William Brand

With the gruesome business done, the small band of four fell in with their guide and made their way back to the Admiralty House. As the went, Captain Lasseter explained the many efforts of the French and the men of the Lucy to find den Oven and the missing men, but nothing new had been discovered. William kept most of his business to himself, except in regards to the waiting and expectant Navarra anchored somewhere offshore. They were now between the pressing decisions of two very different courses. The one would take them to where they knew not in search of men who had vanished off the Earth and unknown fortunes. The other course would take them to promised riches of the present and to Trinidad. "We must soon send word to the Navarra to go or to wait, unless we divide ourselves to both purposes..."

The contents of the box, minus the Serenity Valley Map by Ben Mund (QMx version), include: -Serenity Blueprints Reference Pack by Geoffrey Mandel and Timothy Earls. -The Firefly Companion Volume One -The Serenity Companion -The Serenity Role Playing Game -A screen used bill from Geoffrey Mandel -Alliance currency from QMx by Geoffrey Mandel -Copies of the Firefly Series Bill by Ben Mund (Whitefall) -Copies of Firefly inspired bills by Sith Sheriff Brody -Copies of 1,000 Alliance credit bill by Namebrand -Copies of my own Alliance bills inspired by Geoffrey Mandel in denominations of 1,10 and 50 credit notes as well as fractional paper currency in 5ths and 10ths -Mixed paper currency and coin from mainland China, Israel, Russia, Korea and Jordan. -The Jayne hat my wife made for me. -Various other non-cannon props, i.e. knife, goggles, flask and my two smaller Firefly boxes with Serenity Builders Plates faithfully recreated by Namebrand from the designs by Geoffrey Mandel.

I purchased an old Thermos cooler from a U.S. veteran at a garage sale a few weeks back. The guy I bought it from gave me the full history of the thing and its many travels around the world on the back of an APC. As he put it.. "It wasn't a regulation cooler, but once I painted, what could they say...?" The beauty of the thing is that it was already wonderfully weathered, while remaining in very sturdy shape overall. I've added a few Chinese markings and various strips of lettering to give the impression that it has been tagged at customs checkpoints on several worlds. I'll be adding some inspection tags labeled with specific planet, moon and port names. The nicest thing about it is the fact that all of my other boxes and books fit snugly inside for easy transport off-world.

You're welcome.

August 5, 1704 A tentative crowd had gathered by now, with some too horrified not to look. A cart driver had the presence of mind to offer an empty grain sack as a shroud and Bill Flint covered Tawny's remains with a cursory effort. William sent the French soldier running again with word of the incident before joining the company of Dorian, the surgeon and his assistant. William plied the flustered doctor with many questions, but the man had no great accounting of Tawny apart from his discovery and repairs. William's whole demeanor was one of disappointment. Having already written Tawny off for dead, it was no comfort to find him dead yet again, especially as this discovery lent nothing to their search for more important people. The Doctor asked what should be done with the body and William's reply was simple. "Bury him face down as deeply in the Earth as possible, Monsieur." The pause which followed these instructions was punctuated by the bells of a nearby church, sounding the noon hour. It created a funerary mood. Eight bells of the Forenoon Watch. Afternoon Watch begins.

I've decided not to wait. I'm going to start hating all of you now.

Evidently, I'm least compatible with my wife. Well, we have 19 years and two children that say otherwise.

August 5, 1704 William and Tudor arrived almost on the heels of Tawny's exit. William was out of breath, but animated and Tudor was his spry and wary shadow. William held his cane in a posture of purpose and Tudor had her hand on the pistol at her waist. The Frenchman that had followed them, was still coming up the street, for once they had heard the twice cry of Bill Flint, they had left their guide hurrying after. William and Bill exchanged a nod, and William looked the man up and down for injury. Finding none, he stooped to examine their little known and short lived prisoner. He laid the cane under Tawny's chin and turned his head on the bent spindle of his neck. "Tawny." Tudor said over William's shoulder, and nothing more. "As I live..." William replied in a whisper. He remained crouched there on his heels but did nothing more than look at what remained of the man. It was almost impossible to tell where Tawny's previous injuries began and those done by Bill ended. The whole man was a mess of boils, snarls, twists and ruin. William's lip began to curl a little, for the adrenaline which had carried him there was waning and only the smell of Tawny remained. He stood up and away from the stench and went to fetch out a pocket handkerchief. "...and beat himself with stones...." William said, almost to himself. "Sah...?" "Nothing, Miss Smith." William returned, and looked up as Dorian's shadow fell over the scene. "How is it with you, Captain...?" William asked as he passed the handkerchief to Dorian.

