MacBathory Act One Scene Two
Dec. 19th, 2006 10:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ellyssian"There we are lads! To the taverns get ye gone!"
The majority of the crew of the Midnight Maiden needed no further encouragement from their captain. After a resounding cheer, they scrambled ashore and disappeared into Port Royal, to divest themselves of their share of the bounty of their recent voyage.
"Well, Mr. Cobb, what do you make of that?" Ephraim Mor, Captain of the Midnight Maiden, covered the mouth of the ivory pipe in his hands, lit it, and puffed it into life, as he looked at his first mate, and not at the oddly fitted vessel tied up to the berth off their stern quarters.
"I don't like it sirrah, and no mistake. It's no merchant vessel, and its like nothing I've seen in the Spanish nor the English navies. It's bad news, it is." Mr. Cobb glared past his Captain, scrutinizing the deck of the slightly smaller craft.
In addition to the odd lines - sharper, sleeker than the common vessels that plied the waters of the Caribbean regardless of intent, it looked built for a limited number of purposes: to go fast and to hit hard.
Almost like to a schooner in proportion, but somewhat larger, enough to bear a third mast, and yet, seeming far too narrow in girth. What really got under the master of the Midnight Maiden's skin was the damnable lack of rigging - or even spars that might give a hint - to be found on the craft. The masts were strangely shaped - from the side they had appeared wide, and from the front, narrow, although they quickly tapered off to more expected dimensions. The central mast rose highest of the three, but, like the mizzen mast, raked backward, lending a look of speed, matched by her narrow hull. That main mast seemed swollen, even when considering the oddities of shape with the fore and mizzen masts, and about a third of the way up the mast dark openings trailed a thin cloud of smoke.
However odd her design, she looked even more odd for all that she seemed cobbled together - somehow still seeming to be a desirable craft despite what appeared to be a hardly seaworthy assemblage of scraps; indeed, along that knife-edge bow, the captain had noted the name facing the sea differed from that facing the shore, and he half-fancied it likely that a third name graced her transom. In contrast to her shabby appearance and unique lines, the figure head clinging to her bowsprit was exquisitely graceful, a gleaming gold ornament bearing a sharp curving blade in each hand and soaring wings.
No cannon were visible on deck or subtly leering from any of the half-dozen doors - all closed - in the side of the vessel, but something about the ship seemed to exude the atmosphere of a threat. Certainly, caught in the fading light, it seemed as if the ship had more metal on her than a healthy ship had a right to - nearly anywhere he had looked as they approached the wharf he caught a gleam beneath honest wood planking. Still, it seemed to ride high in the water, tethered to tall pilings, and that belied the unnatural use of steel or iron.
Mor had watched his crew as they departed - few looked at the ship and, perhaps coincidence, not one man of them walked past it, despite that being the quickest, most common route to reach the temporary oblivion of ale and wenches every one of them sought. Strange, also, that no others walked along the dock to study her closer - or to attempt to rob her of her golden ornament - and stranger still that none of her own crewmembers stood guard upon her deck, to prevent her from tempting a new master.
"Shouldn't the rats be leaving a boat such as that?" Mr. Cobb pointed out a thin, weasel-like man - dressed in a rather shabby suit - who walked up to the strange craft and, with no hesitation whatsoever, mounted the plank to board her.
Mor watched the man - a clerk, by all appearances, and not a very successful one - stop at the end of the plank, and reach his hand to a small box mounted on the rail.
"What the devil is he doing?" Mr. Cobb squinted and raised a hand to block the setting sun from his eyes.
"Looks like something in the box displeased him. Oh, he's reaching for it again."
"Something in his hand?" the mate asked as the captain lowered the glass. "What?"
"A hand."
Scene Three
The majority of the crew of the Midnight Maiden needed no further encouragement from their captain. After a resounding cheer, they scrambled ashore and disappeared into Port Royal, to divest themselves of their share of the bounty of their recent voyage.
"Well, Mr. Cobb, what do you make of that?" Ephraim Mor, Captain of the Midnight Maiden, covered the mouth of the ivory pipe in his hands, lit it, and puffed it into life, as he looked at his first mate, and not at the oddly fitted vessel tied up to the berth off their stern quarters.
"I don't like it sirrah, and no mistake. It's no merchant vessel, and its like nothing I've seen in the Spanish nor the English navies. It's bad news, it is." Mr. Cobb glared past his Captain, scrutinizing the deck of the slightly smaller craft.
In addition to the odd lines - sharper, sleeker than the common vessels that plied the waters of the Caribbean regardless of intent, it looked built for a limited number of purposes: to go fast and to hit hard.
Almost like to a schooner in proportion, but somewhat larger, enough to bear a third mast, and yet, seeming far too narrow in girth. What really got under the master of the Midnight Maiden's skin was the damnable lack of rigging - or even spars that might give a hint - to be found on the craft. The masts were strangely shaped - from the side they had appeared wide, and from the front, narrow, although they quickly tapered off to more expected dimensions. The central mast rose highest of the three, but, like the mizzen mast, raked backward, lending a look of speed, matched by her narrow hull. That main mast seemed swollen, even when considering the oddities of shape with the fore and mizzen masts, and about a third of the way up the mast dark openings trailed a thin cloud of smoke.
However odd her design, she looked even more odd for all that she seemed cobbled together - somehow still seeming to be a desirable craft despite what appeared to be a hardly seaworthy assemblage of scraps; indeed, along that knife-edge bow, the captain had noted the name facing the sea differed from that facing the shore, and he half-fancied it likely that a third name graced her transom. In contrast to her shabby appearance and unique lines, the figure head clinging to her bowsprit was exquisitely graceful, a gleaming gold ornament bearing a sharp curving blade in each hand and soaring wings.
No cannon were visible on deck or subtly leering from any of the half-dozen doors - all closed - in the side of the vessel, but something about the ship seemed to exude the atmosphere of a threat. Certainly, caught in the fading light, it seemed as if the ship had more metal on her than a healthy ship had a right to - nearly anywhere he had looked as they approached the wharf he caught a gleam beneath honest wood planking. Still, it seemed to ride high in the water, tethered to tall pilings, and that belied the unnatural use of steel or iron.
Mor had watched his crew as they departed - few looked at the ship and, perhaps coincidence, not one man of them walked past it, despite that being the quickest, most common route to reach the temporary oblivion of ale and wenches every one of them sought. Strange, also, that no others walked along the dock to study her closer - or to attempt to rob her of her golden ornament - and stranger still that none of her own crewmembers stood guard upon her deck, to prevent her from tempting a new master.
"Shouldn't the rats be leaving a boat such as that?" Mr. Cobb pointed out a thin, weasel-like man - dressed in a rather shabby suit - who walked up to the strange craft and, with no hesitation whatsoever, mounted the plank to board her.
Mor watched the man - a clerk, by all appearances, and not a very successful one - stop at the end of the plank, and reach his hand to a small box mounted on the rail.
"What the devil is he doing?" Mr. Cobb squinted and raised a hand to block the setting sun from his eyes.
"Looks like something in the box displeased him. Oh, he's reaching for it again."
"Something in his hand?" the mate asked as the captain lowered the glass. "What?"
"A hand."
Scene Three