Justric

The Highwayman Came Riding

I'd like to do a scene where she meets the Highwayman a short time later, an it please you. (Grins)

The Orphan's Wedding

Doesn't actually have a name. Or at least I didn't think to give it one, it's that small. So... have fun with it!

The Orphan's Wedding

Apples. Victor never thought he’d ever become so enraptured by the scent of apples. And pears. And the full and ripe blackberries that grew about in thick brambles around his farm’s orchard. For years he had been quietly despairing over the seeming fact that all he would ever smell would be the reek of sulfurous black powder, the stench of heavy coal dust and smoke, and the coppery tang of blood that always tickled the back of his tongue. Now, discharged and too lame to march, the young man reveled in the sweet smell of ripe fruit and loamy earth! Even the pitch and tar used for fixing his new home had been offset by the healthy aroma of fresh cut wood. Were he ever so disfigured or blinded, he could still be happy until death if he could just inhale these heavenly scents.

It wasn’t that he was all that old. Some twenty and five winters, maybe? He didn’t rightly know himself, having no clue as to his Natal Day. The great Hall of Records in Verrun might have the details of his birth, the great city-state being run by such meticulous clerks and counters as he might ever have imagined… or despised. As an orphan and a medically discharge infantryman, he was scarcely the sort they would bother to place any sort of importance upon. Victor knew most of his letters and could read a little. It was not enough for him to work his own way through the labyrinth of archives that reportedly ran for miles beneath Verrun’s Library, though. So instead he simply ignored the passage of the years, guessing as to what his own age might be when pressed and refusing to delve further into it.

He placed a scarred hand upon one of the trees. It was old and stout, with heavy apples of golden reds dangling among the autumnal leaves. Harvest time was soon. He couldn’t wait. Victor had been all too lucky to find the farm and orchard up for sale upon his discharge a year ago, lucky still he had been smart enough to save his pay instead of squandering it upon drink, doxies and dice like his comrades. Plunder had also filled his pockets. The dead soldiers of Poictesme (who in their own heathen tongue pronounced it ‘Pwa-tem’) had no use further use for their coppers and silvers, whereas Victor planned for a future. Having no home to return to, this tiny village far from the protection of Verrun and further still from the devastation of Poictesme was the perfect place to start a new life. He chuckled at the thought of his careless comrades who foolishly spent their coin and would be stuck sucking in the foul airs of factories and sweating at their masters’ forges. This small cottage and great barn? These hundreds of fruit bearing trees? These were all his. And if his shattered knee and twisted foot made the work harder, it made his apples all the sweeter to his tongue. There were no farm hands to help him, all off to war or in the service of some other master, so the work, and the rewards, would be his.

Off he paced slowly towards his cottage to prepare his evening meal, his dark thatch of hair ruffled by the wind. He chuckled again at the enjoyment of his freedom. Victor had nothing but his life before him. Mayhaps he might find a woman that took pleasure in such a plain face marred by the single long scar along his jaw and with brown eyes as his own, or who appreciated strong shoulders on a middling frame but with a game leg. The chuckle became a laugh. He knew from his early days that farming could be a hard life, a life in danger from vermin and droughts. But it was his life now, now the regiments and not the Council of Verrun’s. If only his iron fisted and whip wielding commanders could see him now, happy and content far from their tyrannies while they still faced death daily.

The Orphan's Wedding

Sorry of the delay. I'm in the middle of getting ready for the local convention season here.

The Highwayman Came Riding

"Robert Vaughn, Mistress Bess," he smiled smartly. Her... accommodating nature seemed promising, and should things go the way he sought a room would be a cheap enough expense for a night's pleasure, especially if she brought that same liveliness as she had just demonstrated! She was warm besides him. The way her hip brushed his own as they walked only made him smile all the wider, vivid images of what else she might rub against him flashing though his brain.

"And as for travel?" Chuckling as she took his arm, he could only hope to further impress her. "Why, I've come all the way from the Americas, my dear! There and back again! And eschewing the wondrous entertainments of London, I have come back to my own here." He gestured vaguely back over his shoulder towards the Vaughn estate and its pompously named 'Grenmere Hall.' Leaning his head down close to her ear, and so taking advantage of a closer view of her charms, he whispered confidentially in her ear. "And allow me to say that for all my travels and the sights that my eyes have seen that left me stunned before God's creation, you are the most beautiful of all that I have seen."