Jim is drunk enough that's he's repeating himself...

I would buy up first editions of every worthwhile book I could get my hands on and a timepiece from the period. Then I'd buy some paper and a good writing instrument and sit by the docks and record every bit of information I could glean until the sun went down. I don't need a camera. I can draw.

August 5, 1704 - In the street before the home and surgery of Jean-Bernard Dubernard Tawny was free, but pursued. He fled the house at speed, but not so fast as to outpace Bill Flint for long, not that Bill needed to keep pace with his quarry. In fact, Bill stopped just beyond the threshold. He took out the tomahawk he had discovered but days before with the rehearsed ease and calm known only to those who have stood among the Huron. He picked out the speed and movement of Tawny as he rushed upon a parting crowd of alarmed people in the street. Then Bill let the instrument fly. Tawny was as possessed of strange luck as he was madness, for even as Bill sent the weapon hurtling through the air, Tawny slipped upon the cobbles and went sprawling. The blade, which surely would have found its mark between Tawny's shoulder blades, sailed over his fallen form and buried itself into the wall of a neighboring home. The loud 'THOCK' it made was smothered under the war cry that accompanied its flight. Tawny's pained and mutilated ear rang under the assault of that seemingly familiar sound, and the high call, which Tawny in his madness took for a trumpet, roused him from the stones. Then everything slowed. The next few seconds resolved themselves into a kind of nightmare. The whole world seemed to pause with purpose, a kind of all encompassing reverence in the face of an overdue and much needed execution. It was as solemn as it was strange. Tawny tried to gain his feet during that overpowering miasma. He lifted himself on his one good arm, his diseased arm broken and useless at his side. He turned and lifted himself on one trembling knee, revolving like a waking man. He felt like he was moving in heavy water, all of his swiftness diluted. He could see already in the faces of the strangers around him that Bill was closing fast, but he could not make himself move any quicker than the nightmare allowed. He just caught glimpse of Bill leaping the low garden wall in his periphery and by the time Tawny had turned to face his attacker, Bill was closing the remaining distance. Tawny thought to smile then. He wanted to smile. He tried to gain his feet in defiance to Bill's assault, but Tawny made the mistake of looking directly into the face of his doom and his resolve all but melted away. What Tawny saw there was himself. There in Bill's face was the cold resolve of death. Bill had already set aside his human self for the necessary act of purging this plague of a creature. Bill was beyond the line drawn in the sand. He had already killed Tawny in his mind. He had but to let the sword fall. "This is what she saw..." Tawny thought with wonder, and smiled then despite himself. He convinced himself one last time that he was immortal and rushed to meet his doom, misjudging everything about his executioner in that moment.

