Ransom

A most happy, rabble-rousing, off-roading, Dead Guy drinking, grand birthday to you, suh!

(Oh, and tell that Spaniard fella to have a nice birthday too, when you see him. )

A very Happy Birthday to you, William. Hope it is grand in every way!

Okay, I'm all signed up. But, here is an update. Apparently we will be posting the photos of our work on a Flickr site. So, if you don't have a Yahoo account (which I didn't), you'll have to sign up for one—flickr being part of Yahoo. Takes maybe five minutes. Then you join the Sketchbook Challenge group. It's pretty kewl, because they have already started a thread where everyone is giving links to their blog/web sites. So, the interaction has already begun.

Come on, y'all, it'll be fun!

Pew, if you still wanted to do this, setting up a blog is easy-peasy, and fun (www.blogspot.com), or, you could just do the challenge, then post your pictures on photobucket or some such, and then post a link here.

I like this Challenge because:

A} My book stays home.

B} My participation isn't "official", so if I decide the themes they pick are uninteresting, I can quit without pissing anyone off.

C} It's a nice change from pirate stuff.

D) It's a fun motivator to try something new.

I'm not starting a new journal round...been there, done that. This is a website that is offering a sketchbook/art journal challenge to about two-dozen artists, who will post pictures of their work, give tutorials, and talk about what supplies they used.

The fun part is, they have asked anyone who wants to follow along with their own journals, to participate...in a non-official way. Here is the lowdown.

Challenge

For those of you who have blog sites, or web sites, here is a chance to post links to them, show off your work/writing, and get some traffic. There is one theme posted each month. Not too intimidating. You create a journal page/pages using that theme, post them to your blog/web site, then post a link to them in the Challenge "Comments" section. Your links will be available to everyone following the challenge, and theirs will be available to you.

And, if you decide after a few months you're no longer interested, you can just stop posting the links to your site. You haven't screwed up a journal round, or let anyone down, you've just changed your mind.

Okay, so it's not about pyrates — Then again, depending on what themes are posted, you might be able to work them in. What you can do is show off your art/writing skills in a fun environment with other like-minded folks. Kewl.

AND, if for those who do decide to play, we could post pictures of the journal pages here as well.

So, food for thought, mateys.

Whenever I feel decrepitude sneaking up on me, I always reach for a glass of wine. Decrepitude always seems to creep up on me about the same time every day...around four of the clock.

Hope your birthday is grand, suh. In every way.

Hey Ransom..... how was Steamcon?.....

Alas, we had to bail out and couldn't go. Mainly due to money, or the lack thereof. The $1000.00 repair bill on my truck pretty much killed the trip. Which was such a bummer, 'cause I was so looking forward to showing off my Thunderbus. We didn't go to Ojai either, for the same reason. Just couldn't afford it this year. Instead of SteamCon, we went up to Portland to the Swashbuckler's Ball. It was way closer to where we live, and only one night away from home. Had a great time there.

So, next year SteamCon will be in October, and we're REALLY going to try and make it then.

I'm just bumping this up again, to remind all you scallywags that a lot of your mates here at the Pub make a great variety of things that would make perfect holiday gifts. So, scroll back through this thread, check out the goods available, and support a fellow pirate. Let's face it, we need the money in order to keep playing! LOL

And a Happy Thanksgiving to you all!

My eyes, my eyes!!!! :lol:

(But, er, nice legs though. LOL)

I can see it now...."Pyrates Take Over Etsy!"

Some new pieces in my shop, BTW. Take a look. ( Link in signature)

I'm not always on a ship, mate.

Another classic to add to your video library! LOL Very well done, indeed.

Looks like you had a grand time, Patrick, even with the rain, mud and dust. I love all the little items on your table. Where did you find the clock, or did you make that as well.

Arthur approached their table, pulled up a chair and sat next to Helena. He seemed nervous, his expression one of puzzlement, as if he were struggling with something he didn’t understand, or couldn’t believe.

He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then looked at Alex. “This is going to sound crazy, which is why I haven’t said anything about it so far this evening. I’ve been pondering it over and over in my mind, and want to run it by you first, see what you think.”

“What’s up?” Alex asked, visibly bracing himself for more bad news.

“There was something about the things I saw on La Perla that have me puzzled.”

Helena remembered Arthur’s careful examination of the shoe, the clothes, and the boat. How he’d seemed fascinated by them. Had he noticed something the rest of them had missed?

“What did you see, Arthur?” she asked.

Still, the history teacher hesitated.

“Come on, Arthur, spit it out. What’s bothering you?” Alex demanded.

“Well, for one thing, the boat. It’s not milled. I mean the wood wasn’t milled. Even the oars were hand-carved. All the metal fittings were hand-forged. Everything on the sail was hand-sewn, no machine stitching anywhere. And the boat planks were sealed with tar and oakum.”

