Lo Pellegrino

Scourge of the Seas

@BlondyMcHuggles I love the characters and stories folks are starting so far, but I notice it's pretty quiet in here. Any ideas on inspiring more activity around here?

Scourge of the Seas

1 June 1715 - St. John's Town, Antego

A cloud smoke obscured the bustling shanty. It smelled of tobacco, warm beer, and musky sailours, yet not a single complaint could be heard over the drunken revelry. Men of many classes collected in the humble little tavern so that the well-dressed Spanish officer only looked a touch out of place. Still, like any man so distinguished, the Spaniard conducted his business with his assistant and the Englishman across from them smoothly.

"Eso es demasiado para un mapa," scoffed Capitáno Avecedo. He slammed a fist against the wooden table. It wobbled from the force and tipped the tankards until beer spilt out.

The Englishman grimaced and looked at the captain's servant. Francisco met the gaze quickly, hoping his confusion escaped notice. He found a mix of judgment and aggression in the man's eyes that gave him pause. The man's worn, sun-faded long coat was patched and stitched heavily. It added an otherworldly look to the Englishman that made his unkempt beard and hair all the wilder.

"This is too much for a map," Francisco translated, finally.

"You must be misspeakin', groid. We're talkin' about more than a map," the Englishman retorted in a hard, gravelly voice. He leaned closer until his worn, sun-faded coat soaked with beer. "P'haps yer monkey brain can't grasp it. This's safe passage tuh riches. E'erthin' from sea dragons tuh whirlpools tuh known patrols. Should be askin' for more, really."

Francisco blinked and gripped the handle of his tankard tighter. He took a drink, glancing to the captain over the rim. Avecedo sat back and let his arms fall to the sides of his chair. The Spaniard looked larger than before in his fine, layered coats, but something Francisco could not quite put a finger on also appeared off.

The Englishman cleared his throat. "Listen, if business in't goin' tuh happen I can think of bettuh ways tuh waste muh time."

"Siéntate, maldito perro."

"Sit down, dog."

"Scuse me?" the Englishmen barked as he jumped to his feet. A brief, yet sharp scrape of wood-on-wood earned the gaze of others around the bar.

Capitáno Avecedo pulled a pistol from beneath the table. Looking down the barrel of the Spanish blunderbuss, the Englishman's face paled. "My asistente speaks to you politely, though he clearly fails to grasp that such modales are wasted on the likes of you. Now, señor, shall we continue negotiating?" The Englishman nodded and Avecedo nudged his head toward a chair closer to himself. "Mullato, relieve nuestro amigo of his pistols, por favor."

Without meeting the Englishman's eye, Francisco did as instructed. One wheellock a little larger than the capitáno's blunderbuss and twin flintlock pistols that seemed, to him, more suitable for an officer. Avecedo noticed as well. Francisco deposited two of the weapons into his satchel and kept a flintlock in hand.

When the Englishman took a seat Avecedo responded with a smile. "Beautiful pieces, señor. If I return them to you, that should over the map, sí?"

The Englishman grew red in the face. He made to speak then his eyes flicked to the blunderbuss and his jaw tightened instead. He nodded and reached inside his coat. By the time Francisco raised the pilfered flintlock the Spaniard's blunderbuss was already in place. Its barrel pressed against the Englishman's mouth as if a comical mask. Slowly, he revealed a rolled piece of parchment.

"Gracias por hacer negocios."

Leaving the tavern, Francisco allowed the captain to walk ahead. He'd learned early on to play how others' viewed themselves and Spanish officers, naturally, preferred to lead. It helped that Capitáno Avecedo walked briskly. Despite being more than twice Francisco's age, his speed revealed a man full of vigour. He was roughly the same height as Francisco with arms and legs thickened by the demands of the sea. However, despite all the characteristics of a man still in his prime, Avecedo could not stop the greying hair or wrinkling skin others less fortunate never saw. It wasn't until now that it occurred to Francisco the captain was growing old. He thought of his father.

They walked deeper into the town until the docks, and La Cadena Negra, was no longer in view. St. John's Town sprawled out further than Francisco expected. Buildings of sun-bleached stone and wood-lined relatively decent roads giving clear access to the bustling markets, farmstands, and entertainers. Merchants exclaimed their wares, eyes following sailors who looked heavy with coin. While the captain ignored it all without so much as a smile, Francisco was enamoured. This was a proper town, after all. More than a shanty bar with watered down beer and hay beds and whores boasting itself a grand isle. He imagined St. John's Town had all of those things, of course, but it was the charm that delighted him. His eyes wandered toward a building with roses woven over a decorative metal frame above the door and a British woman looking out. Their gazes met, her's longing and his curious. She curtsied, revealing much of her breasts, and she waved him toward.

