William Brand

Tonight's special is a spicy Indian shrimp.

By the late 17th century, maps of the period were discarding the phrase "Here there be monsters". Enlightened men were slowly discovering all the corners of the globe and shining the light of reason everywhere they went, or at least reason as they defined it. The dismissal of monsters is a futile thing, for they exist among us and ever have. The making of these monsters happens almost daily in back rooms and on battlefields. It is not an art. It is seldom beautiful. Some bloodthirsty creatures are born naturally to it. Some come to be monsters by another road. For the sake of our story, and to understand one such monster, we must retrace the road that Tawny took. The Making of Tawny: Part One. In addition to being attractive, intelligent and of profound cleverness, Aingeal had always been a pragmatic woman. She understood early on that she had been born into a man's world. Her place, as a woman, was well established by the customs, traditions, bigotry, and backwards thinking of the day. She accepted this as well as any other woman might, but with a calculated coldness that would slowly turn the sweet wine of her youth to a subtle vinegar in her old age. Unlike some women of the day, she had been born into a modest portion of wealth, and a document affixed with all of the proper seals of government and church had provided her with a little bargaining room. She had been born the only daughter to a titled man of property, which allowed her access to education, reputation and even speculation. As her father had managed no other children by wife or mistress, she remained the sole heiress to his modest holdings and passed into her young womanhood well established in beauty and dowry. Being clever as she was, she had managed to escape marrying young. Knowing her father's desire for a male heir, she had often poured honey in his ear, explaining to him regularly that he should wait to see her wed while attempting bed to bed to make himself a son. She often reminded him that as his fortunes grew, so should she be allowed to grow untouched, thereby securing a greater dowry over time and increasing her opportunity to marry while he dreamed on fathering a boy. By flattery and reason she escaped the bridal bed well into her later teens while her father escaped further and further into self delusion about his never to be son. Then her father died. Robert Parsons had never enjoyed the best of health, and one night while attempting once more to make a son, he slipped from bliss to heart failure and exited the world with only a daughter to count the coin he had left behind. His one thought in that moment of lust and death comingled was to discover that he finally understood how powerful an heir he had got for himself and that he should have secured his daughter better against the fortune she would soon lose hold of. What Aingeal thought when she learned of her father's passage is too complicated to write down in so few words, but she was overheard to whisper a quiet thank you. Those servants of her household that overheard this phrase misunderstood it altogether and took it to be one of cold rebuke, as if Aingeal were grateful that he should be gone, but not so. Aingeal was in fact genuinely stricken, for her father alone, steeped in the traditions of patriarchal power as he was, had been a good man and mindful of her ambitions. With him gone, Aingeal was now alone against the debtors, suitors and crafty coin seekers that would soon come calling to her almost daily. Over the next few weeks she was visited by every money lender, loan-seeking adventurer and country Casanova to be had for a hundred miles in every direction. Every one of them came with the fixed notion that she should accept their offers at face value, she being a woman, and that she should be gushing and grateful of them. Each fool who crossed her threshold came armed with the self assurance of a man in a man's world who had come a courting to the weaker sex. And never were more men sent again from a place at a jog, their egos bruised, confused and dashed upon the cobbles. Never were more men verbally dismissed with a look of consternation and confusion so firmly fixed upon their hairy faces. They came with easy expectation and fled red-faced in humiliation. After a time, the bell upon her door grew silent, and it seemed that Aingeal had indeed secured her place in the world. Then Cormac Tenille arrived in her life. He entered her sphere of existence with little or no ceremony. She was one day traveling by the seaside when a loutish fellow verbally accosted her in public, and unfortunately for that man, Cormac Tenille was near at hand and he lent himself as her rescuer. So brave and adamant was he, that despite Aingeal's defiant disregard for all things male, she instantly warmed to him. Cormac, unlike most of the men she had met in recent days, was a poor man. As the modest owner of several small fishing boats he was not without some money, but by contrast to the other suitors and herself, he was a pauper. Though a simple man, he kept in his employ some two dozen men. He was a plain and honest man, devoted to God and King. His appetites, ideas and ambitions were equally plain and honest and it was to this modest man above all others that Aingeal found herself drawn. Now apart from being her one time protector, Cormac made no true effort to seek after Aingeal, for as he saw it, she was above him in station. She was of a different class. She was like some otherworldly creature. He was therefore surprised when he found himself in her presence for a second and then a third time. This surprise turned to flattery when he realized that she was making up reasons to be seaside. He was further