Through the door of the inn and he was bellowing in full swaggering confidence, "Hallo the inn! A place by your hearth and good health to you, innkeeper. Two draughts of your best dark stout! And rum! Rum, my good man, rum! I have a great thirst and coin for it." The liquor was more for her than him, to drown any reservations she might have and give her a good warm glow. Oh, those rosy cheeks! He was of no real doubt that she was far from a blushing maid, but the spirits should bring enough of a flush to her face to make her look of it. Boldly he grinned at Bess in anticipation. "And a greater appetite to follow!"

The inn, as he expected, was mostly empty. What few travelers as there might would still be well upon the road, the London Season not quite ended yet. A few more weeks and he knew he would find this place packed elbow to elbow with gentry between and betwixt the city and their country homes, leaving him mourning for his lost serenity. Now, however, he and the lively maid upon his arm had near privacy. Townsfolk would be about their business this late in the afternoon. A few older men, long past the age for chores, gawked at them as they entered, but he paid them no real mind. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled forth a half-crown and tossed it negligently upon the bar. "And should any man here have marched beneath the King's colors, let him drink from my wallet this night!"

My Own Little Tent In The Bazaar...

PMs sent to iSuspect and RavenWolf.

My Own Little Tent In The Bazaar...

PMs sent to both Mistress Dizzy and Elorwin.

The Highwayman Came Riding

The scent of fine Cavendish drifted up from the pipe's bowl in plumes, whisked away be the later afternoon wind as Vaughn strolled down the road. He had been worried the embers might well go out before he arrived at the inn, no easy method at hand for relighting while on the road, but fate had been with him. So with walking sticking one hand and briar in the other, he smiled to himself in contentment. Was there ever so perfect an afternoon? The sky above was a glorious azure, hung with a golden sun but filled with the gentlest of cooling breezes to keep off the late summer heat. Trees were still green and full. Bird song was clear and melodious to the ear while the solitude brought a quiet calm to his soul. Best of all? No wife. For the first time he began to see why tinkers and vagabonds might prefer life upon the road.

"Bah. Damn Londoners. They can keep their 'Season'," he sneered. "This? This is life!"

Rounding the bend in the lane, Vaughn saw a sight that only made him grin wider. Two young men, boys still actually, caught at some mischief along with a third. Their reactions were all too typical of some of the drummer boys and bandsmen he'd known, ashamed for having been caught and stuck in futile anger at the one doing the catching. His brown eyes danced merrily at the sight of boys being chastised by the older girl. No. Not a girl, he realized. That... is a woman! He felt his heart skip a little at the sight of her. Round and full, whereas his wife was slim and flat, and with flushed cheeks and dark eyes. And definitely full of spirit! He had to keep from laughing outright as she forcefully smote the one boy (her brother?) with whatever his 'prize' may have been and then chase the two about the road, striking their heads and scolding them harshly. It was like something right off of the stage! One of those strange, farce things by Moliere that his father had loved. Or-

Of course! Shakespeare! Was she not the very spirit and image of Kate?! The taunts she lashed her brother and the other young man with could well be called shrewish! And, God's Blood, wouldn't Robert love to tame her! He was a full blooded man of his time, a quiet romp with a doxy or willing tavern maid all part of life. There were few men he knew, even those of the cloth, who hadn't either keep a mistress or gone on the razzle now and then. It was so commonplace among the aristocracy and the well to do gentry that morality didn't even enter into it. And so pipe in hand, his tricorn set at a rakish angle upon his head, Robert approached her with the most charming smile as he could summon up. He tugged at the lace upon his wrist to straighten it as he spoke.

"Good morrow, Kate; for that's your name, I hear." He doubted she would get the reference, but he found it amusing to quote the play all the same. It was a wonder what she would make of him: overly tall in dark emerald frock and breeches, golden flowered waistcoat, black tricorn and boots. Robert knew he scarcely dressed at the height of fashion, but he was well aware that it was far more flash than the villagers themselves wore. Even if looks did not impress her, the display of modest wealth might. He waved his silver-tipped walking stick towards the inn. "I find this August weather has brought something of thirst to my throat. Is the barman at his taps and might you care to join me?"

The Highwayman Came Riding

Robert Vaughn. Captain in his Majesty's service, late of the King's American Dragoons. Decorated veteran of the American War of Independence. And now?

