William Brand

Welcome back, Ciaran. Pull up a chair and tell us stories of your travels.

We could all use a mocha latte...

I'm in the mood for olive tamenade over french bread.

Yes.

I'm missing the Holy Land, so today's special is falafel with cucumber sauce... Now I'm really missing it.

(In the safe company of the French) It was the linen that undid him most. Clean, cool linen. William would have said that it was a fool's wish to die in bed, but now having tasted the bilge, he thought he might not mind a quiet death in a clean bed. He was asleep almost at once, and had been for hours. While asleep, he dreamt of Jaffa with its small fishing boats. He dreamt of the wells of Jerico, the glass blowers of Na'ur, and the waterfalls of Ein Geddi. Then he was on the market streets below David's Citadel buying dates and street breads. His mind was awash with a thousand different sights, sounds and fragrances. Hawije, turmeric and frankincense filled his wandering thoughts with color and memory. He was in and out of shadows, crossing under a hundred market awnings. Lost in another place, the dreams were a balm.

He almost fell over twice as they uprighted him. "My legs have been dead to me for days. A combination of the ropes and my stay here in storage, I expect." They understood in a moment and additional subordinates were sent for to carry him into the open air above. He went up wrapped in spare sailcloth, both to bear him with better care and to stave off some of the smell. He came up to the weatherdecks like a leper king borne by many servants. He was given a moment in his passage to eye the crew that had survived Fournier's attack. Standing among them were a few of his abusers. Chief amongst these was the traitorous Muller. Nothing then could have stopped the smile that crossed his damaged features. It spread like a storm in his bruised face. It was a mouth of bloodied teeth and pure vengeful joy. William mouthed a solitary word to Muller. "Soon."

No one likes to be critiqued. Flattery is so much more pleasant. Thanks for changes to the site, and the best of luck on the project. We all wish we could have our own period place.

William was all but face down in the bilge when the voices arrived in the lower holds. The French that passed between the unseen individuals was unmistakable, though at first, he thought he recognized none of them. Then he heard Fournier speak. It was his commanding tone as much as his voice that rendered him familiar. William couldn't help but smile. Soon after, young hands and old hands alike were taking away timbers and shattered barrels. More than once he heard profane exclamations at the smell and destruction. When he was last exhumed from that grave place in the hold, he was met by the surprised faces of Fournier and one of his a subordinates. William smiled gratefully through a broken face. It hurt to smile, but he was grateful enough that he would have shed tears anyway. To be rescued from absolute indignity into the hospitality of an equal was more than he could have hoped for. He also couldn't help but think on the justice he might have upon some of those who had left him in this place. He had thought it would be enough just to be rescued, but some part of him still wanted to crush Muller. "Fournier...if I spend any more time in your company, I will be obligated to learn La Marseillaise." He wept and laughed then. He was too tired not to.

Another report of gunpowder from an even smaller weapon. "That was an execution." William thought, assured by the silence that followed it. "Someone has paid for an insolent and foolish mistake or an injury that required balancing."

Long after the sounds of fighting had ended above, William heard a single shot ring out. For a moment he thought someone might be executing prisoners, but there was far too much confusion afterward. Shouts and raised voices came down through the muffling planks. They were angry sounds, and William tried to make them out. "Was that French?"

Subtle.

Tonight's special is Apricot glazed pork...

Soon...

My crossed pistols...

Tonight's special is mudslides...

Patrick is upset due to a lack of information that we are waiting for privately. We have some special permissions that are not yet absolutely confirmed. It makes hotel reservations very difficult. We may have to run by the seat of our pants.

The Watch Dog is a virtual crew. Diego decided to attempt an experiment in virtual pyracy. Think of it as a form of Role-Playing or Theater in the round. The players make up a virtual crew that adventures in the Caribbean through the shared story of its many authors. I was asked to be Captain of the ship, even though I live miles from any other crew members in the real world. In addition to participating as a writer, I sometimes coordinate plots and subplots with the other members of the crew. The Watch Dog is a small, lithe little frigate based on the Shtandart (http://www.shtandart.com/). The evolution of the ship began with the selection of crew members. Most of the crew was recruited early on by Diego. After the project gained speed, we worked on the various plots and backstory for the ship. Players created their own backstory, but the Watch Dog was a damaged ship rescued from decay after a dark past as a blackbirder (slave ship). She was scraped, repaired and repainted. Now she serves as home to two dozen pirate players. Many of the crew members have met one another in real life. I have yet to attend a faire or festival with any of the crew, but PIP is just around the corner.

lol ARRRRRRRRRT!

You can't rate an 'art film'.

They have pink eye.

Ah, jeune dame, for dessert may I suggest the bread pudding?

July 9, 1704 It was hard not to flinch every time part of the hull disappeared. William was now reassured that it was day from the daylight that greased its way into the bilge from the half dozen shattered entrances made from cannon balls. The last one had destroyed the overhead beam of the compartment in which he was kept. It had come down almost upon his head. "I'll be killed by my rescuers." he mused. He was now gently buried under leaning fragments of wood and cask remains. One cannon ball must have struck an overhead barrel of wheat, for a fine powder of grain was settling everywhere. The bilge water, already thick with filth and stench, was now becoming a foul dough sprinkled with splinters. "Pirate pâtisserie a..." Another blast shook the ship from stem to stern. William heard his captors answer with their own small arsenal.

William was in the midst of his captive routine. The days were long and this day had been as uneventful as the rest, not that he was sure it was day. It might be the middle of the night. He had long since forgotten which hours the bells were sounding. All was a darkness and a foul stench going up forever and ever. "I'm in Hell." he mused. Then it happened. The sounds from above and below had been so constant that there could be no mistaking the muffled boom and shudder of a distant cannon and a not so distant impact. The ship shuddered from what must have been a well placed hit somewhere along the bulk of the hull. The combined distress of many voices overhead confirmed the hit. "The Watch Dog...?" he wondered. "Would they fire on a ship they hoped to rescue me from? I pity them for Mister Youngblood's aim and Mister Lasseter's tenacity. They'll make mince meat of this prison barge. To say nothing of the others if they ever make it aboard." His thoughts dwelt on his own mortality then and the predicament that he was in, presently. Still, he smiled in the dark, lamenting only that he was not on deck to watch the action. "Would that I could watch the carving of the bird."