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| Marketplace Mess | |
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| Topic Started: 23 Nov 2007, 07:20 PM (313 Views) | |
| Benjamin Wingfield | 23 Nov 2007, 07:20 PM Post #1 |
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Unregistered
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Without his hat, he stood almost a full head taller than most men. This made many men nervous around him, though he rarely took notice of such things. With his hat, however, over a foot was added to his height. This, in addition to his large frame, made him impossible to miss wherever he went. People gave way to him, both out of deference to hs yellow-faced scarlet coat and out of mild fear of his sheer size. It pleased him that a path was opened for him in the crowded marketplace, as it made going from stall to stall that much easier. Wingfield had been unanimously elected to make the trip to the markets by the other grenadiers, to gather provisions for the birthday dinner being planned for their sergeant. A heavy pouch of coins was tucked inside his coat, along with a carefully-written list of items to purchase. The list was given to him partially as a joke, for it was widely known that Wingfield could not read. Few of the grenadiers could. The corporal who had written the list made sure to include drawings of the desired foodstuffs, so that even Wingfield could not fail to understand what was needed. Inevitably, however, the big grenadier ran into difficulties shortly after reaching the bustling market. He had left his musket at the Twenty-Ninth's encampment, exchanging the firelock for a haversack to carry his purchases in. The haversack was empty, even after several minutes of being in the markets. The problem he encountered immediately was centred around the list in his ham-sized fist. Even with the crude drawings on the parchment, he could not discern what he was supposed to buy. He remembered being told to get bread loaves and some sort of green leafy thing. That was the extent of his recollection, much to his frustration. The grenadier scratched at his ear and scowled. How was he supposed to make his purchases if he didn't even know for sure what he was there to buy? He looked around at the people filling the marketplace, wondering if he ought to ask somebody for help. Staring at the list wasn't helping him understand it any better. Before he interrupted someone else's shopping, however, maybe he ought to obtain those items he knew he needed? Bread loaves. Corporal Strand had been insistent about that. But how many was he supposed to get? Groaning in defeat, Wingfield gave up. He couldn't read the scribbled words on the parchment and the drawings made little sense. The only choice was to ask someone. He lumbered toward a likely-looking market-goer and touched the bottom edge of his furred cap politely. "Pardon, but can yew tell me what this list says?" He asked, holding the parchment out. What a sad sight he must make, a grenadier of the King, forced ask for assistance to make a simple few purchases. It was almost enough to embarrass him. |
 
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| Arlen Hightower | 23 Nov 2007, 07:21 PM Post #2 |
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Unregistered
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Arlen, much to his dismay, had found himself back in Port Royal. He still wasn’t quite sure how it had happened. He’d finally found himself a crew, but on the night they were set to depart, he went out, got terribly inebriated with the advance money he was paid (a mere few pieces), and somehow managed to stumble onto one that was headed quite opposite the direction he’d wanted to go. So, after a rather sickening journey, the young Spaniard had ended up back in Port Royal. Not at all the sort of thing he planned, he lamented. He was wandering the marketplace, unsure of what he was looking for. He had no money, that was certain, not after he’d boarded a ship without permission, with only a few coppers to his name. He’d been found out shortly after the ship made port, and payment had been demanded. He ran. Somehow escaping the clutches of those who insisted that he pay for his voyage, he had been evading their seeking glances ever since he’d set foot on dry land. The ship had finally left again the day before yesterday, though, and Arlen was at last given the chance to relax and walk about without worrying that he’d be shot. By those people, at least. There was always the chance that someone would notice him for the pirate he was, and then, well, Arlen didn’t like to think about what would happen then. He was suddenly startled half out of his mind by someone speaking to him. Whatever mental fortitude that had remained after that surprise was instantly destroyed by the realization that the