Chivalry and Criminality (Open - Edwin - Yorkshire)

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Chivalry and Criminality (Open - Edwin - Yorkshire)

Post by zakorath »

A black leopard was sat at the bar of a small tavern called The Empty Cauldron. He sat alone staring into his goblet of vintage wine. Around him was much merriment and jovial, drunken singing. An underlying whispered conversation toward the back of the tavern caught his attention, so he moved nearer. There was a large, muscular cat talking in hushed tones with an overly flamboyant fox. Without intruding on their table, Monty could only hear half the conversation over the singing and yelling going on all around him.

"They're hemorrhaging soldiers as... can't go on like this!"
"Just recruit more young... always the navy."
"Suppose they were... we'd be destroyed!"
"We could ask... happy to help."
"You think I'm... crime rate through the roof!"
"What about the... need the wages."
"I suppose we could... only one answer."

The large cat stood up, and Monty quickly looked down at his wine to avoid arousing suspicion. There were hundreds of questions buzzing through his mind; Loosing soldiers? Crime rate going up? Talk of war? Only one answer? He contemplated talking to the flamboyant fox, but decided it was best to remain incognito. He watched the fox scrawling with a quill for a while longer. Moments later the fox walked to the door and stuck the sheet to a loose nail hanging from the frame. It read:

Fighters wanted. Will pay handsomely for skilled warriors. No experience needed. Covert work: Details exchanged at sign-up. Ask the barkeep for Lucius Vulpes.

"How curious." Monty muttered and tore the note down, stuffing it into his pocket. Walking out of the tavern he accidentally spoke his thoughts aloud as he often did, "Crime rate going up, eh? Mayhaps it's time to take matters to the people."



(OOC - Thanks to Seventh Sanctum for the tavern name. If you're gunna join, plase check out this to see the idea basis behind this.)

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Post by RatKing »

((( Needs a re-do. See later. )))
Last edited by RatKing on Wed Mar 17, 2010 1:13 am, edited 2 times in total.
[size=75][i][color=darkred]"Madness doesn't always howl - sometimes, Madness is just that little voice at the end of the day that says 'Hey, is there room in your head for one more?"[/i][/color][/size]

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Post by JamesG »

((OOC: Yorkshire is Northern Edwin, Ratking. Loyalist country. ;) ))

It was evening on the southern frontier of the county of Yorkshire, a border marked only by a few rough wooden signs to indicate the dividing line between Yorkshire and Norfolk. The sun was set, casting an orange glow over a surprisingly clear night, with barely any cloud and already the brightest of the stars becoming visible, alongside the 'wanderers', the bright lights in the sky that never seemed to move with the constellations. The working day was finished for the farming community of the Edwinish countryside of the North-East of the continent, the rolling moors and fields were still, rustled only by a slight breeze every now and again. Set amongst this backdrop of tranquility was a small village, a grouping of buildings along the road to Norfolk, not worth putting on a map. It had a windmill, a few shops, a tavern and a scattering of old houses that looked like they had been built some two centuries before. A small stream trickled beside the village's South end, which was so small it did not need a bridge, instead the road simply disappeared at the stream's bank, where the stream could be forded. Beyond that, lay the county of Norfolk, a region that could arguably be described as the Eastern Front of the Civil War between Loyalists and Parliamentarians. But the armies, encampments and eye-searing clouds of black powder smoke were a long way from here, where there was peace.

There was a splashing of water and the jingle of metal on metal as two horsemen forded the stream. Dark silhouettes made more impenetrable by the black horses they rode. By the sun's fading light, and the lanterns now being lit along the village streets, they became visible to the passers by on the dirt road. The first rider was a mustelid, a black and white ferret in his thirties, with a serious expression on his face and in his grey-blue eyes. He wore a shirt with frills, and frilled and laced under-breeches that reach down his shins. On top of this, he wore a pair of light blue-silver breeches, loose fitting, that reach just past his knees, with silver buttons. These breeches were frilled at the hem. Over his shirt, he wore a matching light blue-silver doublet, with decorative slashes on the loose sleeves and chest to show the shirt underneath. The doublet had silver lining and ribbons tied at the waistline. Around his neck, his shirt had a white vandyke collar, a large collar with deep points standing high on the neck and falling onto the shoulders, trimmed with lace. Over the doublet, covering it and the collar completely, he wore a steel cuirass engraved with fleur-de-lis patterns, and dark blue sash.
On his paws he wore cream gloves, with white lace. He wore brown boots with wide brims and butterfly spur-leathers, with silver spurs. The under-breeches lace visibly draped the top of the boots. From his right shoulder, he had a brown belt with a silver buckle, which hung loose past his waist. This belt held his rapier, which had an extravagant Gawainian-styled Swept hilt made of silver. On his head, he had a black wide-brimmed hat, cocked on the left side, where there was a large plume of dark red feathers. There was a wheel-lock pistol at his side by his sword, an expensive weapon that could only belong to someone of the gentry or nobility. There was a gold-trimmed, finely crafted wheel-lock musket in a bucket holster on the gentleman's horse.

