite'... "to report to the steward of the keep, and relay our tale once more. Might we have permission to enter the keep, good men of Spain and his Most Catholic Majesty?"
"In the name of our master Conde Iago Sant Alejandro Horacio Candia de Valencia enter and be welcome" "Please proceed to the inner bailey"
FitzKhān led the way, fearlessly. Behind him, the Janissaries formed up, still carrying the litter for his 'daughters'. The priest walked in front of the litter, and at the rear, walked the two eunuchs. FitzKhān had forsaken his 'umbrella carrier', though his own men still carried them. He expected the Bosun to walk next to the priest or somewhere in the procession.
The flag of parlay was still carried aloft. Not exactly the King's colours, or a Roman Imperial Eagle (wrong century) but it would have to do.
The gatehouse is deep and dark, emerging from the cool recesses into the muggy rain you face a narrow stretch of open ground, leading round to the right to a gate in the higher wall in front of you. To the left the gap between outer and inner walls opens out forming a vast yard of stables, barracks and outbuildings. The next gatehouse is wider still and again the challenge is repeated by more sodden soldiers, this time in yellow tunics with the cross and crown of Spain stitched upon them. They carry half pikes and muskets and wear tricorn hats with sodden yellow plumes
Rain aside, FitzKhān stood there with all the dignity of a monarch, the most regal of princes, as was expected. His men filled out behind him, though four still bore the litter. The priest stood there piously, no doubt praying inwardly. The eunuchs might have been statues carved from granite for all the emotion they showed. FitzKhān waited patiently for a commanding officer or someone of rank.
The two men at the gate salute, twirling their half pikes in a parade ground display, before motioning you into the inner bailey
FitzKhān returned the salute with a nod. Had this been a battlefield situation, he would have drawn his sword(the shashka Russian sabre) and marched forwards, but it was not. As tempted as he was, it might be misconstrued and he had too much to lose by being gunned down. He could have ordered 'forward march', but he had no drummer or piper, and besides, it seemed a tad too... British. So instead, he flourished his coat and marched forwards. Had his 'daughters' been on foot, he would have demanded wooden planking for them to walk on; since they were being carried, he did not. Proudly, he walked, as proud as the King of Spain himself.
The guards stand back to attention ushering out through yet another vast thickness of dark stone wall emerging into a stuffy airless cobbled courtyard. The Courtyard has a raised gundeck on the seaward side, huge solid looking shapes swathed in tarpaulins sit behind shuttered casements. The courtyard has a tall set of steps at the far end that climb into the forbidding keep itself. Full 4 gundecks face the sea from the depths of the keep and two high broad towers stand atop it
As you enter through a smaller door you come into a vast room with heavy beams supporting a high ceiling. Long trestle tables fill the room and two doors go into the seaward wall and another two in the wall facing you.
Stepping into the hall from one of these doors is an elderly man in a peacock blue frock coat covered in embroidered peacocks. He wears old fashioned blue velvet breeches and white stockings. Leather shoes well polished and a cloth hat of burgundy complete his outfit. His skin is weathered and creased and his nose is high and hooked. "Greetings I am steward to his grace Conde Iago Sant Alejandro Horacio Candia de Valencia, how may I assist you?"
"Ah, greetings. I am Don Diego de la Castile; these are my two lovely daughters Myriam and Alica. My confessor, and what remains of my guard. I encountered his Grace in that filth infested down, and he bid me come here and relay my tale. Alas, I regret to inform you I and my family have fallen upon hard times. We were beset by pirates; a storm, thank the most blessed Virgin, drove them off, but we were sunk. It pains me to admit, but we are in need of assistance. We are all that survives; the Santa Maria lies in the belly of the great deep, and the clothes on our backs are all that remains. We seek refuge, humbly begging assistance from our loyal countrymen of his Most Catholic Majesty, Philip V of Spain."
FitzKhān kept his words brimming with raw passion, filtering all the charisma he had into them; his tone lowered and rose with each emphasis, and emphasis he lay on thickly. His pride was wounded, and it was for his 'daughters'' sake, not his, that he pleaded now. A proud man reduced to asking for charity.
Every image of a nobleman.
"I will see to it that you are made comfortable. My men will lead your servants to quarters and see to yourself and your daughters. Forgive me but I do not know what precedence to award the remaining members of your party *he indicates Slater and the priest, the latter being a nod to the number of nobility in the clergy*"
"You have my thanks; may God see fit to shower you with blessings, and may all His saints and angels watch over you." FitzKhān paused, "The men – they are soldiers, and the young man is an officer of some small rank. The priest is my personal confessor and tutor to my two daughters. I would prefer it if he were near." FitzKhān cleared his throat, and lowered his words, "Since the loss of their mother – another storm out at sea – it has been hard on them. I am not always able to be around, for reasons that you will understand as will your master, so he is a constant presence for them." He finished with a sharp nod.
