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| Congregation of Commerce; Open | |
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| Topic Started: 8 Mar 2009, 05:06 PM (255 Views) | |
| Lord Cutler Beckett | 8 Mar 2009, 05:06 PM Post #1 |
Able Seaman
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Warning: Those who are religiously sensitive should avoid this post; it contains literary imagery that may be found offensive. Everard Crowe heaved a sigh as he went about extinguishing the candles that lay arrayed around the interior of the church. His church. Bar a few small families from the town, the Catholic population of Port Royal was almost non-existent; Protestantism was embraced wholeheartedly in the colonies it seemed. Although he had relatively cordial relations with the Protestant representatives in the town, Crowe had never really found them to be his 'sort' of people. There was ever an air of bitterness between them whenever they met at various social occasions. Jealousy on his part, some would say. And indeed they did say that. They didn't know he heard them, of course, and even if they did, what difference would it make? A man of God is limited in the ways in which he can respond to personal sleights. It was night, and a light rain was patting evenly on the church roof; the sound not loud enough to be disturbing, and soft enough to prove to be an almost welcome visitor to the church. Anything that broke the ominous silence was embraced with open arms, as far as Everard could care to mention. Continuing to extinguish the candles, he listened to the rain and began a soft hum. Reaching the penultimate flame, he pinched it out of life with a forlorn expression then turned to take out the last. A faint hiss told him a split second before he saw with his own eyes that someone had already extinguished the flame. The priest yelled out in surprise at the sight of the man stood there, two gloved fingers still pinched over the candle, a faint trail of smoke dissipating from it. The man was dressed in black, from his hat to his boots, and was staring at Everard with cold, grim eyes. His face, hard to see in the sudden darkness, bore the signs of extensive scarring, and after clutching his heart and breathing deeply to calm himself over the shock, the priest recognised this unforeseen visitor. "You..." "Hello Father." This threw Everard for a second, as the man's mouth didn't move. The priest turned his head to look down the main aisle from where he stood leaning on the altar, one hand still clutching at his chest. There, sweeping into the church and walking up towards him, his presence exaggerated by the huge swaying traveling cloak wrapped around his shoulders, was Lord Cutler Beckett, the Chairman of the East India Trading Company. "What do you want?" The priest demanded, his shock wearing away now. Beckett made a show of looking left, then right, then down the aisle he had just walked up, at the pews either side of it, then back to Crowe. His tone made no secret of the fact that he would be the one asking the questions in this exchange. "Is your Church always this empty, Father? Most of these pews look as if they've never been used." His own demeanour strengthening, Everard replied calmly, "Many in Port Royal choose to pursue other channels to reach the Almighty." "Indeed?" Beckett took a step forward into the beam of moonlight that illuminated the altar; the only source of light in the church now that the candles had all be extinguished. As he did so, he took his hat off and placed it on the altar, next to Everard's hand which was grasping the edge of the table, supporting its owner. The Chairman then shook his cloak from his shoulders, and the other man, his clerk Mercer, stepped forward to catch it and fold it over his arm, before stepping back into the shadows. Beckett didn't look at the priest, instead resting both hands on the edge of the altar and looking up at the ornamental figure that hung above them; depicting Christ on the Cross. "A noble sacrifice." he almost whispered the words, and the priest stared at him with a mix of confusion and awe, "The noblest, in fact. And yet, what did it achieve? People still sin. They still ignore the teachings of the Church." He turned his head ever so slightly at this point, to look at the priest, whose face now sunk into one of fear. "They still need to be punished." Everard flinched as Beckett made a sudden movement, but he needn't have feared physical contact; the Chairman had swept past him and off to the side of the altar, spinning around again to reveal what had been his target; the collection box was clutched between his hands. The priest's face fell even more, and he knew then why the Chairman was in the church at that time of night. "This is very heavy, Father." Beckett stated, shaking the box a little to emphasise his point; the rattling of what were hundreds of coins could be heard. The priest stood up straight and tried to compose a reply, "I..." Beckett dropped the box, and the resounding