Alex shrugged. “So its a really good reproduction. Why is that strange?”

“Because it’s too good a reproduction. The wood is oak and it’s aged from long use. The growths on the hull show it’s been in the water a long time, and most of them are still alive. That means the boat wasn’t washed up on the beach and abandoned for years and years. If that were the case, the growths and barnacles would all be long dead.”

“You know how fanatical some of these reenactment members can get. Isn’t it conceivable they could have acquired the timber and fittings from the remains of some old boat and reconstructed it?” Helena asked. “After all, you can get anything on eBay these days.”

Arthur shook his head. “It’s conceivable, but highly unlikely. Then there’s the shoe, the clothes, and the water skin.”

“What about them?” He had Alex’s full attention.

“The shoe was cobbled, and very poorly, not manufactured. The water skin looked old and foreign, the painted designs African or South American. And ... it was cut up. Strips had been sliced off.”

“Why would someone slice up a water skin?” Alex asked.

“Bear with me, because this is where things get weird,” Arthur replied. “The water skin was just that, a skin. People who are starving will eat anything in order to survive. Some of the strips had teeth marks on them. Whoever it belonged to, adrift in that boat, might have been desperate enough to try and eat it.”

“Eat that disgusting thing?” Helena imagined she’d have to be nearly dead before she would consider eating anything so gross.

“When it’s a choice between eating or dying, I’d say, yes.”

Alex cut in, “What’s the point you’re trying to make, Arthur?”

Arthur took a drink from his own glass, as if to bolster his courage. “I think the boat and everything in it was made before the industrial revolution. Way before.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, then Alex said, “You’re joking.”

“I don’t think so. Now you know why I didn’t say anything about this right away. I needed time to think it over.”

Helena was incredulous. “You’re sure they couldn’t be just really good reproductions?”

“At first that’s what I did think. Damned impressed, too. But the more I looked at the stuff, the more I felt it, smelled it, I suddenly got this tingling down my spine. I was sure I was touching the real thing, not some counterfeit.”

“But, Arthur,” Helena stammered, “that’s not possible. How did the boat get on La Perla? If left by early explorers, it would have rotted away ages ago. You must be mistaken.”

“I think it more likely you’ve found a really good reproduction.” Alex leaned back in his chair again, the almost empty glass of brandy cradled in his lap. “There are a certain percentage of reenactors who will go to extreme lengths to replicate the tools and construction methods of the past. There must be dozens of pirate groups along the Florida coast. Any one of them could have used San Cristobal in the same way we have. Or, it’s some loner. Tibbits scared him or threatened him, and the guy panicked.”

A sudden thought occurred to Helena, and the fear within her flared again, stronger than ever. She faced Alex, hating to contradict his theory on the motives for the killing, but compelled to voice her fear.

“Alex, what if someone within the PFC wasn’t satisfied with just camaraderie? What if they came to San Cristobal because they wanted a chance to cross the line between reenactment and reality? They weren’t content playing a pirate. What if, in their mind, they think they are a pirate?”

“You mean some fanatic, who would go to all the trouble of making a real long boat, using old tools, cobbling his own shoes, and killing anyone who intruded on his dream world?”

“Something like that.”

“Funny, I don’t recall anyone lugging a long boat onto the ferry.” Alex replied.

Helena, stung by his sarcasm, snapped, “Well, have you got a better idea? I don’t buy your poor loner theory. A loner would have avoided Tibbits, not killed him.”

Arthur, who had stared at his hands during their debate, looked up. “Assuming the long boat is a reproduction, and I still don’t think it is, then Helena’s explanation makes more sense.” He met Alex’s hard stare. “Maybe one of the PFCers who didn’t have a ticket for the event, but who liked the idea of a vulnerable group of people in an isolated spot, decided it was the perfect place for him to play out his fantasy. If that’s the case, then he most probably got here before us, rather than cross with us on the ferry. There are just two little snags to that theory.”

“What snags?” Alex asked.

“Snag number one, a PFCer probably isn’t going to be hungry enough to attempt to eat a water skin. Snag number two, the shirt had blood stains on the back of it. In a crisscross pattern, as if its previous owner had been whipped. I don’t think even the most fanatic role-player on the planet would whip himself for authenticity.”

“What are you implying? That not only is the boat pre-industrial, but so is its owner?” Alex gave a soft chuckle. “Arthur, I think you’ve had too much brandy for one night.”

“Each item if found by itself might be explained, but with all of it found together in one spot, you gotta start asking yourself questions. The biggest one being, how the hell did the stuff get there?” Arthur was not being facetious. In fact, Helena was certain the outlandish idea had him quite excited.

