William Brand

July 31, 1704 - Aboard the 'Dog Between one and two bells of the Forenoon Watch The hours slipped by both ashore and aboard the three ships at anchor. Morning came and passed with its usual rituals of mess and work. Just another morning in the life of the 'Dog and the Heron. Tudor Smith had come and gone from the quarterdeck, lending as much attention to her post as she might between sleep and fatigue. She enjoyed the quarterdeck and anyone who watched her there could see the delight she took in it, despite the circumstances which had brought her there. Boats which had not previously visited the frigate came by to pay their respects throughout the early hours of the day, as they had the evening before, and most of these were merchants eager to purchase goods from far away in exchange for Martinique sugar and rum. Many of these men were surprised to find a woman on the quarterdeck, but more surprised still to see that she was more than a pretty face among the rigging and railings. Indeed, she proved to be a good barterer, trading out some small trinkets for large quantities of rum and the white gold refined from so many of the island's plantations. One particular fellow took an impertinent stance, utilizing poorly chosen words, and an overconfidence in his own charms, to 'woo her' to a better deal. She sent him away smarting of words and more than a few laughs from the larboard watches. No one else dared to treat her in such a manner thereafter, though she did note a distant onlooker from the great merchant ship laying at anchor not too far off from the 'Dog. The unknown and removed observer seemed interested in her or the ship to the extent of spending long moments watching her and the crew by use of a spyglass. She made a point of not noticing him too much, all the while as she examined the onlooker peripherally. She managed a to send word up to the larboard marines high aloft to make note of the of the marked voyeur. She did not like being watched by strangers with so many of the crew gone and under such uncertain circumstances. "Look on stranger..." she muttered softly. "...and mark my many guns."

Donatien Larue Durand stood regarding the closed door but a moment before returning to his new environs. Clearly he had traded down in comforts, for the new room with its broken door was almost half the size of the one he had slept in the night before. Also, the bed was smaller, and for a man of his stature it presented itself like a coffin. He made a dismissive sound and kicked off the heavy boots which had served him all day in the jungle. He also shed the heavy night coat and his brace of pistols. He worried his good eye with the heel of his hand, yawning as he did so. He undressed to the waist and bathed his face in fresh water. Then he appreciated the nearly blackened coals of the fire a moment before measuring himself against the bed. It was half a foot too short. He chuckled again, sober enough to wonder if he would remember all of this in the morning. Then he remembered the door and he got up to push a heavy chair against it for the night. This served to keep it closed, and satisfied that it would offer privacy if not security, he went to bed. He was rewarded by bedcoverings recently occupied and comfortably warm, though with the night as warm as it had been this was not the reward that greeted him with the most delight. Instead, it was the subtle perfume on the pillow which caused a smile to spread across his face. It was not a strong or heady perfume, as a woman of high status might have worn. Artificial. Costly. No. This was the gentle, clean, soaped skin scent of a more approachable woman. Humble. Genuine. Real. "Parfum de chair." he said quietly in the dark and thanked his lucky stars to have been a fool.

Jenny was in her new apartment but a moment, when a knock, polite but with an air of irony, came at her new door. She opened it once more to reveal her recent assailant who wore the smile of the apologist. "Vous...demander pardon..." he said, gesturing to several parcels tucked away at the window. She understood at once and allowed him entrance to fetch his things. He did this with a grace previously lost in drink, gathering up everything in his arms and going out again. Then he paused and turned in the doorway. "J'insiste sur le fait que vous dinez avec le demain." he stated, and it was not a question. "Par des...excuses." he explained.