crash drowned out the priest's attmempts to speak, with the large wooden chest breaking into several pieces as it hit the floor, sending hundreds of coins scattering across the stone floor. As the moonlight hit them, they reflected the unmistakable light of gold. "My my." The Chairman uttered in his intolerably smug tone, "My oh my oh my. That's a lot of gold, isn't it Father? You have a very generous congregation." Stepping over the broken chest, Beckett picked up his hat and cloak and made his way towards Everard, who gave up his attempts to talk his way out and made a run for it down the aisle, heading towards the large wooden doors at the far end. But his futile escape attempt was cut short before it could really begin, as a sharp kick was thrown into his right leg courtesy of the scarred and grisly Mercer, bringing the priest to the ground with a yell of pain; he twisted his ankle badly, and an attempt to scurry back to his feet proved useless. Beckett calmly caught up at a slow pace, before nodding to Mercer and having the clerk hoist Everard to his feet forcibly. The priest hissed in pain, as Beckett came up very close to him, the diminutive Chairman staring up into the long, tired-looking face of the priest. "I think we'll take that as a confession, shall we?" Everard didn't reply, his face furious with defiance and pain. "You didn't really expect the Company to overlook that amount of money disappearing from its coffers now, did you Father? Of course not. Now, come. Who are you working with?" The priest continued to refuse to divulge anything. "Come now, Father. Tell me your accomplice and we'll see about having you transported instead of strung up." Everard looked down at Beckett, staring at the Chairman eye-to-eye. "You are the Devil." he hissed. Beckett smiled slightly. "And the Devil always wins." he uttered in reply, before placing his hat and cloak on and walking off towards the doors, giving Mercer a curt nod. Mercer immediately began dragging the priest to the altar, and Everard kicked and screamed in defiance, trying to break free of his captor and flee for his life. Beckett ignored the screams as he left the church out of the two large front doors. *** Outside the church, Lieutenant Greitzer stood with two dozen Company marines lined up. As Beckett appeared at the doors and began heading over towards the duo of horses near the lieutenant, Greitzer moved to intercept him. "I trust your business is concluded, my Lord?" "Almost." Beckett replied without looking at the officer, instead concentrating on placing his gloves over his hands and then hoisting himself up onto the horse. After he was sitting comfortably on his horse, Admiral, the Chairman looked up as the doors of the church opened again and Mercer emerged, giving Beckett a curt nod before heading silently over to his own horse. Beckett smirked, then addressed Greitzer. "Burn the church." The lieutenant was struck. "My Lord?!" "Burn the church, Lieutenant." "But my Lord ---" "Burn the church!" Beckett called out to the two dozen marines, who after exchanging some fearful looks between themselves stepped forward and began lighting torches and throwing them at the wooden church. Greitzer looked on in shock and disgust as the flames started engulfing the building within minutes. "My Lord, Father Crowe ---" "Is dying a traitor's death." Beckett cut back as he spun Admiral around to begin riding back to town, before adding, "With some poetic justice of course." *** When the McMahon family arrived the next morning to the morning service, they found nothing but the smoking remains of their beloved church; Mother McMahon covering the eyes of her children as her husband stepped forward, calling out for Father Crowe. After searching the charred remains of the building for a despairing few minutes, Mr McMahon soon found their priest; his scorched remains lying on the altar, his arms and legs chained to it in such a way that the burnt skeleton resembled the ornamental statuette that used to hang above him during his sermons. "Almighty Lord..." Mr McMahon rasped, sickened by what he was seeing. |
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| Jonathan | 13 Mar 2009, 05:14 AM Post #2 |
Son of Yorkshire
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OOC - If there are any goofs in this, let me know and I'll edit. IC - The Port Royal he had left months ago was different now. There were many signs of great change, but try as he might, Jonathan was unable to learn more than the barest bits from anyone he asked. To his distress, he had not yet succeeded in making a foray to the fort to call on Captain Forsythe or any of his old marines. The trials of settling in and the demands of his father-in-law’s business agent had occupied far more of his time than he had first anticipated. This morning, however, Jonathan had secured several hours to pursue his own leisure. It had already been his habit to take early morning rides on the outer edges of the town, as much to enjoy the relative cool as to prepare