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| Treading Carefully; [Open to anybody who wants to play!] | |
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| Topic Started: 25 Jul 2008, 04:10 PM (449 Views) | |
| Deleted User | 25 Jul 2008, 04:10 PM Post #1 |
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Port Royal hadn't exactly been at the top of Isaac's 'places I want to temporarily end up' list, but Port Royal it was and he was savvy enough to at least make the most of it. His last 'tour of duty' had been as a navigator on board a semi-legal privateer vessel that he predicted would run to full piracy within the year and he'd spent six months on board. It had been good work, steady work - and he'd been financially well compensated for it. He thought on this as he made his way down the dockside, ears open for anybody discussing ships that needed new navigators and eyes most definitely open for the military. Somehow, Isaac Hopkins had always managed to avoid the wrath of the Navy. His tenure as a pirate was always carefully matched by extended periods of legitimacy that enabled him to more or less successfully cover his tracks, but the true calling was upon him once again. What a tragedy, then, that he'd ended up here in Port Royal, with so many of the Navy around him. The sooner he got out of the place, the better as far as he was concerned, but he'd been stuck here for three days now without any sign of taking a ship out. He knew something would come up, but in the interim, he was forced to blend in as best he could. He slid easily into one of the dockside taverns and ordered himself a tankard of ale and a couple of tots of rum - the good stuff. Grog was all well and good, but a man got sick of watered down alcohol. He sat and brooded for a while, simply people watching, taking everything in. The alcohol served as a good buffer against his mood, numbing some of the irritation that he felt at getting himself stranded here in particular and it was damn fine rum to boot. The ale disappeared with practised alacrity and the rum sent a warmth through his body that he'd missed. It was tempting beyond belief to just sit here and drink himself into oblivion, but that would probably just see him arrested. He missed Tortuga with a sudden wash of homesickness. Funny how he thought of the pirate town as his home now, but that's the way it had been for a long, long time. The only other real home that he'd known had been on board the Lion's Mane, under the command of Red Phillips - who he still missed with the ache of a lost parent. To pass a little more time, he took up another sailor's offer of a game of dice and enjoyed the diversion for a while - not to mention ending up in profit, which resulted in a good cussing from his opponent, but which additionally saw Isaac buy himself more beer and more rum. And so the pattern went on through the day and into the early afternoon, by which time his promise not to get overly drunk had been long forgotten and he was pleasantly inebriated. |
 
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| Noah Rand | 27 Jul 2008, 01:24 PM Post #2 |
Deckhand
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OOC - Craptastic first post, sorry! >_< IC - For once, he had been unable to slip out of the tavern without being spotted by Maria. She had caught him at the last moment, just before he could make it fully out the back door, and now the scruff of his neck was smarting from where she'd grabbed him. It had been all he could do to keep tears from his eyes at the rough treatment. Now, of course, he was hard at work, or at least pretending to be. There were a good number of drunks in the tavern, both conscious and not. Much the same as any other day. It wasn't even twilight yet. Noah grumbled to himself as he sloshed mopwater over the spot where somebody had emptied his stomach onto the floor. This was only one reason why he hated his job at the tavern. Another was glaring at him from across the room. He avoided looking toward the bar, knowing he would receive an ear-burning rebuke for being slack. A tankard hit the floor just near his shoe, spilling its contents over the spot he'd just cleaned. Noah tightened his grip on the mop handle and kept his eyes pointedly lowered. He hated this job. He dipped the mop back into the bucket with a little more force than was necessary and succeeded in splashing dirty water all over the shoes of a man sitting at the table. The brackish water seeped immediately into the man's stockings and Noah sucked in a suddenly-terrified breath. Oh dear... "Sorry sir," he said quickly, looking around for a towel but naturally seeing none. Oh dear oh dear. If Maria saw, she'd give his neck another nasty wrenching. "Um..." He didn't know what to say. |
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| Deleted User | 27 Jul 2008, 05:03 PM Post #3 |