The second rider was quite clearly the gentleman ferret's servant. He was not nearly as trimly dressed, having shirt, breeches and boots with a rather worn looking brown doublet, and no armour at all. He had a belt across his shoulder, holding his own sword and matchlock musket. As they slowed to a walk, the ferret noticed people would furtively glance at him or his lackey, and then look away. He knew why. Muskets, pistols and armour. They were from the war, and one thing these country folk of Yorkshire did not want to know about, was any sign of an approaching war. Armies ruined land, homes and lives, and every fur knew the terrible state the Thirty Year's War had left Gawain in. It was likely that the horsemen would not be well-received here in their current state. For now, the both of them were too tired to really care what people thought of them, and resolved to head to the local tavern to rest. They had ridden from the southern regions of Norfolk, to determine how forces were acting in that area. The Parliamentarians seemed to be all quiet on the Eastern Front, so the two men were headed back up North to report their findings.

Sir Bazin d'Arras, for that was the gentleman ferret's name, dismounted outside the tavern. He was not the usual sort of species to be found around Yorkshire, a Ferret-Badger, with black and white markings and an anatomical structure reminiscent of, but not identical to either a ferret or a badger. He had long black curly hair, with a white streak through the middle. His hair was long enough to touch his shoulders, though his hat hat been crammed on his head for a long ride. He removed the feathered headwear momentarily, running his well-trimmed claws through the hair, and rubbing his ears, the right hand one of which had a small notch in it. Readjusting his hat back on his head, the knight turned his whiskered muzzle to the attention of the tavern. Leaving his servant to deal with the horses, Bazin sniffed the air, his dull pink nose wrinkling. They ate strange things in Edwin, the Domish ambassador thought, but, at least it was wholesome. He stepped up to the porch, and nearly ran into a gentleman in full armour, seemingly also dressed for the war. Being amicable to any Loyalist that was actively involved in the struggle against the Parliamentarians, he lifted his hat, and said, in a calm, baritone voice with a slight Domish accent, "Good evening, Monsieur." He made no pretense as to his nationality, after all, the fleur-de-lis, a Domish symbol, was engraved all over his cuirass on his torso. The Loyalists of Edwin and the Domish kingdom were on good terms. Still, he did not wish to offend the leopard by nearly running into him without a word of greeting. Little false passes like that could easily be misintepreted in this day and age.
"You can't just remain a root forever. Eventually you grow and change into other things, like stems and leaves and such. Are a tree's leaves an insult to its roots?" - Sade

"It is easy for a statesman, whether he be in the Cabinet or the Chamber, to blow a blast with the wind of popularity on the trumpet of war, warming himself the while at his own fireside; or to thunder orations from this tribune and then to leave it to the musketeer who is bleeding to death in the snow whether his system win fame and victory or no. There is nothing easier than that; but woe to the statesman who in these days does not look around him for a reason for war which will hold water when the war is over." - Otto von Bismarck

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Post by zakorath »

Monty was stood in deep thought on the porch of the tavern, when he was surprised by what, at first glance, appeared to be a black and white ferret. The ferret had nearly walked right into him without any consideration. If there was one thing Monty didn't like it was people with no consideration of those around them. He was about to challenge this upstart when he noticed the expensive looking pistol. Judging by it's lavish styling this fur must be someone of great importance indeed. It was then that the ferret introduced himself with a classically Domish greeting. "Good day, indeed, to you sir." Monty said and bowed deeply, taking his hat in one hand. If this fur was Domish he would no doubt be bringing news of the loyalist front. "I assume that your business in our small town is of the war."

Monty had been living in the small town for some time now. Although war was the last thing the inhabitants wanted, it was best to keep a young fighter in tow as a contingency. He had arrived here to pay respects to one of his fallen comrades, and leave a rose at their grave. When he arrived however he quickly ended up in an unprecedented brawl between drunken bar-goers. When the people of the town saw his skill with a fine blade they wouldn't let him leave. The town was quaint enough to satisfy Monty's wants and needs, and at least it kept him off the front line; so after very little coercing, he decided to stay.

He hadn't had even the faintest whiff of the war for over a month, and then this armoured nobleman rode in and the war almost walked right into him on the threshold of the tavern. He placed his black tricorn hat back onto his head, it's black plume quivering in the breeze. He tilted it to the angle he liked, pushing his left ear flat against his head. Looking back at the ferret, he asked a question that had been burning in his mind since the stranger greeted him, "What news do you bring of the loyalist front?"