himself for the day’s business. There was something about the steady thudding of his horse’s hooves that helped ease his mind from a groggy, fuzzy state into sharp alertness. Only in the mornings was he able to put aside most cares and worries, including that constant nagging question of what might be wrong with Port Royal. His horse was cantering easily along the well-trodden road, occasionally letting out whuffs that Jonathan took to be noises of contentment. He couldn’t keep himself from pondering the differences in the Port Royal he remembered, but neither was he trying. It was his chief intention to pay a call at the fort and idle an hour or two away with his former officers. He was most interested to know how Captain Forsythe was faring; the Irishman had been justifiably nervous when Jonathan had turned over command of the battalion to him. Hopefully he had recovered his sense of purpose. The sharp, unusual smell of burnt wood on the breeze made him wrinkle his nose and he frowned. Fire was something widely – and rightly – feared, which made the existence of that smell fairly ominous. Jonathan guided his horse around a bend in the road and discovered the charred, broken remains of what looked to be a church. The reek of burnt timber was almost overpowering so close to its source. There was a family gathered near the site too, no doubt present for regular morning service. “What place is this?” Jonathan asked, reining his horse to a stop several yards from the destroyed building. To ask what had happened was folly; it was plainly apparent that the place had burnt nearly to the ground. |
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| Lord Cutler Beckett | 11 Apr 2009, 01:59 AM Post #3 |
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Able Seaman
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OOC: My bad! Didn't realise anyone had replied to this! IC - Patrick McMahon continued to stare at the grisly remains of Father Crowe with a twisted hybrid of shock and disgust stretched across his face. His wife continued to shield their children's eyes, as the Irishman began to slowly come back to reality and realise that something had to be done; they couldn't just turn away and walk back home after coming across this now, could they? What it was they should do, however, evaded Patrick; did he move the body? Did he go the Fort? The man, a carpenter in the centre of town, did not know whether or not the military were there to take an interest in such matters as this, but it was becoming increasingly apparent to the not-too-sharp Irishman that there was foul play afoot; the priest had been murdered. "Murder..." he uttered to himself, as if repeating the thought out loud would help make it more real. “What place is this?” He had never spun around so fast in his life, but the usually dim-witted Patrick McMahon displayed the reflexes of a fox when he heard the voice call out from behind him. There, sitting comfortably astride his horse, was a gentleman whom seemed to ring some air of recognition in Patrick's mind. No doubt he was a regular of Port Royal. Even though he could no pinpoint where he vaguely recognised the man for the life of him, this crude form of familiarity was enough to calm the Irishman down enough to speak with the gentleman. After all, murderers didn't tend to return to the scene of their crimes. Did they? "This is...was...St Mary's Church." he replied, stepping towards his family to hold onto them tightly, "Father Crowe, he's...he's dead." He gestured to the altar, upon which the gruesome remains were chained, barely visible through all the smoke but clear to any looking for them. |
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| Jonathan | 12 Apr 2009, 11:46 PM Post #4 |
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Son of Yorkshire
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OOC - Crappy bit of nothing. Sorry. >< IC - "This is...was...St Mary's Church," the man told him. "Father Crowe, he's...he's dead." Jonathan considered this as he looked over the smoking ruins. Somebody had hated the church enough to burn it down. And the priest. It was possible to see the charred corpse on the altar, where it had been tied down with chains. There was no question that this man and his family had stumbled onto the scene of a murder. Now that he was here, he could not in good conscience leave without taking action. Jonathan swung down from his horse. "Take your family home, sir," he said to the man. "Stop the first patrol you see and return here with them." Then he turned away, expecting from long experience that he would be obeyed. He looped the reins over his horse's neck, trusting the beast not to wander off, and looked at the path leading up to what had been the church's door. It was not an especially well-trodden path, which suggested that there were few regulars to the church. That in itself was interesting. Who would have reason to set fire to a church and kill the priest? |
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