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The man upon whose feet the boy had just spilled water looked down at the floor, considered the matter, then very slowly stood up. He seemed to keep unfolding for quite a while, but that was probably not quite true. He was, however, very tall and very well built. He also looked very, very angry. He was also not Isaac Hopkins, who was sitting at the next table in a state of happy inebriation, enjoying what looked like it would be a good show. "Them shoes cost me nearly a month's wages, you little idiot," said the Very Tall Man, sounding extremely displeased. Isaac giggled slightly to himself. What kind of fop spent nearly a month's wages on a pair of shoes only to then go into a tavern wearing them? If it hadn't been dirty water, it would ultimately have been ale, or mead, or rum, or vomit, or some other liquid that would have landed on them. All things considered, dirty water was the least of this man's liquid worries. Isaac took another sip of his ale and watched the scene unfold. "An' my new stockings, too - I'm going to have to get them cleaned now, an' where's the money gonna come from for that, I ask yer? Simple answer." The Very Tall Man's hand shot out and grabbed the young man. Isaac sat up a bit straighter. Watching a shouting match was one thing. Watching a mis-matched fight was another. The young man who had been mopping the floor looked decidedly harrassed and kept shooting what looked to Isaac like slightly panicked glances towards the bar. Under normal circumstances, Isaac would've just let the scene continue without intervening. But he was feeling particularly belligerent tonight and stood up himself - something which was much more difficult than he initially planned and made him realise that perhaps his plan not to get drunk had gone a little awry. "Get yer hands off the boy, Longshanks," he said, his Welsh accent still as thick as it had been in his youth. "Y'only got a splash of water on yer legs. What's the matter with yer? Made in a paper factory? Scared of a bit o' water?" The Very Tall Man glanced sideways at the unkempt, scruffy man with long, straggly hair and several days worth of stubble. He took in the ill-fitting, slightly threadbare clothing with a superior sneer, but then let go of the boy and turned bodily to face Isaac. "I ain't scared of nothin', mate. Least of all a drunken sot like you." "I'm not as think as yer drunk I am." Isaac moved his lips vaguely, aware that he'd perhaps got that last phrase slightly wrong, then shook his head. "Anyway, what happened there, with the boy, were no more than an accident. Ain't no need to take it out on him. All he needs do is fetch a towel for yer and yer pretty lady shoes will be right as rain." "I should wring yer neck, yer blasted..." The Very Tall Man took a lumbering step forward and slipped on the wet floor, almost losing his balance. In an effort to stabilise himself, he grabbed out with his hand and then crashed into a neighbouring table, which sent several tankards of mostly full ale flying - quite a lot of it over the unfortunate man. "Oh dear, oh dear, mate," said Isaac, wagging his finger sombrely. "Looks like yer attracted the attention of yon militia..." He gestured over to three men in military dress who had been enjoying a quiet off-duty drink at the bar, but who were heading over towards the ruckus. In a few moments, the Very Tall Man had been 'escorted' from the premises for smelling like a drunk, acting like a drunk and generally being what could only be described as 'rude' to the militia. After he had exited, Isaac grinned cheekily, waved at his retreating back, then flopped back down onto his own seat and put his feet up on the table. "I reckon as that was worth another tankard of ale, mate," he said to the young man and flipped him a coin. "Next time yer passin'." |
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| Noah Rand | 27 Jul 2008, 10:49 PM Post #4 |
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"Them shoes cost me nearly a month's wages, you little idiot," the big fellow said, and Noah knew he was in for it. For an instant, he considered defending himself, but with what? The mop? Maria certainly wouldn't help him and she'd probably keep the others from it too. The only thing to do was make a completely dishonourable retreat and hope he was faster than the thundering angry man. Then another patron spoke up and Noah felt a spark of hope. Perhaps he wasn't going to get beaten to a pulp after all. Or not, he amended quickly, when the angry, wet-shoes man got to his feet. Noah scurried back a couple steps, ready to run for it. Oh miracle of miracles! The angry drunk slipped on the same water that had soaked his precious shoes and tumbled onto a nearby table, scattering tankards and drinks everywhere. He shortly landed in the mess and Noah very nearly squeaked a laugh. A trio of red-coats - Noah didn't know if they were soldiers or Navy men since he hardly paid attention to them - appeared to drag the sopping-wet drunk away. That had been close. Noah loosened his grip on the mop handle and winced at the twinge in his fingers that came from squeezing the wood so tightly. "I reckon as that was worth another tankard of ale, mate," the other man said, flipping a coin at Noah, who barely caught it. "Next time yer passin'." "T-thank you sir," he said. Then, after darting a glance over his shoulder to check for Maria, he dropped into the Wet Shoes Man's vacated chair. He could get away with disappearing for a bit if Maria was upstairs. "That happens a lot. Accidents I mean." A blush came onto his face. It sounded almost like he meant for accidents like that to happen. |
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| Deleted User | 29 Jul 2008, 06:27 PM Post #5 |