He fought from sighing in annoyance. Damn the colonists, damn the Horse Guard and bloody well damn all of London! Bad enough that Cornwallis had given up the ghost to Washington, but worse still was the reception when Robert had finally arrived home in London! He had heard that a goodly portion of English population actually supported the Americans. A sensible, stout minded man, Robert had dismissed it as alarmist talk. More the fool he when he returned to find it all too true. There were even members of the common public openly wearing broaches with the likenesses of Washington, Jefferson and Franklin upon them. His red coat with its blue facings brought little but scorn, disinterest at the least. Even the officials at Horse Guard had been less than thrilled to deal with him, an officer of minor provincial unit attempting to retire and collect his half pay. Instead fellow veterans helping a comrade out, he had discovered the purest hell of bureaucracy run by adjutants and aides that had never gotten the briefest whiff of black powder.

Questions, questions, questions, too many bloody questions! They had found no record of the order that transferred Robert from the 23rd Dragoons to the King's American Dragoons, and in there eyes if there was no paper then it did not happen. Never mind that he had received correspondence from Horse Guard addressed to him as an officer of the KAD! They then had fallen to threats and intimidation: how involved had he been with the destruction of a graveyard and church to build fortifications in New York? He hadn't been in the least, the orders actually coming from far above him or anyone else in the unit! Brushing it all aside, the clerks in their finery then attempted evasion: The KAD were stationed now in New Brunswick, did the Captain wish to remain with them there? Or perhaps purchase a recently opened Majority in the 23rd, now the 19th Light, bound for exotic India?

No, he did bloody well not! Three weeks of this nonsense went by until out of desperation he had called upon his former commander, now Lord Rumsford, to come to his aid. Lord Rumsford was sympathetic enough to come to his plight, with the understanding that such favors had best not be called upon too often... or at all after this.

Weary of the indifferent public and the snide society of the wealthy, Robert had decided to simply remove himself from London. The countryside of northern England was... peaceful. Relaxing. Idyllic, even, with its rolling green hills and wandering streams! The family manor had not been properly tended for the duration of the war, his wife far more interested in remaining in the highlife of gentility at their townhouse. But Robert had made plans. Repairs were well underway, the house habitable even if the grounds needed quite some tending. He was quite looking forward to a life of leisure away from the battlefield and away from the gossiping tongues of scandal that ran amok in 'polite' society. There was even a quant little inn just down past the village. It reminded him of the tavern he and his fellow officers had commandeered in Huntington. If only-

His valet interrupted. "Sir? You wife requests your presence in the parlor."

Robert felt every ounce of joy taken in his new sanctuary drain away. His wife. Why in God's name had she insisted on coming?? Five years had changed him, he knew. And it could scarcely be her fault, he was all too aware. He simply was no longer in love with her. Times had been when her tender young frame pressed against his six foot stature had brought the greatest of pleasure, her delicate hands caressing his brown hair more soothing than the finest, hottest tea, and her voice! Such a voice as to sing to make angel's weep, he once wrote of her! Now he was simply tired of her. She would find no real joy in rural life, he knew. She was a creature born to dances and masques, fond of entertaining friends and neighbors and engaging in the latest gossips and fashions. In his war ravaged eyes, he saw her as a simpering, weak willed wisp of a woman with no real spirit.

Straightening his cravat in the mirror, Robert shrugged into his second best black frock coat as his valet helped. He decided that a retreat was in order. "I think I'm off for a bit of... what's that Scottish word? Lunting! That's it! Nice walk along the lane with a good pipe. Just the thing for me."

"Just as you say, sir," the older man nodded sagely. His gentleman's gentleman was no gentleman, but a former sergeant and Robert's trusted aid. Robert knew he could rely on Higgins. "Shame you left before I could finds you, sir. I'll attend her ladyship direct I will."

"Good man, Higgins. Good man." He ran a quick hand over his jaw to ensure his stubble was not too noticeable, grimacing at the thirty-some odd face that glared back at him in the mirror. Robert would never have called himself an attractive man. Handsome in a rather rough way, perhaps, but never attractive. He honestly did not see whatever it was his wife saw in him. "There's that inn just down the way. I think I shall stop for a quiet pint or two. Possibly three, should I dare to be reckless."

Missing in the Guild! (MIG) A topic to post lost ones and found them.

Still looking for Wrenfly.