person talking to him was a soldier. This is it, Arlen, he told himself, you’ve really done it now. Say your prayers. He crossed himself five times, rapidly in succession, then did it again for good measure. How long had it been since he’d been to confession? Six...seven years? How many mortal sins had he committed since then? Oh, he was undoubtedly going to hell. "Pardon, but can yew tell me what this list says?" “What?” Arlen said, dumbly, his near-death experience robbing him of whatever articulation he might have been capable of previously. “Oh. Let me see.” He hadn’t paid attention at all during the lessons he’d received as a child, and he certainly hadn’t practiced once he’d turned to a life of piracy. He could read part of this list, but there were some odd words he thought he should know, but didn’t. There were some strange little pictures on it, too, but all he could make out was almost every other word. “Bread.” he read. Then some other word. “Er...That says Loves. Bread loves...bread loves...” What did bread love? It must be butter. “Bread loves butter.” Arlen paused. He was beginning to remember some of the rules of phonetics he’d been taught, but part of him didn’t want to share that with the marine in front of him. Maybe if he kept the fellow confused, he could escape with his life. Maybe he didn’t have to die today. “Pears.” he read. “That must mean pairs of shoes. They want you to get shoes.” He looked further down the list. “I think this says...Oh, yes, that’s definitely hats. I think you’re on wardrobe detail, my friend. You’d best go see a seamstress, or a cobbler.” |
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| Benjamin Wingfield | 23 Nov 2007, 07:23 PM Post #3 |
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Unregistered
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Wingfield was astonished to see the man he had spoken to give a start and cross himself repeatedly. He had come across another Catholic! What marvellous luck. He was sure to receive honest and great help from this man. There was no doubt of it. “What?” The man recovered from his moment of devotion and took the list from Wingfield. “Oh. Let me see.” The grenadier was more than happy to let him look at the list and decipher the scratchings upon it. Anything to figure out what he had been sent to buy. He waited eagerly as the man studied the parchment, unconsciously fingering the hilt of his hanger at his side. It was a habit he had acquired in Ireland, during long nights on picket. It had helped keep his mind occupied with something to keep him awake. “Bread,” the man said. “Er...That says Loves. Bread loves...bread loves... Bread loves butter.” That seemed a bit odd, as Corporal Strand hadn't said anything about butter, but if it was on the list, it must be so. Bread and butter. Those would be easy enough to find. Wingfield nodded as the man continued to read. “Pears. That must mean pairs of shoes. They want you to get shoes.” The man looked at the list again. “I think this says...Oh, yes, that’s definitely hats. I think you’re on wardrobe detail, my friend. You’d best go see a seamstress, or a cobbler.” Shoes? Hats? The grenadier looked confused. Why would they have sent him for shoes and hats, when the Commissary back in Kingston was supposed to keep them supplied with such things? "How're we s'posed to eat shoes an' hats?" He asked, peering at the list in the man's hand. "Corporal didn't say nothin' 'bout shoes or hats." Maybe Corporal Strand had included those items in order to have Wingfield buy him a new pair shoes and a hat. If that was so, then he would go find the right merchants and make his purchases. Pleased with himself for deciding on such a noble course, Wingfield grinned. "That all?" The grenadier was hopeful that the rest of the list could be so easily sorted out. It would surprise the others if he was to return only an hour or two after he'd left, with all the goods he'd been sent for. |
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| Deleted User | 22 Dec 2007, 10:48 PM Post #4 |
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Deleted User
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Arlen consulted the list once more. Was there anything else he could glean from it? No, not really. Well... “Er...English...English something...English Raincoats.” he finished, not at all ashamed. Arlen had certainly no qualms about discussing such things, and half of him hoped that the soldier wouldn’t know what he was talking about, giving him the chance to explain. At that moment, however, Arlen thought he caught sight of another marine over Wingfield’s shoulder. Flinching, and ducking into the big soldier’s shadow, he waved towards the street just around the corner. “Come, come.” he ushered, stepping around the corner. “There’s...ah, better light over here.” Unfortunately, there