"¿Estás escuchando?"

Francisco's attention snapped back to the captain. "Lo siento."

"Where is your focus, Mulato?" Avecedo glanced around the street until he found the brothel. As if on cue, the woman repeated the scene. "Oh. Well."

"Mis disculpas. How can I be of help, Capitáno?"

Raising a hand to his eye, to his assistant and shook his head. "No apologies. I..." he paused and smiled. "I understand. I trust your attention is stronger than your impulsos?"

"Sí."

"Muy bien. I need you to find el cartógrafo by the name of Josiah Kenway. Él puede verificar que el mapa sea verdadero. Do not lose either of these, entiende?"

Avecedo scanned the street then stopped. Following suit, Francisco found many walking about the street, but none paying them more than a brief glance. The captain handed him the rolled parchment and a small coin purse making sure each were firmly grasped before letting go. It might have been the closest thing to payment he'd received since boarding La Cadena Negra.

"Entendido. Where shall I find you after?" His assistant looked at the woman in front of the brothel as she enticed others passing by. She appeared successful.

"Diablillo," the captain replied. His voice sounded soft, but he wore a stoic expression on his face. "I have other business. Find me by the dock by nightfall."

"Is Señor Kenway expecting me?"

"No. No te preocupes, he is an old friend. A gentle heart. No mas preguntas. By nightfall, no later."

Without the captain catching eyes hungry for coin, Francisco found he disappeared into the crowd. Merchants and whores saw him for a second before focusing on the fat purses and fine coats. He watched with amusement as bolder folk grabbed the sleeves of those walking near with one hand and displayed their goods in the other only to be shrugged off or rewarded with attention. More compelling, though, were how many let go of the sleeve and slipped their fingers into the pedestrian's pocket. He made to say something, but thought better.

The market continued further than Francisco cared to venture. He turned off the main street onto a quieter path too small for horses or carriages. He saw the wooden signs waving over doorways with illustrations and letters identifying each shop. A needle and thread for the tailour, two crossed rifles for the gunsmith, a vial for the apothecary. Francisco walked the road leisurely, noting each sign, until he arrived to the cartographer. Over the door the wood placard displayed black checkered lines and a red teardrop flipped upside down. Francisco shook his head in confusion as he pushed the door open.

"Don't be a fool! It's a well-known fact a serpent roams those waters," said the spectacled man.

A second man, this one without spectacles or hair, replied, "A serpent off the coast of Porto? He's blood Portuguese, I think he might've noticed a big bloody snake swimmin' about."

"Excuse me," Francisco interjected. Neither man looked up from their tables. "My name is --"

"Say he has noticed and you adding the serpent confirms your authority. Might not be a dependable map if you miss so big a feature."

"Would you return to a city terrorized by a sea serpent, Josiah? By ship at that."

"Pardon my interruption. I am --"

"I would not," Josiah replied with an eyebrow cocked as he thought. "But I deal in maps and navigation and only sparingly go out into the unknown. This Portuguese is a sailour. Bit of danger suits him. To the real question, Henry. What if the serpent is friendly?"

Mouth agape, Henry ran an ink-blotted hand over his head. Dark black streaks from his fingers lined the bald skin, a near match for faded ones. "You want me to put a sea serpent off the coast of Porto, but it'll be mint because he'll be grinning ear to bloody ear?"

"Please, I am here on behalf of --"

"Well that's rich, Henry. Here I thought we were being serious. You know full well snakes do not have ears."

"Capitáno Miguel Avecedo."

The chattering cartographers paused and finally observed their visitor. Henry, mouth still wide open, sat his quill down and walked out from behind the large table that separated the entry from the work area. Fresh, white parchments stacked on top of far older, yellowed ones all around their work. So much clutter in a place producing such precision.

"Thought you'd be older, Captain. And forgive me, I thought a man of your station might dress --"

"He is not Miguel," Josiah interrupted, rising from his stool and wiping his hands on the cloth hung from his apron. "Too young. Miguel would not come in person, anyway."