August 5, 1704 - The home and surgery of Jean-Bernard Dubernard Tawny was as dead as anyone alive might be, but for the animal that writhed in his brain. It was a wild thing now, stripped entirely of all human function but fear and flight. It was the base instinct of all his remaining flesh crying out for one more day, one more hour, one more solitary minute to breath, eat, and run wild upon the Earth. So strong was this remaining piece of Tawny that it overpowered his pain, his meager regrets, his desire to perish quietly and carried him from his sick bed like a rotten marionette. This drive to live at all costs to his flesh lifted him from the stained cot where Doctor Jean-Bernard Dubernard had all but pronounced him dead. Now, crippled to the point of mad blindness and barely able to stand, Tawny plucked up a delicate bistoury knife against the possibility that he might have to preform a surgery or two in passing. He stilled himself as much as he was able, for half of his wits seemed fast asleep or dead already. There was a taste in his mouth like molding leaves, cheese and dead things. One hand wouldn't answer the orders of his will. There was a pounding in his ears like waves of funeral drums and distant thunder. He couldn't rationalize the sight in one eye in concert with the halos of burning red that came from the other. His skin felt like it was sliding off and he was certain that insects were feeding in his mind. He pissed himself a little and the heat he lost caused him to shudder. Tawny swayed then and almost went down. He would have done so gratefully, but for the animal. It wouldn't let him lay over and give up the ghost quietly. It whispered all the practiced lies he had taught it to remember over the years. It reminded him that he was immortal and beyond the reach of death in his understanding. He smiled to believe it again, the everlasting mantra of his every murder not to regret or care what he had done or might do. Then the voices came. These were not voices of his own conjuring. No fever or madness had brought them there. They were the voices of men, both French and English. One voice was the mocking voice of his recent resurrection and the others...they were the voices of his pain and almost death. He did not recognize them in any rational way, but he knew any voice even remotely familiar could not be coming from an ally in these recent days. Still, Tawny wondered what to do and wavered in his decision to fight or flee. He pondered the closed door at his left with it's waiting sunlight and the other open doorway leading only to the voices on approach. He almost chose escape. He almost chose to flee, but the fever of his body pushed sweat from his brow hard enough to make him itch and he cut himself a little as he wiped away the sweat, forgetting the well honed instrument in his hand. This accidental injury woke him to his conviction to live in blood as he rushed forward into the unknown and to the waiting arms of his unsuspecting destroyers.

Once a redhead, always a redhead.

August 5, 1704 - St. Pierre. William and Tudor made their way through the dock crowds, their eyes everywhere for enemies and friends. William still vainly hoped to spot the vagabond den Oven trying to buy his way off Martinique, but he only met the gaze of strangers. They soon arrived at the Admiralty House only to learn of Dorian's departure just minutes before. Learning that he was gone, he requested the use of a guide to lead him on to that place, anxious to know the identity of the unknown, wounded man. He was delayed a moment as pleasantries were exchanged between him and those who would know him, but William could not easily hide his desire to be about the pressing business, so they let him go. The night's rain was steaming on the cobbles as they crossed from street to street. They rushed a little as they went, and Tudor found that she had to walk with more haste than she was used to employing. William generally strode with more ease as he went, content to take in all about him. Now he went with his purpose bent to one goal, and even their guide was pressed to a near jog, being a full foot shorter than William. "Sah, if I may...?" Tudor asked between long strides. "This man may be no one but a stranger to us." William returned. "Aye, sah." She had meant to say that very thing, and hoped the idea would slow him. William only strode faster. Between six and seven bells of the Forenoon Watch

We were on the water about 90% of the time. See...this is why you don't remember Barcelona.

I genuinely appreciated the sentiment. Besides, I'm the designated helmsman.

One of my fondest memories from last year came when Diosa gifted me with several bottles of wine at the pig roast. She gave me a big hug and said, in a tone both apologetic and humorous, "We just found out that you don't drink." Of course, I laughed, because it was at least the third gift of libations I had received that year. I just smiled and said, "I'm the quartermaster. I am supposed to keep the other pirates drunk and happy."

That's a very cozy setup and a good shade tent against the sun. Are you pitching it on the parade grounds?

Today's special is Doan's...

Thank you for sharing the video. I love a lively memorial.

I haven't eaten dog in years. Just pie for me.

I'll take a slice of each, a chair out by the tideline, and a fiddler.

It isn't impractical. Not at all. He let me wear the original piece to the Loch Lomond Highland Games years back. At first, I thought it to be too heavy. It hung a bit heavy off the hip, even in the baldric, but oh how misleading it was. Once drawn and in the hand it's a dream of a sword. I've never held better. The weight is so evenly distributed about the pivot of the wrist that the blade feels utterly absent. The ease of control is unsurpassed and the basket acts like a fulcrum, so that one can achieve all of the power one usually gets swinging from the shoulder, by employing the smallest flick of the wrist. The added weight of the basket only serves to create a stranger sense of weightlessness in form. It's as functional as it is flamboyant.

Those are fun. The traditional skull and crossbones on Hook's gear are especially nice.

Shouldn't my answers from before count...?