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Isaac quirked one eyebrow at the boy's stuttering reply. "Accidents happen a lot?" he repeated, then laughed brightly, enjoying the fact that the sound lifted his previously slightly darker mood. "Ah, lad - yer just be grateful that they're accidents happenin' in a tavern and not in the powder magazine of a ship." The tone was light-heartedly stern, but the expression was one of easy fun. Isaac leaned forward to peer over his boots at the boy. The smile grew wider. "I suggest yer let go the mop, lad," he said, "afore ye become permanently attached to it. I'll vouch for yer for a break if needs be. Yer can be me long-lost cousin what I ain't seen in nigh on fifteen years if it'll calm yer down a bit." It was rare for Isaac Hopkins to deliberately seek out company, but he had been amused by the boy's anxious behaviour and the pirate was inebriated enough to desire a little company for once. "Deal, o' course, is that yer go get me that ale. An' whatever yer wantin' for yerself." Isaac almost casually flipped another coin over to the young man. He may not have been the richest right now, but when he was flush, he enjoyed a little extravagance. Indeed, later, should the mood take him, he may just indulge in another dice game or six. |
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| Noah Rand | 31 Jul 2008, 06:46 PM Post #6 |
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His face flushed hot and he looked down at his shoes. It was embarrassing, to an extent, to be teased for his natural clumsiness. He felt hopeless enough every time he dropped something or knocked into somebody. Especially when Maria saw. "Yes, especially when you're like me. Good thing I don't like ships." At the man's next comments, Noah perked up a little. It would be nice to have relatives that weren't deathly ashamed of him, even if said relatives were completely pretend. He loosened his choke-hold on the mophandle with a sheepish grin and said "An ale it is, then." And of course he failed to catch the second coin the man tossed to him. Blushing fiercely again, he scurried toward the bar, mop still in hand, where he ordered an ale and a weak mix of rum. Then a new problem appeared. How was he supposed to carry two tankards and the mop? The barman only shook his head at Noah's pleading glance and offered no assistance. Oh damn how was he to manage this? After a moment he figured it out. If he wedged the mop under one arm, he could carry both tankards in either hand. Pleased with himself, he returned to the man's table. His sense of triumph died swiftly when the still-sopping mop whacked against the back of a mostly passed-out drunk at a nearby table. Fortunately, the drunk was too bleary-eyed to see who'd hit him and settled quickly enough back into a staring contest with the far wall. "Your ale," Noah said with relief, setting the tankard down onto the table. |
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| Deleted User | 2 Aug 2008, 12:05 PM Post #7 |
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"Thankee, lad," said Isaac, leaning forward enough to take up the tankard, which he clanked against the boy's own drinking vessel. "Yer very good health. An' that of yer mop." He laughed raucously at his own joke and took a long pull of the ale. "Ain't the best I ever had," he said, pulling a slight face. "But it wets yer whistle right enough." He set the tankard down again and put his feet back up on the table. "Name's Hopkins," he said, conversationally. "Isaac Hopkins. Just passin' through Port Royal meself, but I'm guessin' yer one of the saps what's stuck 'ere long term, right? Yer got a name, boy?" His accent was strongly Welsh, the accent lilting, giving his voice a certain mellifluous quality despite the nautical roughness acquired from so many years at sea. He was pleased that he'd acquired some company: whilst he was familiar enough with his own company, he was well aware that if he sat there alone for too long, particularly in his current state of inebriation, he would end up brooding. And if he started brooding, there would undoubtedly be trouble, usually of the sort started by him. "If yer are one of the locals," added the man, reaching for another swig of his ale, "have yer heard tell of any work goin' for a navigator an' cartographer?" |
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| Noah Rand | 6 Aug 2008, 01:42 AM Post #8 |
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He returned the toast with a burning face and mostly-downcast eyes. His mop, his bloody annoying mop. It had already caused him plenty of embarrassment this evening and clearly was going to stir up more. "Noah Rand," he muttered, partially into his tankard. Of course he had a name. Even if the family that had given him that name wished heartily that he didn't. At least he didn't mind being "stuck 'ere", as Isaac had termed it. It was better than suffering under his cousin's care in the American colonies. He shrugged, with an effort. "Not so bad here." Another question, in turn requiring another answer. Noah wondered if Isaac ever tired of questions. He replied "Sorry but I haven't. I don't pay much mind to the patrons' talk." Neither could he point the older man in the direction of someody who could better help. Not that it would have done much good, since most of the others in the tavern were in heavier states of drunkenness. "There's got to be someone who knows though," Noah added lamely and buried his face in his tankard. |
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| Deleted User | 9 Aug 2008, 07:18 AM Post #9 |