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Post by JamesG »

Sir Bazin sized up the leopard in a glance. Armoured, odd three-cornered hat that the ferret took for some new fashion. An Edwinish knight? Certainly, gentry or nobility, nobody else could afford to walk around in such craftsmanship. A curved, foreign looking sabre. Kahunian? It was possible, though Bazin had only ever seen paintings and relics of far away countries like Kahun. The feline bowed gracefully, and greeted him in an amicable manner. d'Arras saw this as a sign of gentry, the nobility of Edwin, like those of Domus, were unlikely to bow so deeply to a foreign ambassador, however friendly the relationship between their nations. The leopard wasted no time, and enquired after the war effort. Bazin thought momentarily of his answer. On the one paw, he could delve into great detail with a fellow soldier, explaining the exact disposition of their forces. On the other, this armoured fur might be a Parliamentarian spy, or informer. Bazin could not reveal too much about the situation, lest the New Model Army get wind of the Loyalist plans. However, not saying anything would no doubt come off as rude, and worrying to boot. Bazin resolved to give as true an answer as possible without revealing Loyalist intentions. He did not know this man, whom he had not seen at the court of King Charles, or any War Councils between commanders.

"News? Why, I tell you that Monseignour the Lord Protector must think himself mightier tenfold than we if he intends to storm through Norfolk with ease. Our dispositions are more cunning than he could possibly divine from his Orthodox worship" Bazin himself was Trinidian by faith, but he knew the Orthodox Church of Midas was unpopular in this region of Edwin, for its strict laws and banning of all pubs and theatres. "However, I fear I am speaking to a personage with whom I have never had the pleasure of aquaintance. I am Sir Bazin d'Arras, ambassador to the loyal Edwinish court by the authority of King Louis, the Dios-given. By what name may I know you, honourable gentleman?" the badger-ferret thought this was an appropriate title, for there were many gentlemen, but the only true honourable gentlemen, in his view, were those that stood up and fought for their allegiance. Given the leopard's dress and interest in the war, Bazin took him for one such fur.

Bazin had spoke the truth when he had boasted of their strength in Norfolk. Whilst they could not out-number the new Model Army, an advance through the lines of fortresses, gates and walls blocking every mountain pass, and the fortification of the towns by trenchworks and palisades, with the help of local militia and the Loyalist Army, would be near impossible without massive casualties in the Parliamentarian divisions. Several new fortresses had been built at strategic points in the recent years, taking advantage of new technology and star fortress design, thier great outworks and bastions shadowing key towns and roads. It would take a long time to destroy or circumnavigate the walls and gates blocking the roads to unfriendly armies, and long sieges to pound down the thick walls of the Norfolk fortifications, by which time the Loyalist Army would be poised to crush the Parliamentarians. At least, that was the theory. The main trouble with this idea was that the Loyalists could not advance into Parliamentarian territory for much the same reason. It would take great planning, discipline, and a fair bit of luck to pull off taking over another county.
"You can't just remain a root forever. Eventually you grow and change into other things, like stems and leaves and such. Are a tree's leaves an insult to its roots?" - Sade

"It is easy for a statesman, whether he be in the Cabinet or the Chamber, to blow a blast with the wind of popularity on the trumpet of war, warming himself the while at his own fireside; or to thunder orations from this tribune and then to leave it to the musketeer who is bleeding to death in the snow whether his system win fame and victory or no. There is nothing easier than that; but woe to the statesman who in these days does not look around him for a reason for war which will hold water when the war is over." - Otto von Bismarck

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Post by zakorath »

Monty listened intently to the merry news, and was glad to know he was right about the fur's social standing, perhaps he had even underestimated it. Enquiring his name, Monty replied with the politest of tones he could muster in his slightly drunken state. "I, sir, am Mongommery Wagonswift. Warrior, and bard." It was true, his skill in battle was only rivaled by his skill with a flute. He had learned to play when he first joined the war; he had been a standard bearer and lead the armies into battle with a marching tune on his finely crafted flute.

The small town in which the meeting took place had never seen hide nor hair of the war, but was in constant fear of it. On clear nights the sound of screams and gunfire could drift on the wind into the quiet town and arouse the inhabitants from sleep. It was this constant reminder that kept Monty in town for so long. Unlike most, he longed to get back into battle. He loved to fight for his gallantry and honour, rather than simply for the sake of violence. He had collected his own armour and weaponry from across the globe. The fine armorsmiths had carved his name in numerous languages into his breastplate; most he couldn't even pronounce, but they reminded him of those he had helped, and those he could not. His sword was made by the greatest artisan in Edwin, and it's balance was perfectly at the top of the hilt, giving Monty the best chance in a fair fight. He longed for the fighting, to join his brothers in arms once more, and was even thinking of leaving with this Sir Bazin when he had concluded business here.

Remembering the note in his pocket, he chose his words carefully so as not to arouse suspicion. A lone soldier this far from the front could easily be seen as a spy, or even a deserter. "The fight is going well, then. Aye. 'Tis good to here, my friend. I have lost many a friend in this ungodly war. There is rumor... Of soldiers dying on the tenfold, and their replacements being detracted from the lawmen on the less war torn counties. Have you heard such a rumor?" He avoided asking if the rumour was true because he was already trying the boundaries of polite conversation with this question. He knew it was unusual at the least, for him to be alone here, in this small town which the war hadn't even reached yet. It was true he wasn't stationed here, but rather fell into it by accident. He had to move on with this nobleman for fear of being mentioned in dispatches as a deserter.