Francisco cleared his throat and decided to, once more, attempt an introduction. "My name is Francisco Bagua. Capitáno Avecedo asked me to bring this to Mister Kenway." He pulled the parchment from his satchel and handed it to Henry. "He asks you confirm what it shows."

The mapmakers exchanged glances. After a moment, Josiah replied, "The last time I saw Miguel he was a lieutenant. Your visit comes as a surprise."

"Bloody hell, I'll say it," Henry exclaimed. The man placed his hands on his sides and leaned forward. "Don't look like you keep the company of Spanish captains. How do we know you aren't a privateer seeking free help?"

"Capitáno Avecedo took me slave ten years ago."

Josiah nodded and took the map. "This must be difficult for you. I have no power over your situation, but I can offer you coffee and a food in the least."

"Am I missing something?" Henry replied, grabbing and opening the map. "This Miguel some kind of slaver?"

"When I apprenticed, my Lord, some thirty years ago now," Josiah sighed. "Miguel came in on behalf of his captain for a map to Africa. The specifics made it quite clear they were in pursuit of, well, merchandise. I was a boy excited for work. It's not something I'm proud of."

Francisco pulled a corner of the map out of Henry's hand. On the right the West Indies and there ports were clearly illustrated with red and green marks pointing to them. Dotted lines with arrows moved between the ports and around the map, some south, others north, and a few ultimately leading east toward Africa. Small, black bodies appeared across the African coast. Neither of the mapmakers uttered a word as he observed the map.

"Slaves," Francisco whispered. His face paled suddenly. "How long would the trip to Africa take?"

Josiah fumbled with his spectacles. "I'm no sailour. Maybe two months. Longer with bad weather. Mister Bagua, you, uh, you weren't there were you?"

Blinking back tears, Francisco replied, "No. But my father was."

Scourge of the Seas

@BlondyMcHuggles Thank you very much! I'll start on a post shortly.

By the way, stumbled across this map resource that could prove helpful.

Scourge of the Seas

NAME: Francisco Bagua, Known simply as "Mullato" by Spanish authorities, Otherwise called "Juracán" or "Huracán" (Taíno, Spanish respectively)
SEX: Male
DATE OF BIRTH: 11 September 1687
PLACE OF BIRTH; A village just south of Arecibo, Puerto Rico
BACKSTORY: The island of Borikén attracted many suitors with imperial dreams. Though the Spaniard Cristóbal Colón arrived earliest among the Europeans to lay claim, this did not stop other powers from trying for the island. This tension led to a number of conflicts. It was during one such conflict that a particular African taken as a slave by the Spanish found himself freed from his shackles. Meanwhile, a young officer by the name Miguel Avecedo was praying as British forces surrounded him. His prayers were answered by the African who took up arms and dealt a decisive blow against the attackers. A number of slaves acted accordingly, but Miguel Avecedo had known of the African already and felt shamed by his prior actions. This African alone regained his freedom -- a fact that shaped his life from then on.

Francisco was born a little way south of Arecibo. His father farmed coffee, while his mother worked at a church in town. His mother, a Catholic with both Taíno and Spanish blood, taught him letters and the state of the world. His father told him stories of Africa and taught him to farm, hunt, and craft. Despite their best intentions, Francisco felt as if a keg of powder lay within his chest. He felt hatred. The island was plagued by slavers dealing in Black flesh to work fields. Spanish soldiers thought themselves heroes each time they deflected other European ships, then promptly took their 'rewards' from those in town. Each disgusting act filled the keg with more powder. One night Francisco accompanied his mother and younger sister into town to deliver coffee beans and purchase supplies. The trip was not long but tired them regardless. Spanish soldiers greeted them upon their arrival, looked over their cargo, and approached his mother. They whispered at first and he could see the discomfort on her face. She turned away, but one of the soldiers caught her chin in his hand and pulled her close. They did not notice Francisco reach into their wagon, they did not hear the flintlock's mechanism click back prepared to fire, and he felt no compulsion to warn them. His powder keg was filled. He fired and the soldier reaching to grope his mother flung back with a red spray bursting from his chest. Suddenly the attention of the soldiers directed to the young man who, defiantly, gripped the rifle as if ready to club. The soldiers overpowered Francisco in short order and their fallen had already returned to his feet, chest speckled with spots of blood from the birdshot. He'd successfully pulled the attention from his mother.