were also two other marines around that corner. “Damn!” Arlen swore, , ducking his head. “Er, do you think you could help me hide from those men? They are...er, they don’t get along with my family. It’s nothing terrible, nothing illegal like, but it would really be awkward if they found me.” He snatched the list from Wingfield’s hand a little too enthusiastically, and hid behind it, pretending to read it hastily. “Oh, here’s something else.” he said, completely fabricating this newest addition. “Rum! We must go to the tavern. Now, really, if you want to get it and get back in time to...in time to...well, in time to be back in time, of course.” He nodded vigorously. Oh, dear lord, what if he died now? What if they suddenly opened fire? No, they couldn’t do that, could they? He’d have to have a trial first, wouldn’t he? Then they could hang him. Oh, how lovely. Hanging by the neck, jerking like a fish on the hook of the fisherman, until the very breath was choked out of him and he finally quit twitching. Now that was a good way to go out, wasn’t it? Not bloody likely. Arlen looked around, desperately, and could have sworn that the soldiers were looking at him, whispering. Oh, but surely they knew. He would have to do something, and quickly. He wasn’t sure he could get Wingfield to move along quickly enough to escape from the whispering glances of the other soldiers, so he leaned closer, and grabbed at Wingfield’s sword, not really trying to take it, but pushing the soldier’s hand towards it. "Stab me!” he hissed. “Not really. Only make it look like you’ve stabbed me. Just a little flesh wound. That way they’ll think I’m dead. Tell them I tried to pickpocket you, or some such thing." It was hardly a logical plan, but Arlen's mental processes tended to be somewhat less than sensible when he thought his life was in danger. |
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| Benjamin Wingfield | 23 Dec 2007, 02:23 AM Post #5 |
Deckhand
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OOC - Powerplay of Arlen with permission. IC - “Er...English...English something...English Raincoats.” English raincoats? Wingfield was confused. What were those? Some sort of special rain-cloak? Perhaps it was one of those fancy oiled cloaks that only the wealthy could wear. It was a certainty that Wingfield's purse couldn't yield enough coin for such an item, when there were a number of other things he had to get. "I dunno 'bout no raincoats," he rumbled. "Ain't got 'nough coin." Besides, Corporal Strand certainly would have no need for a fancy raincoat. He already had one of the best cloaks in the company. Suddenly, the man twitched and leapt behind the grenadier, saying “Come, come. There’s...ah, better light over here.” Confused, he allowed himself to be propelled around the corner. The man carried on with his babbling, leaving no time for Wingfield to give voice to either objection or question. In fact, he dared to swear! “Damn! Er, do you think you could help me hide from those men? They are...er, they don’t get along with my family. It’s nothing terrible, nothing illegal like, but it would really be awkward if they found me.” He snatched the list from Wingfield’s hand and held it before him, staring at it intently. “Oh, here’s something else. Rum! We must go to the tavern. Now, really, if you want to get it and get back in time to...in time to...well, in time to be back in time, of course.” He nodded vigorously. Wingfield stared at him like he'd gone completely mad. Rum? What good was there in rum? He himself rarely drank. The other grenadiers loved their ration of wine, but the taste of rum was one that tended to draw disgust from them. Besides which, he was sure that Corporal Strand had not said anything about buying rum. The man put his hand on the hilt of Wingfield's hanger. He was trying to take the blade from its scabbard! He heard nothing of the man's hissed orders, for he was conscious only of the fact that he had tried to grab the hanger from its scabbard. Even as helpful as the man had been, such an offence was serious indeed. Wingfield grabbed the man's wrist with one hand and drew back with his other hand, delivering a quick, sharp blow to the foolish fellow's jaw. It wasn't an especially powerful strike by Wingfield's standards, as he hadn't put his full weight behind it, but even such a light blow was enough to knock the man clean off his feet. "Takin' a soldier's kit ain't smart," the grenadier said, his tone admonishing. He looked up from where the man lay sprawled on the ground and spotted a pair of red coats, similar to his own except for the white facings. Those were the lads who were in charge of arrests in town. Lifting his arm to wave the two marines over, he allowed the man he'd just knocked down fade from his attention. |
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| Deleted User | 23 Dec 2007, 02:54 AM Post #6 |