flattered to find her in attendance at the modest church where he worshipped. Whereas before she had never been apart of his life, she now seemed to find excuses to be in places that no woman of her position should be and he knew, that more than his imagination and beyond his previous expectations, she truly liked him. They courted and were married. Aingeal was of a mind that things would remain exactly as they had been. She had fallen in love with a selfless, modest and caring man. He was kind and simple and she liked his genuine personality. He demanded nothing. His cares were pragmatic. He was a creature of land and sea and laughed easily. Everything about him was comfortable and reassuring. Now that they were married, and given her very comfortable fortune, all seemed well. Unfortunately it is often the case that people in love fail to see the outcome of their affections in relation to the world around them. Aingeal had married Cormac, the simple man. What she had failed to remember, despite years of experience and her previous care and caution, was that Cormac, simple or not, was a man. By the definition of the day, this alone should have given her pause. Whatever else Cormac might have seemed to be to her, a man of the 1600s understands full well the rules of his place. No sooner had Cormac and Aingeal married, then Cormac assumed the absolute title of husband. Aingeal did not notice this unspoken ascension as he did not seem to change all at once, but once he was bound to her under the eyes of God and the laws of England, he became the ruler of his house. Cormac had become her husband, and by doing so he fell as easily into the role of usurper as any other man might have, and she would soon understood the role of man and woman better than she had ever known it before. In the late 17th century, Man was absolute. Man was the sole proprietor of all that lived and breathed upon the Earth. So fixed was the idea that Man was the head of all government, religion and family, that even the few women of power who left their mark upon the world found themselves eclipsed by Man. Man was everywhere. Man made history, dominated history, and recorded history. A man would no sooner willingly let a woman be at the forefront of any noble endeavor than he would castrate himself. Matriarchal power might appear in novelettes, poetry and plays of the day, but it had no real presence in a man's world. As for Cormac, whatever he had felt regarding her station before was gone. She might have been above him and unattainable before they had married, but once they had wed, she was to debase herself before him and honor him above all else. His position as a man was absolute, not because he was cruel or devious, but because his place as a husband was a written truth upon the minds of all men of that day. It was his place. As husband, bread winner, and protector, he was the sovereign of his own house. He accepted this role at once. The first few weeks were as they had been, apart from some subtle differences. After a rewarding and generous honeymoon, the lovers had returned to their new home near the sea. Cormac had already taken control of her finances, which Aingeal allowed willingly, finding no threat in his desire to purchase a new house for them both. She was delighted to be near the sea. She even enjoyed the more domestic routine of her new life, spending much of it in creating a new home for them both. As the weeks past, she noted how he was ever encouraging her to remain at home. He would flatter her with subtle praise on all things domestic. He would encourage her to pursue only the trivial ambitions of the country wife, and at first she was obliged to do so, for it was new to her in many ways she enjoyed the novelty of it. She didn't even mind that he spoke to her from time to time in a way more commanding than equal. She reassured herself that it was good and proper that he should feel respected, for she imagined him feeling the same way about her. After all, while Cormac toiled all day at the docks and at sea, she toiled alongside him in marriage at home and in the gardens. She convinced herself therefore, that as they shared an equal roof, equal comforts, equal food and equal halves of the same bed, that somehow they would remain equal in all things temporal and philosophical. Not so. They were some three weeks into their marriage when Cormac altered the equality of their life forever. Their bed, which had been equally shared and enjoyed, suddenly became an alter for something else. Aingeal had been toiling particularly hard to make their home agreeable and beautiful for them and others, and as Cormac had decreased the number of servants in her life, it had been a long day. She had come to bed weary with a need for sleep , but Cormac expressed a need more absolute. She denied him, promising some other occasion, and as they had always been of a similar mind in regard to all things passionate, she thought this quiet refusal would be enough. Cormac did not see it that way, but as the intimacy was not altogether disagreeable, she allowed it, or more to the point, she imagined that she allowed it. Life went on this way. Sometimes sweet. Oft times laced with sinister ironies and the despair of realized social definitions. Aingeal tried to ignore the casual alterations to her once perfect power. She tried to accept the terms of her new place in the world. Cormac was not unkind in most ways, but Aingeal would not allow herself to be altered. The freedoms enjoyed under the auspicious but generous care of her father had spoiled her perceptions, despite social definitions. Her perceptions were further soured when she was reminded of another absolute truth she should have remembered from her father. Men want sons...