Firing upon a Spanish soldier was a turning point. Francisco sat in a cell beneath Arecibo for days until receiving visitors. His family came in first with warm embraces and kisses, learned of his condition, then said their goodbyes. His father delayed to give him a piece of advice, "A man may be bent. Broken in every way. And that same man can still stand up when the moment's right." In the night a soldier, navy by the look of his coat, arrived with a torch in hand. Francisco vaguely remembered him as a Spaniard from his father's past. Capitán Miguel Avecedo explained to Francisco the weight of his actions and his fortune that the soldier was only lightly wounded in a manner reminiscent of his father. They spoke for at least an hour, during which Francisco managed to inspire a laugh and learn a lesson or two. The next morning three naval soldiers arrived and escorted Francisco out of the cell in shackles. Though just after dawn, the sun overwhelmed his eyes, he could still hear his family calling out. His mother, father, and sister walked along the group expressing their love and faith in him. He did not understand until he'd arrived aboard a naval ship preparing to depart.

A decade has passed since Francisco set foot upon La Cadena Negra. In that time he's thought of the experience as both curse and blessing. His role has been, officially, that of a slave in service to Capitán Avecedo. The reality of his service has been closer to that of a helper assisting wherever needed with tasks big and demeaningly small. In the beginning, the captain sought to break him, tasking the youth to follow the repairmen's orders and clean in any moment between. He continued onto learning to rig and, from time-to-time, going ashore for supplies to maintain ship and crew. A year in and the purpose of the ship shifted from securely moving cargo to that of a guardian for vessels ill-equipped against the growing scourge of piracy. Francisco learned combat with a blade and, despite the first mate's caution against any kind of slave touching firearms, he received standard training with rifles as well. La Cadena Negra successfully defended three dozen voyages in as many months. When not guarding ships or finding rest at a port, Avecedo sought pirates still, though the men could not complain after the claiming the bounties. Such was Francisco's life until recently when Avecedo accepted a different kind of job.

They were to sail for Africa.

APPEARANCE: Francisco is average in height in build with the exception of notably broad shoulders. Since boarding La Cadena Negra he allowed his hair to grow long, wearing it now in thick black braids that hang to the middle of his back. His skin is darker than any Spaniard, but lighter than his father or most others he has known from Africa. It's clear he is not Spanish, yet likely unclear what exactly his origins might be. Adorning his arms and back are various tattoos depicting symbols from his heritage. Most notably among these tattoos are the and sun and moon on his wrists. Though he is generally treated far better than any slave, when it comes to wardrobe, what he was given was purely essential. Francisco wears a roughspun tunic, heavily patched pantaloons that end just below the knee, and a pair of cracking leather boots and a tattered sailor's coat taken from a dead pirate.

MOTIVATION: Francisco dreams of stumbling upon a world lost to him. Living exclusively on Borikén, he has only heard rumours of lands untouched by invaders.

SKILLS/STRENGTHS: Francisco is capable. His father took care to ensure he knew how to provide for himself, while his mother believed knowledge the greatest key to a good life. From their teachings he is a capable hunter and farmer, he can craft basic tools, and he knows letters. In short, Francisco has the foundation to survive in civil society or the wilds.

His ancestry can open doors. Growing up in a village near Arecibo taught Francisco the importance of community and culture. Unlike those in San Juan exposed chiefly to Spanish influence, he was able to grow up with many African and Taíno stories instead. Capitáno Avecedo has noted and exploited this part of Francisco, knowing full well how said roots run in parts of the Carribean.

Francisco is no soldier, don't let that deceive you. He remembers well his father's story of the Spanish slave ship that took him as a boy. The lesson, aside from understanding the horrible acts the Spanish might do for greed, was to be prepared. His father taught him to grapple. Later in life, Avecedo's crew expanded the lesson to include the Spanish ways of swordsmanship and how to use a rifle.

WEAKNESSES:
Trust me, they see colour. His father was stolen from his land, put in chains, and taken across the sea. His mother's people were largely either eradicated or enslaved. Francisco was raised with a keen awareness that his value as human-being, in the eyes of many, is questionable and this prejudice can have an effect on everyday life.

Retribution is best served cold. Francisco and his family have suffered greatly due to human-trafficking and imperialism. As a result, he is easily tempted to lash out at those who benefit from pursuits without consideration for his own well-being (similar to his response to his mother being harassed).