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Post by RatKing »

Liam Lynch
- - - - - - - - - - -

When he started singing, everyone else listened - there was simply no other option. The huge wildcat's voice was a perfect bass, booming and loud enough to drown out every other sound, threatening to rattle the timbers out of the rafters. While he was so loud it was almost painful, his tone was impeccable, his beat perfect - it matched the song through and through. This was a Wildcat that had spent many a long day singing aboard the deck, no doubt challenging the very worst of storms to a shouting contest just to see who could be louder... and there was a feeling that it often came to a draw.

Here, in this lonesome tavern near landlocked from the sea, the Wildcat sang, thumping his mighty foot on the floorboards to keep the beat. The song was lively, the beat rolling fast and slow in turn like the waves on the sea, and it was catching with the few others in the place; they began to stomp and clap in time and by the end they were joining in on the chorus.

[center]He was Captain of the Nightingale!
Twenty-one days from Clyde-in-Coal,
He could smell the flowers of Bermuda in the gale,
when he died on the North Rock Shoal.

Just five short hours from Bermuda, in a fine October gale!
There came a cry "Oh, there be breakers dead ahead, from the collier Nightingale!"
No sooner had the Captain brought her round, came a rending crash below!
Hard on her beam ends, groaning, went the Nightingale and overside her mainmast goes.

"Oh, Captain, are we all for drowning?" came the cry from all the crew!
"The boats be smashed! How then are we all then to be saved? They are stove in through and through!"
"Oh, are ye brave and hardy collier-men or are ye blind and cannot see?
The Captain's gig still lies before ye whole and sound, It shall carry all o' we."

He was Captain of the Nightingale!
Twenty-one days from Clyde-in-Coal!
He could smell the flowers of Bermuda in the gale,
when he died on the North Rock Shoal.

But when the crew was all assembled and the gig prepared for sea,
Twas seen there were but eighteen places to be manned and nineteen mortal souls were we.
But cries the Captain "Now do not delay, nor do ye spare a thought for me.
My duty is to save ye all now, if I can. See ye return as quick as can be."

Oh, there be flowers in Bermuda. Beauty lies on every hand,
And there be laughter, ease and drink for every man, But there is no joy for me;
For when we reached the wretched Nightingale, what an awful sight was plain.
The Captain, drowned, was tangled in the mizzen-chains, smiling bravely beneath the sea.

He was Captain of the Nightingale!
Twenty-one days from Clyde-in-Coal!
He could smell the flowers of Bermuda in the gale,
when he died on the North Rock Shoal.
[/center]

The final chorus was repeated a second time over, the wildcat's great bass drowning out the rest, then the applause and stomps of the gathered - partially deafened but having enjoyed it so much they didn't care. The huge cat laughed and congratulated the various furs that had joined him where he stood, slapping one on the back hard enough to near fold him over a table.

Liam Lynch was huge, and it was an apt term in all ways - standing a good head over most others there and with shoulders broad to match. He was thick in the arm, had a barrel of a chest and a pair of kegs for a belly to match. He could be described as fat, but his size was muscle just as much as it was suet, even though his belly hung over his wide leather belt and his faded red salt-stained doublet was nowhere near a match to hold it all in. Those arms where knotted with muscle, his bandy legs propelling him with that surprising grace and agility that fat furs tend to have. He had bright green eyes, an absurdly floppy hat with a long feather in it, and a beard that could frighten off raging bears; plaited and braided and strung with beads. A long basket-hilt sabre was slung on his side, the scabbard worn brown leather turning grey on some places, the brass of hilt was pitted, the leather wrap stained and dented with age and use.
His fur was grey and showing darker, smokey stripes across his broad, open features and down the back of his bullish neck, his beard a riot of colour from the beads though the fur itself was grey on the sides and white down the center.

"RIGHT! I'm offski! Yae lot stay here an' try tae learn t'carry a tune while I'm away, aye?! Use a bucket ifn ye ha' tae!" roared Liam, earning a wave of laughter. Even if he was shouting full in your face there was just something about the bombastic cat that could make one laugh. His voice didn't have an accent, not per say - an accent would suggest trying to speak a language you were a fair bit familiar with. Liam spoke with a burr and brogue so thick that it was doubtful he actually knew the tongue.