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Deleted User
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Arlen was expecting a little slice, something like the characteristically cold invasion of a blade into the area just under the skin, the usual sting a small cut brought. Apparently, though, he hadn’t made himself clear enough, and Wingfield totally misunderstood his intent. There was a brief second, hardly mentionable, in which Arlen saw the massive fist coming towards him, but it certainly wasn’t long enough for him to have done anything. No, what he really noticed in most was the sound crack of bone on bone as the soldier’s fist impacted his jaw, then the sight of the sky above him. He ended up on his back, staring up at the view of the scene around him. “Ugh.” he moaned. Oh, that smarted. He could almost feel his jaw swelling, or at least, he thought he could. He also felt a bit woozy. Maybe he would pass out. That would embarrassing, but it wouldn’t be the first time. Oh, holy Mary, what would happen if he passed out and they found him? He wouldn’t even be able to fight! They’d just drag him off by his ankles. Maybe they’d try him while he was unconscious, and he’d come to only to find that he was hanging from a noose. He’d wake up just before blacking out again...this time forever. “Noo!” Arlen wailed, trying to struggle to his feet, but only getting halfway there before slipping and falling again. Damn these fancy shoes. No good for traction, none at all. “No, no!” he said, desperately trying to get Wingfield’s attention. “You don’t understand. I didn’t want to steal it, I wanted you to stab me with it! Ugh, don’t call them over here. They’ll kill me! Oh, don’t let them kill me.” Arlen the coward was making an appearance, that was for certain. One of the uglier aspects of the young Spaniard’s personality; his desire to save his own skin, no matter the cost. He stood up, rubbing his jaw, and looked around, trying to locate some place where he might be able to hide. Something, anything big enough for him to conceal his small body behind it. It wouldn’t have to be too big, since Arlen was a small fellow, but he knew hiding behind Wingfield certainly wouldn’t work. Arlen was praying furiously. He hadn’t prayed as much in the past ten years as he had in the past ten minutes, it seemed. “Hail Mary, full of grace...um...something something...wretched sinner...hellfire, damnation...oh, damn.” He crossed himself again, wishing he hadn’t bartered his rosary for the money he’d spent on that prostitute a fortnight ago. Did a hail Mary count if he didn’t have the rosary? He couldn’t remember. There wasn’t anything in the world Arlen wanted more at that moment than to get out of this dreadful situation and find a nice quiet corner to curl up in until he’d recovered from the pain in his jaw and the mortal terror in his heart. But at the moment, all he had to hide behind was...a barrel! He jumped, and scampered off to the keg he’d just caught site of, crouching behind it and drawing his legs and arms in close to his body. Hopefully, the other soldiers would be so preoccupied with Wingfield that they wouldn’t notice the small pirate hiding. |
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| Benjamin Wingfield | 28 Dec 2007, 06:43 PM Post #7 |
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Deckhand
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  “No, no!” The man wheezed. “You don’t understand. I didn’t want to steal it, I wanted you to stab me with it! Ugh, don’t call them over here. They’ll kill me! Oh, don’t let them kill me.” Wingfield only half-heard. The marines he'd waved down were trotting over, their expressions curious. Perhaps they were unused to seeing soldiers in the markets? "This fellow tried stealin' me hanger," he explained to the marines as they got close. "Bit rude of him." "Did he, now." One of the marines eyed the towering grenadier speculatively. "Reckon he don't have half a brain in his skull. We'll take right good care of him for ya, mate." Good. He was content to let the marines handle the would-be thief, because he had shopping still to do. The second marine, however, had a puzzled look on his face. "Oi, Alban. Where'd that bastard go?" The three red-coats had been duped. While Wingfield's back was turned, the failed sword-thief had bolted. Looking cross, the grenadier rested a giant palm on the hilt of his sword. "Shoulda hit him harder!" "C'mon, McBride. Won't be too hard to find a blackguard what's been thumped nice 'round his head." The marine called Alban said. Wingfield stuffed his shopping list back into his coat, deciding that he had to help find the half-wit who'd tried to steal his sword. "Prolly went thataway," he said, pointing back toward the bustling market. |
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