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Isaac watched the young man's discomfiture with something approaching sympathy. In his youth, before he had really been given his 'wings' to fly free, so to speak, he had been much the same. Ye Gods, he thought, overcome briefly with a feeling of regret, his manner shifting from the amicable to the morose in the wink of an eye, am I so old now that I look with fondness upon my 'youth'? "No matter lad," said Isaac, forcing himself back to conversational with a little difficulty. "I can ask about meself in the mornin'. It's just as I don't see meself as settlin' in this town for long..." He nodded in the general direcction of the militia and flashed a smile. "If ye know what I mean." Isaac shifted his position and drank more of his ale. "This place do rooms, lad?" he asked, genially. "I ain't got meself sorted for the night an' I could do a lot worse than put a few more coins in yer master's coffers." |
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| Noah Rand | 20 Aug 2008, 08:55 PM Post #10 |
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Oh how Noah wished he could be so free to come and go. It was often impossible to even venture past the tavern's door without Maria demanding to know what he was doing and why. He preferred the back door for escaping, but she was growing wise to that as well. Soon he would have to resort to climbing out windows. Not like this man. This man could go wherever he pleased and without fear of having his neck seized and twisted most cruelly. What must it be like, to have such freedom? Noah almost missed Isaac's next comment and question, such were his drifting thoughts. "What, them?" He glanced over at the shabbily-coated militiamen. "They're not anything to fear. It's the marines to be worried about and they don't come in here." The last time the marines had appeared to break up a brawl, Maria had screamed foul murder and laid into the surprised red-coats with a broom. They'd never returned and the tavern was all the more rowdy - and damaged - for it. Noah shrugged slightly. "I think there's a room or two meant for sleeping in," was his answer to Isaac's question. "And others for not sleeping in, too." |
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| James Gray | 4 Sep 2008, 01:56 AM Post #11 |
Luck just kissed you hello! When you're a boy
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It was almost always hot in the Carribean islands of the west Indies but sometimes it was almost impossible to get along in it! It was in the middle of the afternoon and the sun was right out overhead, the wind was dead for both the sea breeze and the land breeze and anyway inside the tavern there wasn’t any movement of the air. It was very muggy in the tavern and since many of the people inside were smoking it was even more suffocating. Jemmy was out of his red coat in his shirt sleeves and he was still breathing with a shallow panting. The tight bandaging around his chest hidden underneath the shirt made things harder because it added to the heat, so it was damp with sweat by now and felt sticky and itchy on his ribs. But it wasn’t that big of a deal because this was how it was every day. Actually he was lucky that he could take the coat off because on duty some days it was much worse, you had to be spit and polished for the service. It did make the tavern quieter than it was at evenings, nobody had a lot of energy to be fighting and arguing, there was just some low talking. It was Jefferson and Fowler that were there with them, he was trying to make some kind of a friendship with them. Jefferson was a gullible young boy but he could be good company really even if he was a little bit slow. It wasn’t very easy to like Fowler but Jemmy was trying pretty hard. Fowler had a sense of humor and that helped a lot. At least he was doing a pretty good job of acting chummy with them both. They were sharing old stories over their drinks when the angry growl from another part of the tavern disturbed them, they all three of them looked up. A man was stood up at a table a little bit removed away from them, he was huge and towering over the tavern boy who was cringing away sort of like a wilted plant with a look of terror in his eyes. The unlucky young man was looking around for help but nothing was coming and the tall man grabbed his front of his shirt collar and pulled him up really close for a nose to nose chat. Jemmy had trouble hearing what he was slurring out in a tiger like growl but whatever he was angry about there were two things that were really obvious. One was he was very drunk and the other was that the young man in his grip was way out matched. The man was picking a totally unfair fight. Jemmy’s eyes went narrow and he was half way to standing up when another man stepped in, at first Jemmy thought it was going to turn into a brawl but it was cut short suddenly when the huge man charged the interventionist and slipped, he flew over backwards and crashed into a table. The interventionist waved at Jemmy and the other two marines and Jemmy took it for a signal and he left his seat the table. He counted on Jefferson and Fowler to back him up and the three of them went for the big man. The huge man was mostly upright again even if he was swaying but he peered beerily at the three marines and he put up his hands in fists. “Go sod a pig!” he snarled at Jemmy or maybe Fowler or Jefferson, it was kind of hard to tell with his eyes crossing in and out of focus. Jemmy grinned with a smile with lots of teeth in it and he answered “You’re too ugly for me to even think about it.” But the man just looked confused and Jemmy sighed and took his insulting back to a level that the drunk would probably understand. “You poxy