"Very well then *he claps his hand – two approximately thirteen year old footmen in yellow tunics appear* Diego – take these gentleman to the east wing guest rooms, Marco take these gentlemen to the north wing, now if you and your daughters would be so good as to follow me" The servants are led to an empty but low ceilinged barracks room, maids are hurriedly putting sheets on the hard low beds. It is however clean, with whitewashed walls and plain tiled floors.
Slater and the priest are given a small room to share with two beds high in the keep and looking out over a row of cannons. The tiles are glazed with a simple pattern and the walls are properly painted and panelled. The windows have shutters that although recently painted area already peeling.
The 'daughters' are shown to a room in the north tower, it is small but well appointed with wood floors covered in rugs and with a single large double bed with good linen sheets. The room is papered in cream paper with a pattern of small birds upon it
FitzKhān is shown to a similar room some way down the corridor but his wallpaper is green with rural scenes in it (arsenic wallpaper – gotta love it)
You are all informed that dinner, respectively in the dining room for Slater, priest, FitzKhān and daughter will be at 8 in the upper solarium (to which the pages will show you the way.) your servants are invited to dine in the 3rd mess.
"Please convey my thanks to his grace. Your hospitality is most welcome, and we are humbled and awed. On behalf of my daughters and I, I thank you." FitzKhān replied formally, "I – and my family – are in your debt, good sir." Then he paused, "His grace's keep is most impressive. A finer sight I have not seen since leaving Spain's blessed shores."
"Thank you, now if you will excuse me I must attend my other duties. Your priest and boy are a floor down and to the north if you require them. Page boys are situated near the stairs on every floor of the keep proper and can guide you. In the meantime take the opportunity to dry your clothes and avail yourself of the refreshments in your rooms"
"My thanks again." FitzKhān paused, "Perchance, may I beg a small favour? A bath drawn for my daughters, and one for myself, and perhaps some fresh clothing?"
"I shall pass your request to the pages myself"
FitzKhān inclined his head, waited for the man to leave, and walked over to the windows. He wanted to see the lay of the land, and withdrew his spyglass and tried to pierce the driving rain.
The rain beats down heavily and the sky is dark, despite being only mid afternoon it feels like evening. The bay is lit by flickering lightning. You can only see a glimpses of the town from your angle, and can see just part of the town docks. there seem to be only a few small boats tossing up and down on the dark sea. In the military harbour beneath the castle a solitary sloop lies moored tight. Her mast lamp and stern lamp flicker fitfully in the rain.
FitzKhān mused, pondering to himself inside. His crew could manage a sloop; there were enough of them, but even if they broke free of the keep and somehow[i/] seized the sloop, the storm would stop them leaving. He had done the only thing he could: enter the lion's den. Hiding out in the forest as fugitives was a death sentence.
So what now. Other than to get clean, dry, and washed. How long was it since he had had a decent bath? How long had he been out at sea? Not since he had lost his ship had he bathed. He must stink. A pox on the wretched Spanish that drove him here. God help him, but he dreaded their arrival. Were he to be recognised... he had to change his clothes. As loathe as he was, it would be safer to burn them – at least, the coat if nothing else. But that would raise questions.
He went to inspect the room, carefully searching it for spyholes, hidden passages, nooks, crannies, false floorboards – anything. Anything untowards, anything concealed. Once he found something, he would leave it in place. Absently, he wondered if there were any ladies in 'his grace's' house and if they would peep on him while he bathed. Well, let them look and see the fine figure of a man.
Inwardly, he sighed. It would mean letting a page scrub his back now. He could hardly have his 'daughters' do that, now could he? Maybe if he asked for a brush... but no, he was masquerading as 'nobility'; nobility couldn't even lace their own britches. No, that wasn't right. 'His grace' certainly seemed capable enough. A military man – someone to be wary of and watched closely. A chill went down his spine. What manner of dungeon had he led his men into?
Regardless, he kept his swords close, wishing he had a knife and duelling pistol. He was ever alert to assassins, and knew better than to relax - especially in the deceptively warm lull of the waters when they finally arrived.
Finding no hidden features Fitzkhan can bathe contentedly, seeming relaxed but his mind awhirl.
Posted with Nemesis.
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Post by nemesis on Aug 26, 2010 14:11:38 GMT -5
As Fitzkhan leaves the now cool waters of his bath he finds a clean white shirt, navy breeches, white stockings and a long frock coat of light blue braided and brocaded in silver. His own, now cleaned, hat shoes and accoutrements are also laid out. Dressing the sound of hooves drumming on cobbles can be clearly heard. Not one horse, or two, but multitude. The clanking of metal and murmer of voices can also be heard from the yard.
The storm has blown itself out leaving a refreshing cool balm over the island. The sea still swirls fitfully a royal blue in the bay beyond.
(if the rest of you want to tell me what you're doing - or if you want to do anything exciting before dressing for dinner please let me know)
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