If I wanted to tread my wet feet over a flag I would put down the king's colors. Better to dry oneself with the flag of one's enemy. And while I'm thinking about it...Union Jack toilet paper would be nice.

Don't be too troubled. I'm just being pragmatic. I won't be one of those many un-attendees who promise to come all year long and then make no effort to be there. Better to face the fact that I can see no foreseeable way to attend and then show up if the opportunity presents itself. I simply promised myself that I would not come without my lovely wife, and since I can't see any way of affording even my own passage, well... Still, I'll do everything in my power to answer questions and see that everyone else makes it there as smoothly as possible.

Water. What? I was thirsty.

POTC 1: Twice, perhaps three times. POTC 2: Twice. POTC 3: Once. Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World: Almost a dozen times.

Aye, but not to everyone's favor I confess. It seems that I may not be attending this year. Work, health, bills and the ever rising cost of travel are quickly combining to make my attendance impossible. I have therefore, with heavy heart, removed my name from the list of attendees for this year, and I will redouble my efforts for the year next.

I like the onion bottles. Very nice work. I also liked seeing the chap on the home page wearing a Wicked Tinkers shirt. That takes me back.

Welcome aboard, Miss Drake.

Welcome aboard, Captain.

August 4, 1704 - Aboard the Watch Dog The threatening clouds were observed equally aboard the Watch Dog, and while William and the recent prisoners of the fort did not seem to mind the inevitable change of weather, Marinus Olyslaeger had had his fill of the stuff with so much recent rain and he said so. Hans Leerman reminded him that it was 'better to have rain than no wind', and got an elbow for his imparted wisdom, but in good humors. In the galley, Jack Roberts was taking his first full reprieve from the Bosun since coming aboard, and with the changing of the watch, he was making himself know to the cook. This introduction served several purposes, for it most certainly placed him nearer the finer things of the ship, but it was Jack's nature to be openly favorable to his fellows, and as he and Lazarus proved to be of very similar temperaments, and as both of them came from good English stock, they conversed about the place with ease while Lazarus passed out rations. Tudor stood hard by and watched this interchange with only a passing interest as she attended to the duty of overseeing the distribution of rum. This duty was unique of late, for she had noted a politeness not known before among the crew. Of course, this formal gratefulness existed only among the new recruits, and would probably fade over the next few weeks, but she was glad to see so many offer Lazarus a thankful smile or a word as they went in turn past the galley door. It was while she attended to this daily duty that she felt the unique uneasiness of being observed. As Steward, she was used to being watched, generally under the auspicious eye of the Captain himself, but this was different. Content to do her work and do it well, she seldom paid attention to the peripheral or trivial happenings of the day to to day, but she now felt that she had found herself under the glass of an observing 'enemy'. It was a strange feeling to be sure, especially aboard the Watch Dog. It came like a prickling of goose flesh and she would have dismissed it altogether, but no imaginings of her own had proceeded it, so she could not easily explain it away. Not being particularly superstitious herself she was tried to set it aside, but even as unreal as it seemed it was too real in the moment. She turned her head to find the source of this unexpected and disconcerting twitch on the hairs of her neck to find Harry Saltash smiling at her from his vantage point on the deck. Harry Saltash stood part way down the deck of the frigate on the Larboard side. He was busy securing lines at the gallows under instruction from Mister Badger. He was standing in profile, but his face was turned toward Tudor and he looked at her with a familiarity that Tudor liked not at all. There was something in the eyes more than the subtle smile, and the look was not improved by his looks, for he was not fair. In that moment he looked like an unfamiliar and unfriendly dog in someone else's yard. Tudor returned his gaze with the even look of one who has faced down her share of men and monsters. Saltash was new enough to be unaware of Tudor's place, for while he knew that she was the steward, he had not seen her storm the Maastricht. Harry had been aboard the Heron at the time, and was not witness to her bravery. It was this steely look of calm that she rewarded him with, but he seemed more pleased by it than rebuked. "Mind y' work there, Saltash!" Jacob yelled, interrupting the strange interchange. Jacob yelled almost directly into the man's ear, but Saltash did not jump as most were wont to do. Slowly, casually, Harry Saltash returned to his work, as did Tudor, but not before she marked the man in her mind. Larboard Watches on Duty

August 4, 1704 - Aboard the Watch Dog Eight bells of the Afternoon Watch. First Dog Watch begins. Eight bells rang aboard the Watch Dog and William was content to send down no more orders than a change of the watch. The Starboard watch gathered to their rum rations while the Larboard watch scattered to their duties. William noted that several men of the prison looked worn, they being conditioned to the idleness of incarceration, but complaints were not heard from any apart from a groan here or there in their efforts. Simon Dunwalt took some of the able seamen in turn and questioned them like captives on every tool and procedure. He gestured at every part of the great guns with the end of his unlit pipe, an affectation so near to Petee that William smiled. This smile was short lived, for an outcry came then from the Starboard rail. Moses MacTigue had caught his hand up in a line as it played out and the flesh had been cruelly stripped from a finger. It proved to be a bloody injury, though not an uncommon one for hands. Larboard Watches on Duty

The Eddystone Lighthouse http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eddystone_Lighthouse

Huzzah! Let's add cake.