bastard.” That worked and the man took a swing at him. Jemmy danced backward while Fowler and Jefferson were standing just a little back. Maybe the man wasn’t as drunk as he seemed because he managed to say a full sentence. “Pigs are too good for you traitorous lobsters. Your mother was” but that was when Jemmy and the other two marines jumped him, there was a brief tangle of limbs and a sound of some fleshy thudding and then they pulled off the man who now had a broken nose and two black eyes and plenty of bruises in other places around his body, not to mention he was unconscious. Jemmy and Jefferson grabbed his hands and wordlessly they pulled him out of the tavern and threw him into the street. Jemmy made sure to see that he landed nice right in the middle of a pile of horse dung. He dusted his hands off while they walked back into the tavern, Fowler and Jefferson went back to their table but Jemmy took a leave from them for a minute, “just to see if the kid’s fine” he said. He left his drink with them which probably meant it would be gone by the time he came back. But that wasn’t really a big deal. He headed over to the interventionist and the tavern boy and since he was coming up at angle he could hear a little bit of their conversation. It was just the back end of it. The young man was answering the older one “What, them? They’re not anything to fear. It’s the marines to be worried about and they don’t come in here.” Well something had got mixed up a bit or someone had. But that wasn’t what bothered Jemmy. His breath went through his nose for a little bit. “I think there’s a room or two meant for sleeping in, And others for not sleeping in, too.” “Actually we do come in here every now and then” Jemmy told Noah while he looked at Isaac with a hard eye, sizing up the man who was an unshaven and scarred looking ruffian. Jemmy did have to size him up because Isaac was a foot taller than he was. But Jemmy didn’t care a half of a dead rat about that, he looked Isaac over unintimidated. He looked back at Noah, Noah and Isaac obviously didn’t know each other at all and they were completely different. Noah was a pretty faced and rather gentle looking young man, he didn’t look like such a scoundrel as the taller man. But what the boy was saying before made him suspicious though he wouldn’t have been in other circumstances. “Why should he be worried about marines?” Jemmy asked with his arms folded and his eyes flashing a bit angrily. He was pretty tired of the hate and distrust that the towns people viewed them with. Edited by James Gray, 4 Sep 2008, 01:57 AM.
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| Deleted User | 17 Sep 2008, 08:11 PM Post #12 |
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“Huh,” said Isaac, his expression darkening into a scowl at the word ‘marines’. He spat on the floor. “Damn do-gooders. Ain’t got a clue what the real world’s like out there. It’s a dog eat dog world, lad, an’ we proper seafarin’ folk are lunch for the likes of them.” He nodded at the boy’s comment that there were rooms available. “Might just rest me head down on a proper bed for once then,” he said, and there was a faint haze of wistfulness in his tone. How long had it actually been since the last time he’d slept on anything other than the ground, or in a hammock? A very long time, that’s how long. And then the marine arrived on the scene – at least that’s what he purported to be, with his arrogant posture, his smug expression and his foolhardy question, ‘why should he be worried about marines?’ Isaac felt the man’s scrutiny of him without any discomfort. He had stared down older, more grizzled naval types than this still wet-behind-the-ears whippersnapper and had learned a long time ago that the best thing to do under close scrutiny was to show no reaction. “Who’s worried, mate?” Isaac said in his heavily accented voice. “An’ I don’t recall invitin’ ye into me conversation. So unless it’s yer turn to pay for another round, mine’s a rum, an’ whatever the boy here is suppin’, then I suggest ye butt out an’ mind yer own beeswax.” |
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| Noah Rand | 21 Sep 2008, 08:35 AM Post #13 |
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Noah bobbed his head eagerly. A bed just for sleeping... he was confident he could see it arranged. It was easy enough to overlook the remark about the marines, since he thought about them so little as it was. "A bed for sleeping, that's easy enough. One of the girls moved on recently and her room's still empty." 'Moved on' being a nice way of saying she'd died, of course. To Noah, it was simply part of life by now. Not to mention he'd managed to spirit away a couple of the dead whore's belongings. He took another sip of his drink and wondered how best to broach the topic with Maria. Perhaps he'd have to send Isaac to ask himself. Safer, that way. Then a red-coat appeared at the table, interrupting rather self-importantly with his snooty question. Noah managed a slight frown. The marines did come into the tavern? Were they really that thick-headed? Maria would pitch an enormous fit if she knew that, but of course Noah knew he couldn't be the one to tell her. "You're not welcome in here," he said to the marine, his voice hitching just a bit. It wasn't much of a supporting remark to Isaac's own statement, but then, Noah wasn't much for supporting anybody. "You'd better go before the owner spots you." |
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4:12 AM Jul 30