Liam shouldered his way to the doorway, playfully knocking aside smaller furs like a ship would to cockleshell boats and emerged into the fresh air. He took a deep breath, set his thumbs into his belt then looked at the two well-dressed furs before him. He quirked one big brow, a leer creasing the corner of his mouth. "Ho, yae poncey buggers, outta me way!"
[size=75][i][color=darkred]"Madness doesn't always howl - sometimes, Madness is just that little voice at the end of the day that says 'Hey, is there room in your head for one more?"[/i][/color][/size]

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Post by zakorath »

Monty was one to be easily offended by others. He was a gentleman true, and had taken an oath of chivalry to adhere to a set of rules which governed his activities and even his personality to a degree. When this great fur came barging through all shouting and swearing, he couldn't hold back any longer. "Excuse me, sir." He said courteously to Sir Bazin. He turned to the other fur's chest, and it took him a while to comprehend that he would need to look up a couple of head heights before seeing his face. "ah." He said, and simply repeated it, "Ah." He looked unsure what to do. He had planned on drawing his sword, but feared it would bend against this fur's skin. "Ah." He said one more time. He knew when his efforts in fighting were futile, and could do nothing but once more say "Ah."

He could do nothing but step aside, and let him pass. As he passed them, he turned to Sir Bazin and gave him a fearful yet angered look. It was an implacable feeling of anger that would ordinarily have him rend a man's head from their shoulders, mingled with a fear that the same would happen to him, and judging by the fur's size, he wouldn't even need a sword. He couldn't do anything for fear of his life, but exchange a look with Sir Bazin. He didn't know what to do. The conflict of ideas left his jaw open and his tongue frozen.

(OOC - Sorry this one's shorter, I'm in a hurry today.)

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Post by JamesG »

Sir Bazin considered this piece of news. Soldiers dying by their tenfolds, it seemed an odd clash with what he had seen in Norfolk. The odd skirmish took its casualty, but the main bulk of casualties came from pitched battles further West. Of course, Sir Bazin had not told M. Wagonswift that he was also a commander in the King's army. It was best not to at this point. Although the leopard was gaining the ferret-badger's trust, it would not do to discuss casualties out in the open, where spies might relay the news back to the New Model Army, whom would then become bold with success. So, the black and white mustelid replied evenly, "Our losses are necessary in this conflict, and we let whoever will fight for us, join us. I am sorry for your friends. May I ask with whom did they serve?" Bazin was also curious to what precise purpose the leopard had in being here, but before he could ask such things, he was interrupted, by a huge, loud wildcat, with a sabre and an unkempt beard, telling them to get out the way.

True, they had been standing in the doorway, and true, he stood quite taller than Bazin. But the mustelid had an excellent grasp of Edwinish, despite the fur's regional dialect, and he caught on to exactly what he was being called. Most importantly, looking at the cat as a military commander, Bazin thought this fellow looked quite able to serve. He did not like men carrying swords whom did not volunteer themselves to any form of war effort. In fact, a peasant bearing such a sword suggested thievery to the ferret-badger, as there was no way this creature was a gentleman, a rough country fool, is what Bazin saw. M. Wagonswift excused himself, but looked quite shocked at the fur that had accosted them, so much so he had let him pass. They exchanged looks, Bazin's suspiciously glaring at the sabre, then the beard, and then to the leopard. In a moment, he had made up his mind.

"Excuse me, monsieur! I must ask you to stay, for you do us both an injury. You will tell me who you are, peasant, and what such a well-armed fur is doing a whole county from any fighting." Bazin said loudly. He was all but accusing the wildcat of anything from desertion to thievery, and he knew it. Admittedly the creature was enormous, but the ferret-badger had spied his servant watching the scene nervously from the street, matchlock in hand, sword by his side. Since the fur was no gentleman, Bazin was not obliged to conduct a duel against him, should the wildcat prove aggressive. The mustelid had been taught only to accept insults from the Kings and the Cardinal, and that was all that mattered. Of course, he was a very stubborn sort of fur, though a little voice in his head was telling him quite pointedly in Domish that he should have let the enormous feline pass.
"You can't just remain a root forever. Eventually you grow and change into other things, like stems and leaves and such. Are a tree's leaves an insult to its roots?" - Sade

"It is easy for a statesman, whether he be in the Cabinet or the Chamber, to blow a blast with the wind of popularity on the trumpet of war, warming himself the while at his own fireside; or to thunder orations from this tribune and then to leave it to the musketeer who is bleeding to death in the snow whether his system win fame and victory or no. There is nothing easier than that; but woe to the statesman who in these days does not look around him for a reason for war which will hold water when the war is over." - Otto von Bismarck

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Post by RatKing »

Liam Lynch
- - - - - - - - - - -

Liam just chuckles at Monty's reaction to him - a sound like gravel in a tumbler, and just gently easing the leopard aside with one huge hand before striding on, "No worries bucko, just makin' way."

The wildcat's progress is halted at the outcry and he glances over his shoulder curiously at Sir Bazin before putting in the effort to wheel his bulk around. Liam grins amiably at the two with his somewhat crooked jaw, only one fang showing; the other had long since been broken off. He stood with his feet planted firmly, thumbs still in his belt, his hobnail boots crunching into the cobbles.