"Je suis désolé, jeune fille. Je ne suis pas où je devrais être." he said as graciously as possible, bowing low, though his good eye gleamed as much as the glass one. His smile was that of the surprised rogue then and he went to remove a hat from his head, but finding none, he made a clumsy gesture with the hand still holding the battered key. Then, noting the damaged casement of her door, he straightened again, facing towards the door opposite hers on the hallway. "Ahhh." he said aloud, as if an idea of surpassing significance had revealed itself to him. He stepped over the lantern and slid the key into the lock there. It clicked so effortlessly that he gave over to another chuckle and turned to her again, brushing the opposite door open as he did so. "Votre nouvel appartement, jeune fille." he said, gesturing to the newly opened room. "Je prendrai la porte sans surveillance"

The man stepped into the room almost at once, leaving the lantern where he had set it outside of the room. This left him even less illuminated than he had been in the hallway. He was tall, broad in the shoulders, and he listed as if unsteadied by drink. He was heavily dressed, wearing many inner and outer raiments. His head was unadorned, even by hair, but the only immediate and discernible feature, even in the near dark, was the absence of his right eye. There wasn't anything particularly amiss about that side of his face, but even in the shadowy light his features seemed diminished by a solitary orb. This was not made obvious by any cavity there, but rather for a gleam that shown unnaturally from that side of his face. There was something almost animal-like about it and it had a mesmerizing quality that was disconcerting at once. "Que nous ont ici ?" the man slurred, though he seemed to be sobering rather quickly to his surroundings. "Qui êtes-vous ? Venez, venez...Parlez vers le haut." The man noted the woman's urgency to arm herself, though his bafflement seemed unabated. He looked down at the key and to the door itself, and back once more to Miss Ashcombe. Then he chuckled. It was a good sound. It rose from somewhere deep within him. Still, Miss Ashcombe seemed more drawn to the brace of pistols he carried with him, so he put off laughing at once. "Mes excuses, manque. Il s'avère que je suis perdu..."

July 31, 1704 - The Chateau Anse Eight bells of the Mid Watch Miss Ashcombe's temporary lodging was as still and quiet as the rest of the inn, but for the fiddling of a key in the lock of the door. This small, but persistent sound continued as she slept, gradually altering from persistence to aggravation, for the person attempting to gain entrance to the room seemed undaunted by the fact that the lock and its tumblers were not giving over to the turn of this particular key. Jenny stirred more than once, due to this small disturbance, but only enough to escape those dreams she was privy to, not enough to wake. And still, the key rattled in the lock. After a time, the interloper at the door began to press upon the door with some earnestness, hoping to do by force what the lock would not allow by finese. The door shuddered ever so slightly as the insistent individual threw a shoulder against it. Jenny woke up in the dark, and for a moment she could register nothing amiss, but for being awake. The person at the door had halted the attempt to gain access, but only long enough to find better purchase. The pause between the first assault on the door and the second one was just long enough for Jenny to turn again from the door when it burst upon its framework. Miss Ashcombe was as suddenly awake as she had been asleep, for looming in the door was a very befuddled looking man armed with a bottle, half drained, and an abused key, standing in the low light of a lantern set upon the floor of the hallway. "Qui ou qu'êtes-vous ?"

Delicious. You can cut down four people with lead in a boarding action before drawing steel, provided that you have one for each hand of course.

No really...I do.

Thank you, Fayma. Persons with first aid experience are highly encouraged to make themselves known to the camps. Since the fort is a state park, they are required to have first aid kits available on site, but Harry has made it known to me that he doesn't mind additional and knowledgable people on site during the festival. Rather, he encourages us to have more first aid available rather than less. Have you considered playing a sawbones? Do you have period bandages and ghastly instruments?

I am suddenly reminded of the fellow at PIP 2005 that kept loading the cannon from the front instead of the side. He made the frustrated cannoners very nervous.

I am a fine shade of green at the moment.

With the camp size growing, and divided as it is between multiple camps, it might serve us well to have volunteers from each camp. With Harry in charge of the Redcoats, that would leave us with a volunteer from each of the other camps. Captain Sterling could appoint one of his own to be in charge of the Archangel crew. Callenish could cover the sutler's camp and we could choose one from among the Mercury Careening camp. All of these 'safety people' would then report to Braze and Cascabel who in turn report to the park.

Black John. Captain. Privateer. Castrato.

I hear that someone got stabbed in...well...how shall I put this? Their nethers.