A slice for every year endured.

That counts. You need pie...

Aye, and easily more compelling. Speaking of lean cuisine, have you ever had prison food?

Tonight's special is Pork carnitas with green chiles...

Agreed.

If the Kate were effected buy rising gas prices, tonight's special would be prison rations from the 18th century, but as this lovely establishment is one part digital and nine parts imagination, we'll be serving this...

The most disconcerting thing about buying plane tickets was watching the price rise in the thirty minutes while I was searching flights. Yes, the price actually went up as I searched. Traveling to PIP again is quickly becoming as unachievable as reaching Timbuktu in my lifetime, which is entirely too bad, since most everything else is free once I arrive there.

Each time I return to this thread there are different posts, but let me say this... I believe that Mark's ambition is sound, and with the proper enthusiasm and planning we can make this work, and anything else we truly set our minds to. Even when we have attempted and failed, we have never fallen so short of the mark that the general public and our fellow pirates did not come away wanting more and setting goals to do so. In the past I would have recommended baby steps, but PIP grew so significantly last year, and with so much success, that I can no longer recommend care and ease when adding each new idea, so long as we put our backs into it. Even some friction which existed between individuals or crews was overcome for the greater good. I could not have imagined, when first meeting Mark, that he would plow ahead with such fervor. My hat is off, Sir.

I've been mulling it over... When creating a flag, there are a few good rules of execution. First - Keep it simple. A flag has to be quickly identifiable at a glance across open water while it is furling and unfurling. Simple icons and imagery are therefore the one and only way to go. These keeps them not only simple, but more period correct, which lends a flag a certain respectability on all fronts. Second - A flag never has to be patterned after the name of a ship. Blackbeard's flag was his own. It didn't follow a theme per se, but rather followed him wherever he went from ship to ship. You don't have to use the icons of the devil or the chariot at all. Your flag could contain more ambiguous and threatening symbols used by the average pirate. Captain RHEDD's flag should be Captain RHEDD's flagg. If he wants it to be a flag which implies a devilish theme, than so be it. Third - Despite the fact that a very specific look might be desired, I must always recommend a period look over a stylized look. I have created a number of stylized flags myself, including the flag for the Watch Dog, but the Watch Dog flag is not period. It is too detailed and the use of a dog skull and bones pushes it well beyond anything I can justify historically. My intention in designing it originally, was just to make it look cool, but in truth, most pirates would simply fly a country flag or a simple jack, so I still recommend more period than less. Now, with these rules in mind you have to ask yourself a few questions. What do you want to convey? A skull is patent, and therefore appropriate. It could be a normal skull and bones with simple horns added, and that alone would be enough. While I have no period example of an animal skull being used, you could go that route by supplanting the human skull with the skull of a goat, thereby implying the devil motif. This would probably render it completely un-period, but it would have a very specific, evil look. The chariot itself is superfluous, and I would recommend you lose it. More often then not it would come across as a cart or wagon, and neither of these are threatening, so ditch it. Even a chariot wheel could be mistaken for a ship wheel, and while that is nautical, it isn't very imposing. I have no issue with the moon and star if you can explain the reasoning for them on your pirate flag. My own flag has three stars and a moon, but only because of a Moorish tie to my chosen character's past, so the symbols make sense. The pitchfork is both devilish and nautical, as Neptune himself bears a trident. You could have a trident with a skull stabbed upon it. You could have crossed pitchforks under a skull with horns and center an hourglass over these. If you do a horned skull you could lose the tridents. If you do tridents, you could lose the horns. You can have both, but you wouldn't need both for a classic flag. In the end, when making a flag you have to have a reason, plain and simple, behind each of the icons you use. In short, I would recommend something basic. A red background is period and appropriate for your captain, so that's a good place to start. A simple skull, horned or not. A trident or pitchfork for the devil tie in. Do it right without overdoing it and people will recognize it for years to come. Then it's up to you to make a reputation of fear to go with it.

Far from worrying about gas in relation to driving, I worry about the airline industry skyrocketing out of control. If airline prices continue to rise, I'll soon be looking at impossible odds to overcome. A round trip ticket per person to PIP is currently standing at $750.50, so to take the whole family would cost me $2,251.50. Pure pyracy.

I currently own a Honda CR-V, but the most classic thing I ever owned was my pale horse... ...a 1948 Chevy Truck I called Sherman. It was this color...