"Oi, I'm quite certain ye didnae jest call me 'peasant', ye wee stripey weasel. Be a terrible offense, seeing hoo badly we was forced tae kick yer arse a few years past. Well," he shrugged, his lantern jaw still set in an amiable grin, "Helped tae kick yer arse." He looks thoughtful for a second and he leans forward a bit, peering intently at Sir Bazin. "Oi, yer bein' innae whole lot o' frippery fer some bilge-suckin' stoat... that Domish? Beg pardon then, figured ye fer some Gawainian pillock." His voice is a great booming bass drum, burred and sharp in places from his practically absurd brogue, but he sounds quite friendly... up to that point. His eyes harden a bit and his voice drops in pitch, loosing most of the friendly demeanor in the process.
"An before ye call me 'peasant' again; yer talkin' tae Liam Lynch, Carpenter's Mate aboard th' Ol' Polina. We're out here a'ways a'cause it be damn hard tae find a good stout length of tree fer a mast near the shore, ye ken. Need tae replace the one we's lost whilst blastin' seven shades of shite out of some Parliamen'try buggers a fortnight past." The big cat snorts and spits something horrible to the side of the road, "Lost ten good hands in that fight. That close enough fer you tae the fightin', yer lordship?" The last is said with more than a little scorn - Liam was never known for his astute sense of perception, and the idea that he very nearly walked over a Knight never so much as crossed his mind, much less that he may have just insulted one, but his own honour felt slighted - both for not being recognized as a sailor, and maybe moreso for not being recognized as Liam Lynch - it was practically unheard of in the ports...
[size=75][i][color=darkred]"Madness doesn't always howl - sometimes, Madness is just that little voice at the end of the day that says 'Hey, is there room in your head for one more?"[/i][/color][/size]

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Post by JamesG »

Bazin was silent for a moment. Up until now, he had honestly believed that he understood Edwinish. Apparently not, for about three quarters of Liam's speech had not really registered with the ferret-badger at all, and he was frustrated for a response to the peasant's mumblings. He had met many people in Edwin, servants, gentlemen, ladies, nobility and even King Charles himself, and he had comprehended each one. However, the rural villages of Yorkshire were hardly well known for their diction, in fact they were well known for speaking nearly another language from everyone else save the Eireannic and Gwyneddic peoples. So, the Knight tried to piece together what he had understood. In summary, he comprehended that the big cat did not like being addressed as peasant, he was Liam Lynch, and he had been in a fight with Parliamentarians. He was also a sailor, and was looking for a mast. He gave a glance to Monty, and responded.

"I see, Monsieur Lynch. I should have known only a sailor would have as foul a mouth as to besmirch the name of the chevalier Bazin d'Arras, ambassador and general to your Roi Charles. I hope you learn a lesson tonight, sailor. When you insult a Domish gentleman, check first he does not have the ear of your King and your commanders." Bazin turned to Monty. "Shall we continue our discussion inside, monsieur?" The mustelid had concluded all that he wanted to say. In truth, he saw no further point in speaking with this rough, unpleasant fur whom he barely understood. Frightening him into thinking that d'Arras was going to tell his captain that he ought to be punished was enough, for that was d'Arras' objective. Now, he had more important things to discuss with the armoured leopard, and so turned away, somewhat insultingly, from Liam, and pushed open the door.

He was met with a dingy atmosphere, a bar, stools and tables. There were furs spread out all over the place, some literally on the floor, and a loud hubbub of conversation that seemed to quieten when the newcomer arrived. Bazin had been in far nastier pubs in Domus, back when he was not bound to the services of the Kings, and so confidently strode in. He got a few glances, but the stares stopped fairly quickly at the sight of the pistol, sword and armour. Most furs were bright enough to know a warrior when they saw one, regardless of rank. To Bazin, after participating in the pitched battles on this continent, in fact helping defend these Loyalist peasants from the clutches of the Parliament, felt like he could take a drink wherever he pleased, and so sat at the bar, waiting for his new friend M. Wagonswift to join him. The ferret-badger knew he was possibly the only mustelid in the room, the majority being feline. It was an unusual situation for an ambassador of Domus, but he could trace his family's origins in Domus back up to the early eleventh century, and considered himself a fur of Domus through and through.
"You can't just remain a root forever. Eventually you grow and change into other things, like stems and leaves and such. Are a tree's leaves an insult to its roots?" - Sade

"It is easy for a statesman, whether he be in the Cabinet or the Chamber, to blow a blast with the wind of popularity on the trumpet of war, warming himself the while at his own fireside; or to thunder orations from this tribune and then to leave it to the musketeer who is bleeding to death in the snow whether his system win fame and victory or no. There is nothing easier than that; but woe to the statesman who in these days does not look around him for a reason for war which will hold water when the war is over." - Otto von Bismarck

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zakorath
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Post by zakorath »

Monty watched Sir Bazin enter the tavern, and wanted to stop him in case this Liam Lynch turned nasty. Instead he raised one finger int he air and stood in silence. He turned and gave a week smile to Liam Lynch before slowly backing through the doorway not taking his eyes of the large fur. One inside he turned around to a multitude of smiles. "Monty, ol' boy! C'meer; ah saved ya'a seat." The barkeep called. He was well known in this tavern; with little fighting it was how he spent most of his days. The barkeep was a bearded lynx who always seemed to be sober no matter how many drinks the patrons bought for him.