Without a name or land. Francisco lacks a recognizable name, land, or any reputation aside what he's gained aboard the La Cadena Negra. Leaving the ship means leaving behind most everything he's earned in his adult life.

ROLE ON SHIP: Slave Hand
NAME OF SHIP: La Cadena Negra
NAME OF CAPTAIN: Capitáno Miguel Avecedo
SHIP DESCRIPTION/SPECS: The ship is a fifth-rate two-decker armed with 40 guns suitable scouting and speed. (Chances are this will not be the ship we see Francisco on for long.)

Scourge of the Seas

NAME: Francisco Bagua, Known simply as "Mullato" by Spanish authorities, Otherwise called "Juracán" or "Huracán" (Taíno, Spanish respectively)
SEX: Male
DATE OF BIRTH: 11 September 1687
PLACE OF BIRTH; A village just south of Arecibo, Puerto Rico
BACKSTORY: The island of Borikén attracted many suitors with imperial dreams. Though the Spaniard Cristóbal Colón arrived earliest among the Europeans to lay claim, this did not stop other powers from trying for the island. This tension led to a number of conflicts. It was during one such conflict that a particular African taken as a slave by the Spanish found himself freed from his shackles. Meanwhile, a young officer by the name Miguel Avecedo was praying as British forces surrounded him. His prayers were answered by the African who took up arms and dealt a decisive blow against the attackers. A number of slaves acted accordingly, but Miguel Avecedo had known of the African already and felt shamed by his prior actions. This African alone regained his freedom -- a fact that shaped his life from then on.

Francisco was born a little way south of Arecibo. His father farmed coffee, while his mother worked at a church in town. His mother, a Catholic with both Taíno and Spanish blood, taught him letters and the state of the world. His father told him stories of Africa and taught him to farm, hunt, and craft. Despite their best intentions, Francisco felt as if a keg of powder lay within his chest. He felt hatred. The island was plagued by slavers dealing in Black flesh to work fields. Spanish soldiers thought themselves heroes each time they deflected other European ships, then promptly took their 'rewards' from those in town. Each disgusting act filled the keg with more powder. One night Francisco accompanied his mother and younger sister into town to deliver coffee beans and purchase supplies. The trip was not long but tired them regardless. Spanish soldiers greeted them upon their arrival, looked over their cargo, and approached his mother. They whispered at first and he could see the discomfort on her face. She turned away, but one of the soldiers caught her chin in his hand and pulled her close. They did not notice Francisco reach into their wagon, they did not hear the flintlock's mechanism click back prepared to fire, and he felt no compulsion to warn them. His powder keg was filled. He fired and the soldier reaching to grope his mother flung back with a red spray bursting from his chest. Suddenly the attention of the soldiers directed to the young man who, defiantly, gripped the rifle as if ready to club. The soldiers overpowered Francisco in short order and their fallen had already returned to his feet, chest speckled with spots of blood from the birdshot. He'd successfully pulled the attention from his mother.

Firing upon a Spanish soldier was a turning point. Francisco sat in a cell beneath Arecibo for days until receiving visitors. His family came in first with warm embraces and kisses, learned of his condition, then said their goodbyes. His father delayed to give him a piece of advice, "A man may be bent. Broken in every way. And that same man can still stand up when the moment's right." In the night a soldier, navy by the look of his coat, arrived with a torch in hand. Francisco vaguely remembered him as a Spaniard from his father's past. Capitán Miguel Avecedo explained to Francisco the weight of his actions and his fortune that the soldier was only lightly wounded in a manner reminiscent of his father. They spoke for at least an hour, during which Francisco managed to inspire a laugh and learn a lesson or two. The next morning three naval soldiers arrived and escorted Francisco out of the cell in shackles. Though just after dawn, the sun overwhelmed his eyes, he could still hear his family calling out. His mother, father, and sister walked along the group expressing their love and faith in him. He did not understand until he'd arrived aboard a naval ship preparing to depart.

A decade has passed since Francisco set foot upon La Cadena Negra. In that time he's thought of the experience as both curse and blessing. His role has been, officially, that of a slave in service to Capitán Avecedo. The reality of his service has been closer to that of a helper assisting wherever needed with tasks big and demeaningly small. In the beginning, the captain sought to break him, tasking the youth to follow the repairmen's orders and clean in any moment between. He continued onto learning to rig and, from time-to-time, going ashore for supplies to maintain ship and crew. A year in and the purpose of the ship shifted from securely moving cargo to that of a guardian for vessels ill-equipped against the growing scourge of piracy. Francisco learned combat with a blade and, despite the first mate's caution against any kind of slave touching firearms, he received standard training with rifles as well. La Cadena Negra successfully defended three dozen voyages in as many months. When not guarding ships or finding rest at a port, Avecedo sought pirates still, though the men could not complain after the claiming the bounties. Such was Francisco's life until recently when Avecedo accepted a different kind of job.