The idea of a morning meeting in regards to safety is a good one, and it can't hurt to have knowledgable people in all camps. Historically, Braze and Cascabel have been in charge of the battles, so please keep them in the loop as we go along. Callenish is also well experienced in the use of black powder, as is Patrick.

I came across this by accident this morning... http://www.fao.org/docrep/field/003/L3251E...51E11.htm#draw2 Not longboats, but some interesting free plans just the same.

Your pardon, sah. I slipped into my most suspicious of moods.

Why do you ask...? Where do your loyalties lie? Who has paid you to discover our inner circle...? Come, sah, we will have your answers!

July 31, 1704 - In the jungles of Martinique Nearly eight bells of the Mid Watch It was a warm night in the jungles of Martinique. Warm and alive. The jungle teemed with life of all varieties. Insects, snakes, lizards and wild birds all moving about in the half light of a creeping and purple pre-dawn. Everywhere there was life. Colorful. Beautiful. Natural. Among all of these natural wonders of the jungle danced God's least natural creation, born the only son of Cormac and Aingeal Tenille. Had anyone come upon this reedy and ghastly performer, what a sight they would have discovered. The fishmonger's son danced among the dark leaves of Martinique, naked but for a shoes and stockings. His two tone flesh, half sunburnt tan and half codfish, belied a long life in the sun, though he seemed to be more in his element lately. His face was a bruise of blisters and one ear was badly abused, though he smiled with the wide abandon of the lunatic. He limped a little, for reasons unapparent, and one hand was stained with veins that spoke of an infection. His hair, above and below was matted from the days unwashed and he was missing a fingernail, which made even his good hand look malformed. Tawny paused in his dancing to pop a blister on his face with the care of one performing the act on stage, and indeed he was, for a little girl watched from her bonds near a palm tree. She stared in horrid fascination at this half burned, half bleached creature which kept her captive in the darks recesses of the island. She wanted to scream. She had never in her life wanted to scream quite so much. The desire was so strong that it continually crept up in her throat like a bile of noise trying to usher forth from her. She could taste the terror in the back of her throat with every passing moment. It was a fountain of pure and utter horror that she continuously swallowed again and again and again. Tawny had left her there tied to the tree most of the day and night, all the while speaking to himself and her in a kind of mad soliloquy. When he had gone earlier in the day, she had prayed for destruction, happy to die rather than see that scarred and oozing face once more, but Tawny had returned. He smiled at her as the newest blister ran down his face and neck. The burns inflicted upon him by the ship's mess mate had destroyed a good part of the already awful features of his face. He had lost part of an eyelid to the searing solution and had very nearly lost the eye itself. One nostril was enflamed to twice the normal size it should have been and his ear, cut nearly in half by Robert Thatcher, was entirely the wrong color. "Stop yer starin', gerl. Tawny's not so easily flattered by attentions..." he cooed. "Tawny's without a comb and mirror, he is...but this here ear...ohhhhh." he shook his head. "Tawny's looks 'ill be wasted." Tawny made a 'tsk tsk' sound and shook his head again. The little just girl stared at him. He was naked, and this alone might have scared a girl of her years, but she had seen her share of the human form in all the many forms of it, raised a slave as she was. It wasn't his nudity, but his proximity, and that dripping face that frightened her. The damage done by Constance had also robbed Tawny of his mouth on one side, for the lips were gone at the corner there, replaced by bad teeth, puss, drool and not a little blood. 'It's the face of death and madness', she thought, though she thought this in her own tongue and with words more terrifying. "Tawny best fix this ear...eh gerl? Fix it fer good...aye. Fer good." He tittered and drew out a wicked looking instrument. Then, before she could grasp what he was about, he shaved off his own ear in one quick flick. Then he screamed and she joined him in screaming, letting loose the terror she had tried so hard to keep until the last. Christopher Daniels would have understood.

You trace the design onto the natural colored canvas and paint everything but the design black. The bones and other symbols are left natural.

I've done several flags this way, including the Pyrates of Treasure Cove's ensign... And the Weltanders flag...

We'll need a fiddler.

Wow, that's a really cool flag! Why thank you. I've been gone long enough not to notice the activity on this thread. There are some fine new additions.