Monty sat down at his usual stool by the bar, and ordered, "The usual, please, Alberto." He said waving his paw in the air. The barkeep stopped attending to the fur he was currently with, just to bring Monty his wine. "And, fer ye, my good sir?" He said, addressing Sir Bazin. Monty was well known, and well respected here, and any friend of his was sure to be served as politely as he was. Monty sipped his wine, and drummed his fingers on the desk. They fitted directly into four pot-marks that were already there from the thousands of times he'd done this before.

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Eddy
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Post by Eddy »

Surveying the town from the hill above, Lukas Carburg allowed himself a smile. It had been a hard ride, avoiding patrols in Norfolk he, and his group of twenty horsemen now found themselves within the heart of the loyalist lands! His orders were simple, he was to ryde to His Shyre of York. Raze the landis of those who oppose the will of Our Protectyr and of Our Lord.

The polecat couldn't help but admire the plan. By doing this the Protector was making it clear that none were safe. All would feel His judgement. It would all be for naught, Lucas reflected, if the Parliament were unable to draw the King to battle. Deeds like this would provide obligation for the coward to march out. Beside him sat one other, an 'observer' from Parliament, whom he didn't care for at all. He still hadn't won the Edwinian's trust, but this mission should end that.

A faint tune had blown on the wind to their position, it was merry and catchy, Lukas found himself tapping the beat on his sword hilt. The observer noticed it too, and Lukas was rewarded with a growl. Doubtless it came from the tavern they could clearly make out in the fading light, it was the larget building in the town. Places like that, the Revolutionaries seemed intent on stamping out, which was illogical in his mind. Such concerns, however, were above him. He would live as he always had, and would do his duty to the letter.

Giving the village one last look, he sighed and turned his horse away, knowing the grisly work ahead of them. Approaching the body of horsemen hidden behind the hill, he nodded curtly, addressing them briefly in Gawanian, which made them give a low cheer and set them about preparing their weapons and harnesses. At the query from his attachment, who didn't speak the tongue, he smiled, translating into his fluent Edwinish, "we wait until night falls. Then we cry havoc."
Last edited by Eddy on Sat Mar 20, 2010 1:18 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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RatKing
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Post by RatKing »

Liam Lynch
- - - - - - - - - - -

Liam watched the two depart, a quizzical look on his face. Eventually he just shook his shaggy head and ambled his way back towards the caravan that was the rest of the mast-hunting crew, humming another song as he went. There were few enough furs on the ship that knew songs, and generally they only had that sort of handy, knuckle-dragging neanderthal beat that anyone with half a leg could dance to. Liam had a range of a good few dozen songs that he had picked up over the years, and a voice that was oft described by the more eloquent members of the officers as 'honey poured over thunder'.

Even his humming could produce an echo.

"'Hoy, Liam!" he was greeted as the wildcat's bulk rounded the final building to the stables where his mates had been put up for the night. There was half a dozen in all, including Liam himself - Two of the ship's carpenters, three stout seafurs and one officer; a youngish midshipfur who dressed impeccably proper as befitted his rank.
"'Har, boys!" Liam roared back as he swaggered his way to them. Th stables weren't big; enough to fit in a dozen horses if it had to, and right now it only sported half of the number, so the Ol' Polina's crew had sequestered the rest of it for themselves. Four of the extra stalls were currently holding a muscle-bound ox each, the great dim creatures standing in their usual state of existing, with nary a thought tumbling though those great heads but to continue chewing their cud. They were the musclepower used to tow the load, and it wasn't an easy job.

With the ships of the day, it was never so simple to use a single length of fir to be your mast - no tree was tall or strong enough to do such, certainly not for the mainmast as they needed. Three huge trees had been felled for their purpose, the branches hacked off and by means of muscle, levers and the uncanny cleverness of the common folk, each had been settled onto a pair of sturdy carts, spaced at the front and rear of the load. Even as night was falling there was work to be done - one of the great spans of fir had been shifted a little on the carts and it had three of the sailors atop it, working with mattock and chisel to smooth out the knots. A stout-looking tiger was watching them intently as they went about it, his own tools in hand. "Easy now, we've a week left to travel so make it smooth and try not to get too deep. Less knocks in the span, less weakness there be." He was greying on the edges, his whiskers bent and twisted and he moved with an almost amusing bandy-legged gait that suggested his knees didn't work. he gave Liam a Look, well deserving of the capital letter, and nodded towards the house opposite.

Lesser furs in the stable, officers get the beds.