They were to sail for Africa.

APPEARANCE: Francisco is average in height in build with the exception of notably broad shoulders. Since boarding La Cadena Negra he allowed his hair to grow long, wearing it now in thick black braids that hang to the middle of his back. His skin is darker than any Spaniard, but lighter than his father or most others he has known from Africa. It's clear he is not Spanish, yet likely unclear what exactly his origins might be. Adorning his arms and back are various tattoos depicting symbols from his heritage. Most notably among these tattoos are the and sun and moon on his wrists. Though he is generally treated far better than any slave, when it comes to wardrobe, what he was given was purely essential. Francisco wears a roughspun tunic, heavily patched pantaloons that end just below the knee, and a pair of cracking leather boots and a tattered sailor's coat taken from a dead pirate.

MOTIVATION: Francisco dreams of stumbling upon a world lost to him. Living exclusively on Borikén, he has only heard rumours of lands untouched by invaders.

SKILLS/STRENGTHS: Francisco is capable. His father took care to ensure he knew how to provide for himself, while his mother believed knowledge the greatest key to a good life. From their teachings he is a capable hunter and farmer, he can craft basic tools, and he knows letters. In short, Francisco has the foundation to survive in civil society or the wilds.

His ancestry can open doors. Growing up in a village near Arecibo taught Francisco the importance of community and culture. Unlike those in San Juan exposed chiefly to Spanish influence, he was able to grow up with many African and Taíno stories instead. Capitáno Avecedo has noted and exploited this part of Francisco, knowing full well how said roots run in parts of the Carribean.

Francisco is no soldier, don't let that deceive you. He remembers well his father's story of the Spanish slave ship that took him as a boy. The lesson, aside from understanding the horrible acts the Spanish might do for greed, was to be prepared. His father taught him to grapple. Later in life, Avecedo's crew expanded the lesson to include the Spanish ways of swordsmanship and how to use a rifle.

WEAKNESSES:
Trust me, they see colour. His father was stolen from his land, put in chains, and taken across the sea. His mother's people were largely either eradicated or enslaved. Francisco was raised with a keen awareness that his value as human-being, in the eyes of many, is questionable and this prejudice can have an effect on everyday life.

Retribution is best served cold. Francisco and his family have suffered greatly due to human-trafficking and imperialism. As a result, he is easily tempted to lash out at those who benefit from pursuits without consideration for his own well-being (similar to his response to his mother being harassed).

Without a name or land. Francisco lacks a recognizable name, land, or any reputation aside what he's gained aboard the La Cadena Negra. Leaving the ship means leaving behind most everything he's earned in his adult life.

ROLE ON SHIP: Slave Hand
NAME OF SHIP: La Cadena Negra
NAME OF CAPTAIN: Capitáno Miguel Avecedo
SHIP DESCRIPTION/SPECS: The ship is a fifth-rate two-decker armed with 40 guns suitable scouting and speed. (Chances are this will not be the ship we see Francisco on for long.)

Cold Front

Still here. Life's demands have been calling loudly as of late, but I should have a post up by next week.

Cold Front

Good stuff, guys. Let's see if @TheMoatedGrange is saving the best for last.

@gcold

I checked @TheMoatedGrange's profile and did not see activity for about 5 days now. This isn't to suggest I'm uber-active on RPG, but does anyone by chance have contact with them to see how things are going?

The Elder Scrolls: Rage of the Waves

<Snipped quote by Spoopy Scary>

The guards' attire is made mostly of padded cloth and a nasal helm, equipped with a polearm usually, and a sword. The captains and lieutenants are better and more extravagantly armored. The Captain of the Guard is arrayed in a polished breastplate, dark leather pauldrons and a flowing white cape with the sigil of the Lord's House emblazoned on it. Guards will have the sigil stitched onto the left side of the chest or the right arm.

@Leidenschaft

You're plucking the chords of my deep affection for antiquated armour, sigils, and the like.