Alex looked from one to the other, clearly tryingto decide whether to believe them, or dismiss either of their ideas as totally nuts. He leaned forward and carefully put his empty glass on the table.

“I find it easier to believe in Helena’s role-playing fanatic, than I do Arthur’s opinion that the boat and whoever brought it here are over three hundred years old.”

Arthur smiled. “I have a pretty hard time believing it myself. However, the first thing I plan to do when we get back to the mainland, is figure out a way to get that boat, along with all the other artifacts, to a place where they can be examined by experts.”

“In the meantime, if my theory is correct,” Helena interrupted, “we’ve got a nut case running around who thinks he’s Blackbeard reincarnated.”

“Which makes our situation worse,” Alex said. “I can understand why someone might feel compelled to kill Tibbits. He was a belligerent asshole. But someone who has gone totally mental, thinks he really is a pirate, would even flog himself, isn’t likely to stop at just one killing.”

Helena met Alex’s eyes. “To him, we’re just fantasy figures, like in a video game. Except, if we die, we don’t pop back to life when the new game starts.”

“Or.” Arthur downed the last of his brandy. “We’re dealing with something even stranger. Which begs the questions, where did he come from, how the hell did he get here, and what does he want?”

Done! LOL, in that pic, ye look like a member of ZZ Top, before their beards went white.

Oh nooooo, are you talking about my tusshie again! :P

Wait, no, I think it must be Debbie's tusshie. Yeah, that's it.

BTW, Patrick, I was showing off my Bombardier's Thunderbuss to visiting family last night. They were very impressed!

Yesterday I received in the mail a very special communique from a Col. Patterson. It was postmarked Sept. 4 2010, Black Rock City. The brief message within talked of the observations being made of weather conditions, photographic opportunities, and the special attention soon to be given to something called "Critical Tits", which I can only speculate on. The unique postmark and lively report, make this missive very special, and will be put among the receiver's most important papers and correspondence.

Hadn't been to the Firefly Props site in a while. Have been catching up on the Ransom history. William, your descriptions and back history are so intense and detailed, I feel like I've actually been there. It also gave me a lot to think about, as regards the minor character of Solange, and her establishment Solar Flare Exotic Gems. I'll have to read your histories a few times before it all sinks in, but back-story for Solange has started percolating in my head.

Extremely well done, suh!

Just a reminder...it's coming up soon. Got your "Weird, Weird West" garb yet? That's the theme this year. Hope to see you in Seattle in November.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

September 20

Boca camp, San Cristobal Island

An eery quiet had fallen over the PFC camp. Helena and the other members of Alex’s group stayed together, as did the other crews. No fire danced cheerfully at the Bilge Rat. There was no singing, no fiddle playing. The campground was darker than ever, the ocean more vast, the island more remote. In defense, the PFCers had separated into tribes, staying among those they thought they could trust.

After assigning volunteers to guard the spring and placing lookouts along the ridge, Alex had retreated to the Boca camp. Arthur, exercising his culinary skills, made sure dinner that night consisted of as much comfort food as their remaining fresh supplies would allow. Bill had opened a bottle of brandy afterwards, and no one refused an offered glass.

Helena and Alex sat across from each other at the folding table, both sipping the expensive liquor. Helena was being especially cautious after her experience that morning, but the brandy soothed her unsettled stomach, and blunted the edge of fear knifing at her insides. One of the lookouts had reported seeing someone cross to La Perla, but as instructed, had contacted Alex. As of this moment, no one knew if the person was still there, or had crossed back while the guard was reporting in. The most disturbing thing about the sighting, was that the stranger appeared to be dressed like a pirate.

In one respect, Helena thought, the sighting of the stranger was a relief. It meant neither she nor Alex were still under suspicion, a feeling that had haunted them both since the body of Tibbits had been found. She was grateful of Bill’s warning, or Rum Runner’s accusations would have blindsided her. The looks cast Alex’s way, before the group had discovered the little camp on La Perla, spoke volumes. As Rum Runner had insisted, almost everyone heard the threats the two of them had made to Tibbits the previous night. Both of them had good cause to hate the man. With no one else to blame, the collective finger had pointed at them. Now it could point at someone else.

She took another sip of the brandy, letting its warmth slide down her throat. Alex remained quiet, staring at the glass lightly wrapped within his fingers, as if the liquor radiated warmth like a cup of hot coffee. For the first time since they’d met, she felt awkward around him. Although he’d assured her again that Sandyhad put him up the previous night, their bitter exchanges over the course of the day still hung in the air between them, and she fumbled for something neutral to say.

He must have sensed her uneasiness, for he looked up, smiled and said, “This event has turned a little too pirate-like even for me.”

Treading carefully, she asked, “Why did you join the PFC? I know you liked pirates as a kid, read all the books, but not everyone who enjoys a certain era in history attempts to recreate it in real life. They’re content with collecting memorabilia, or watching movies.”