Liam nodded but didn't change his course, parking his weighty bulk next to the old Carpenter. "Oi, I'm thinkin' I might be inna wee bit o' trouble." he said, quietly as only Liam could, which meant that furs two blocks away could probably hear it if they focused a little.
Yohn Halfear gave the big wildcat an intent look, his grizzled face showing no emotion beyond his standard belligerence. "What have you done now?" the Carpenter asked. Despite his wizened look, he spoke quite eloquently, even is his voice was a sort of hoarse rasp.
Liam tried to look innocent, "Well, I jest asked these tae poncy-looking buggers tae get outta th'way; they was blockin' the door, ye ken. The one fellow was fine enough, but the other, a sort of stripey weasel in real posh Domish kit, got all huffy aboot'it." Yohn had been sailing alongside Liam for years now, and he had pretty much deciphered all the odd speech that could spout from the wildcat. He only had to pause half a second while his internal translator held up the necessary cards.
"A noble. You insulted a noblefur?" Yohn asked, sighing and pinching the bridge of his muzzle.
"Ah dun think so..." Liam said, looking hurt. "Called himself a..." his brow furrowed as he tried to remember the odd word, "a shay-vallay, whatever that is. Oh, an'e insulted th'king... I think. What th'hell is a 'rwah'?"

Yohn stared at the wildcat for a long minute. The other sailors had paused as well, watching with more than a little interest - generally whatever Liam got himself into was worth hearing about. One of the dimmer ones spoke up, "Shay-vallay... innit that someone the nobbs hire tae hold their gloves?"
"No, a Chevalier is the Domish word for Knight, and Roi means king." said Yohn, pronouncing the words perfectly, shaking his head sadly. "You great twit."
"Oh, hoo th'hail was I supposed tae know that?!" Liam cried, "He was a right bastard anyway, shoulda jest clocked him'un..." he added, looking sulky. "I'm infer another floggin' noo..."
"Very likely. Off with you now, see to the Leftenant. He's likely finished his dinner by now; try not to scare Madam Demers again and next time don't take to singing when you steal off to the pub. We heard you quite clearly."

Liam rolled his eyes and started towards the small but well-kept house, pulling off his hat to reveal a second mass of beads and braids and plaits on the top of his head. "Next nobby bugger I meet is getting kicked right in the bloody fork." he muttered as he stepped around to the back door.
[size=75][i][color=darkred]"Madness doesn't always howl - sometimes, Madness is just that little voice at the end of the day that says 'Hey, is there room in your head for one more?"[/i][/color][/size]

JamesG
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Post by JamesG »

Bazin watched as Monty's wine was served. It was quite a relief, for a few minutes the ferret-badger had thought he would have to order Edwinish beer or ale. Both were strange drinks, in his opinion, the mustelid having more a taste for wine. To the bartender, he courteously requested, "Your finest Red, if you please monsieur." Whilst the bartender was busy, Bazin looked about the room. Peasants, he could tell, in rough and unkempt clothes. The bar had a sort of mezzanine level above which held more tables, and presumably rooms to stay. The atmosphere was returning to its friendlier, if louder ambience, with another song being stirred up. It was in the same dialect as M. Lynch had been speaking, so Bazin was only able to catch a few lyrics here and there, but he smiled to himself nonetheless at how spontaneous it all was. One fur would begin, then it would all come into a roaring chorus, though some of the tavern's clients looked a bit annoyed by the drunken mob's howling. This was the sort of place the Parliamentarians would love to stamp out, claiming it turned fur's souls to sin. Bazin thought it was quite harmless, if a bit off-key.

The knight was drawn from his musings by the bartender, whom returned with the wine. Bazin nodded, "Merci." He swilled around the cup, inhaled, then sipped a little. Better than he'd hoped, at least. He had experienced better wine in Edwin at court, and had been content to drink water whilst on campaign, so he was not particularly bothered by how good the wine was, which was an annoying stereotype of the Domish of which d'Arras disapproved. He looked at M. Wagonswift, thinking. Had the leopard actually told him what he did? He had revealed his own function, but the leopard remained mysterious. "So, Monsieur Wagonswift, exactly what part do you play in our schemes to thwart Monseignour the Lord Protector?" It was a question worded in a friendly manner, if the leopard was a loyalist, but quite barbed if he was a Parliamentarian. Bazin had to be careful about that. Spies were always people you would not expect to be.
"You can't just remain a root forever. Eventually you grow and change into other things, like stems and leaves and such. Are a tree's leaves an insult to its roots?" - Sade

"It is easy for a statesman, whether he be in the Cabinet or the Chamber, to blow a blast with the wind of popularity on the trumpet of war, warming himself the while at his own fireside; or to thunder orations from this tribune and then to leave it to the musketeer who is bleeding to death in the snow whether his system win fame and victory or no. There is nothing easier than that; but woe to the statesman who in these days does not look around him for a reason for war which will hold water when the war is over." - Otto von Bismarck

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