The Elder Scrolls: Rage of the Waves

When the pangs of one too many flagons of wine dulled the details of the plan returned to mind. First, simple satisfaction uplifted as knowing what lie ahead was a gift yet unreceived on this little journey. The seeds of doubt took root later, perhaps while walking the streets of Camlorn, or glimpsing the high walls surrounding the castle. Doubt came more freely than the wine. Placing trust in a ragtag lot recruited from the muddy floors of a poor town's dungeon did not seem wise, nor did thinking the plans of such honed minds infallible. Still, though doubt might sour supper and spoil otherwise good drink, it also begged for attention. When the second day came what remnants of doubt remained burned up in the hot excitement for what was to come.

The guards covered in shapeless mail took Brynn roughly. Meanwhile, the so-called ponce wearing leather spaulders and a plate cuirass more elegantly crafted than Faruq's smirked. They chuckled lightly, head shaking a little while unraveling a copy of the wanted posters littering the hold.

"If we shan't skin the cat I'll see one of his lots' heads upon pikes at the least," the ponce mused, seemingly to himself.

Faruq watched the guards carry Brynn off, boots dragging against the cobblestone as a shadow cast over the bandit's face. Stories of violence to the Blood Red name came to mind along with horrorific scenes sewn by bandits unknown. The face of the farmer protecting his family from Brynn and this lot as they demanded food on the journey here shown quite clear. Yet, the face of the farmer remained vibrant with life and the demand could hardly be considered banditry. Faruq stole one last glance of Brynn before he disappeared from view, then squared his shoulders.

"Indeed the khajit does not make tracking easy," Faruq added to the musing. The ponce turned to him and Fiona, observing them both as the redguard stepped forward and paid a half bow. "We found the bandit there scouting about for a new campsite. Said as much the way we found him skulking about, looking for the next place to make camp by the looks of it. She wanted to wait there awhile and capture the khajit and the whole of his crew," Faruq nodded to Fiona then shook his head.

Fiona managed to wipe the look of surprise at seeing Brynn dragged off for execution from her face, and shrug at Faruq and the white-caped man. "Taking just the one man seems hardly a victory." Faruq seemed to be adapting to this far better than she was. It even sounded like something she'd do, in this particular story. Go after the head of the bandits, and end the threat, not merely nibble at it. Risky, but with great potential reward.

The ponce chortled somewhat dismissively. "Fool girl... Sev'Ahmet would've gutted you, your captive would've gone free, and I would have no one to behead today." He studied Fiona momentarily, leaving her feeling a bit uncomfortable. "Rather young for bounty hunting, aren't you?"

She ignored the question, holding her ground. "Taking the scout's head is a mistake. He could be of use." Fiona was almost surprised at the words. It had occurred to her that letting Brynn die could well be justice, considering his history... but there were too many factors involved for her to be the judge. There was a better way out of this, and she had to try for it.

The ponce tilted his head slightly, gauntleted hands finding their way to his wide belt. "And how is that, exactly?"

"He could know where to find Sev'Ahmet. Surely the guard would be interested in dealing with those bandits once and for all."

"And let him walk my men into an ambush? I thought that was your plan," he retorted, taking a step closer. "Capture or kill his entire band. How were the two of you going to manage that, I wonder?"

She struggled momentarily for a response. This was not her strong suit. "We... have contacts of our own. Enough to deal with the bandits, if we could find them."

"I see. So why not bring the captive to them, and come to me when you have a real prize, not some raggedy scout?" Now her face was turning red, and she didn't know what to say. There was only so far she could go in defending the life of a man she'd supposedly brought in for a bounty, and her own logic had seemingly cornered her.

"Ah. Uh... well..." she began to trail off, looking uncertainly at Faruq.

"I tire of this," Faruq interjected, prodding at Fiona and giving a harsh look beneath a lowered brow. "Let's end this act shall we?" His words came slow. When he turned back to the ponce his expression hardened, his jaw set with a slight scowl casting lines down from his nose. He tried hard to summon the face he wore into battle, the face of the Bone Knight. "Indeed the girl is a bit young to hunt bounties. I happened upon her spending quality time on the burnt up remains of her family farm, her home and family gone. Crisps. Your Sev'Ahmet did that. What does this fool-girl do?" Faruq glanced to Fiona again shook his head. "Takes her crisp-father's sword and looks for the bastards. And I followed her!"