He sniffed. “What you’re really asking is, why do I run around acting like a kid?”

“Partly, but I already know there’s more to it than just fun. Otherwise you’d have become bored with the whole thing. But you’re not really recreating the past, either.”

The hard look he’d given her earlier that morning returned. “Helena, I’m not stupid enough to think you can bring back the past. Nor would I want to. I have no desire to abolish the use of antibiotics, drink typhoid-infected water, or bring back the plague. I like air conditioning and modern medicine, and I sure as hell wouldn’t give up my truck.”

She smiled, knowing how much he liked his black truck with the skull and crossbones sticker in the rear window. He’d even named it Black Mariah, and referred to it as her, as if it were a ship.

“What we’re attempting here,” he gestured to the campsite, lanterns and forbidden candles glowing in the darkness, “and at any of the events we hold, is to give people a hint of what life back then might have been like. A ... glimmer of life from another time. If we just wanted to have fun, we could run around with fake swords, halloween costumes, and all wear stuffed parrots on our shoulders. Instead we research everything we wear, every piece of equipment we use, because we want to get as close to the real thing as possible.”

“I understand your dedication. I just don’t think you can even get close to what life was like for a real pirate.”

“I can’t.” He looked exasperated at her inability to grasp the point he was trying to make. “People back then thought about their world in a completely different way. They feared God in a different way, and lived under a form of rule totally foreign to us. Their food tasted different, and the air they breathed smelled different. They put up with abuse and living conditions that would horrify us, and they regarded death as a day to day threat.”

She tried to interrupt him, slow the tirade, but he was too intent on making her understand.

“That’s the way life was back then. Let’s face it, you grow up seeing rotting heads on pikes as a warning to criminals, or watch carts loaded with plague dead being hauled away, it sort of deadens your sensibilities. It’s the way our time will be looked on by someone in the twenty-fifth century, assuming the planet lasts that long and we don’t nuke it into atoms. They’ll look at a 2006 Mercedes in the same way we look at a coach-and-four from 1706.”

“You make the times sound pretty grim. What’s the attraction?”

He leaned back in his chair. “The romance of it. The simplicity of it. The rare freedom the pirates had, compared to sailors on war ships or merchantmen, or everyday citizens, for that matter. They had their own set of rules, quite democratic for the times, to which they each adhered. That’s what I was trying to recreate here. Not the filth, or the savagery, but the camaraderie. The bonding together under adverse conditions.” He sat up, took a swallow of the brandy, and gave her a crooked smile. “Tough to feel a sense of camaraderie during rush hour gridlock, or talking on the phone to some computer while trying to straighten out an error on your credit card bill.”

She tried to lighten his dark mood. “I thought that’s what guys did at football games, or sports bars. They bonded.”

His smile softened to the one she loved. “I guess that’s true, but you can’t really say the conditions are adverse.” He gave a resigned shrug. “I just think people today are too disconnected from each other. They spend all their time watching TV or peering into a computer screen. There are drive-through banks, fast food, and instant messaging. Hell, you have people walking around with cellphone headsets on all the time, so they don’t even hear the real world. At least at a PFC event you interact with other human beings.”

Helena had never seen him so serious. “Alex, this is the first time you’ve let me see past that boyish facade you hide behind.” The realization was painful.

He gave her a rueful smile. “This is the first time I’ve had to deal with a murder.”

It was even more painful to her that he made no attempt to deny that all he’d shown her for the last six months was a screen, hiding the true man. What other secrets were buried within him? What dreams did he have, that he felt he couldn’t share?

They sat silent for a long time, and because the camp was so quiet, Helena could hear the chorus of frogs from the salt marsh, barely discernible over the rumbling surf.

I agree with Bo. I have always liked the smuggler's aspect of pyracy, and actually base my Ransom character more on a smuggler than an actual pyrate. I haven't done any real research on it, but I suspect there are fewer sites devoted to smuggling than pyracy, so you might look into that as a niche topic, as per Mission's suggestion.

I've read a little about "Bas Lag". Thought I might try a few other Steampunk novels. What is your favorite and why?

I've only read one, titled The Dark Volume by Gorden Dahlquist. It was good, but needed editing, because at 400+ pages it was way too long. The story started to drag. I think it would have been better if reduced by about a third, and the story would have moved along better. Just my two-bits worth, though.

Got mine today. Love them. Patrick, you "crack" me up! And I think the Ransom card is amazing. I may use it as part of my sig.

Also, to all. I'm having internet problems, caused by a bad DSL box. Can't get a new one from the server until Wednesday or Thursday. It sucks, but there you are.

I'm sure She does, and I'm sure you'll have a good time. (BTW, others might have just called it good Karma. )