The ponce lowered their hand from a hip and made to speak. Before they could, Faruq continued, "I caught the scout. I hoped she would cry or ask I cut him down or disembowel the sorry sack herself for fuck's sake. Whatever to sate this appetite for revenge, because I am sure as shit not taking on that many bastards with only some fool-girl by my side. So I convinced her to bring the bastard here to the castle to make a deal. Since revenge means more to her than coin, what say you we use this reward to pay you," Faruq pointed to the ponce square in the chest. He then waved a hand over the guards standing about or walking the halls. "Or any of these fine men, to find this ratty khajit bastard. Paid and delivered a living fucking compass. The fool-girl gets her revenge, the count gets their bandits, and you get glory and nice bonus. Bah, we'll even go with you. What say you?"

The ponce looked between Faruq and Fiona, who had thoroughly reddened, though she supposed that was good for appearances. Faruq's tale had hit awfully close to truth, though there was little way he could know that. Her home gone, family lost, passion driving her to take up the sword and set out. Bandits had little to do with it, of course, but when put in these terms, fool-girl seemed to fit quite well. She wasn't even particularly concerned with coin, so long as her expenses were paid.

"You make a convincing case..." The ponce mulled over the tale, plotting something within his mind. "A swift strike, with the pair of you in the vanguard to soften them up, and a row of heads to bring back. Still, you're asking me to place faith in the directions of one of these scum." This also seemed a problem to Fiona. Brynn couldn't actually direct them to the bandits if he didn't know where they were, but even still it could buy him some time to carry out their mission, and maybe even clear some guards out of the castle.

"Appeal to his self-interest then," Fiona offered, a little more confidently. "That's what you can trust in these types. If it benefits him to turn on his kind, I'm sure he'll do it in a heartbeat. Anything to save his own skin."

"True enough." He glanced at Faruq. "And what's your angle in this? Purely monetary? Unless you've some vested interest in the fool-girl's revenge?"

Faruq felt his lips begin to move before a proper lie could form. His eyes flicked to Fiona, her red hair and the powerful expression that rarely faultered. Suddenly the answer came to him, and as the redguard felt a heat gathering upon his face, he shot back, "I suppose you might say I fancy the foolish sort." The redguard cleared his throat then took on his hardened face once more. His gauntleted hand outstretched, Faruq pushed once more. "You've your gold and a guide and two recruits beyond your own guard, not to mention the promise of glory. I can't imagine a better deal is awaiting around the corner."

The silken white cape flapped as the ponce extended a hand. He gave only a small smile, so slight in fact that Faruq could not help but doubt the man as they shook hands. Once their hands clasped one another the ponce pulled the redguard close and whispered beside his ear, "Should you happen to fall to Sev'Ahmet worry not. The girl shall be in capable hands." As Faruq eased out of the feigned embrace he bit his tongue so not to speak. He bit harder as the ponce extended a hand to Fiona as well.

Fiona wiped away any embarrassment left over from Faruq's words, which she truthfully had no idea if they were sincere or just quick thinking. For the moment, her wariness was fixated on the man in front of her, whom she did not trust or like in the slightest. Still, she reached out and firmly clasped hands with him, her features etched in stone.

"We have a deal then," the ponce declared, waving a hand delicately. At once a guard approached and bowed their head. "Send word to the executioner that we shan't need his services quite yet. Our newest guest will be detained within the dungeons after his trial. It is imperative he remains alive until I no longer have need of him. Are we clear?" After the guard nodded, the ponce gestured to Fiona and Faruq. "These two are my guests. See they are made comfortable after the trial and that their needs are met."

The Elder Scrolls: Rage of the Waves

<Snipped quote by Leidenschaft>
How much of that are we allowed to control/move along? Like can we control the Guard Captain and other NPCs and stuff. Sorry if that question was already answered.

@Lo Pellegrino I figure a collab would be the easiest and best way to go, if you like.

@Luminosity

@Luminosity I'm game. I tend to be active in mornings and evenings, so if you're good with the chunk-by-chunk approach I'm ready to roll when you are. Do you have a doc or pad you'd like to use?

@Leidenschaft Gods, wouldn't it be fresh if a dragon came swooping in at the last moment? Feel free to use that idea on me. Seriously though, Brynn is being dragged to the chopping block right now? Do we have time to speak with the Guard Captain a touch, perhaps attempt at convincing him Brynn has some valuable information worthy of sparing his life a little longer?