![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
MacBathory Act One Scene Four
"Hoy! Look! It's our friend from the Eel... why, if he doesn't have 'is very own b-buh-boat!"
Worsley looked down in surprise at the laughing men in the jolly boat - which was off of the Bloodhawk, moored further out in the bay - and, quickly hung a board over the stern.
The men exchanged glances, and, with a nod from their ringleader, the first mate began: "The Falcon, eh? She looks more like a Pigeon, iffen you ask me, eh, Mr. Jilkey?"
"Nay, Jacob... 'tho I knew the boat what bore that nameplate and that isn't she," the great bearded one said, eyes flashing with mirth and an undeniable menace.
The second mate chuckled at their quartermaster's comment. "Oh, say it ain't so, John. I thought it was the very one, as it certainly doesn't look like that's a board what he picked off the waves or a beach... no more than the rest o' the Falcon 'ere looks more like the Flotsam or mayhaps Jetsam."
"Don't matter none, we're off the Bloodhawk, and I think we should sink our talons into this wee bird," Jacob said, his hand moving to the pistol in his belt.
"I d-don't think you could. B-buh-but I need men to sail with me. I-i-if you're u-up to it." Worsley reset his glasses again, and looked at them, so birdlike to John Jilkey's eyes that he half-thought the man might fly away.
"You," Jilkey said, pointing a grimy finger at the small man above him, "you don't think we could? Are you bloody daft, man?"
"No. S-s-send the most worthless layabout. If he can lay a hand on me, the boat is yu-yu-yours."
"And if he can't reach you?" The others bellowed at with laughter that John would even mention such a possibility.
Worsley shrugged. "He'll be dead. Won't matter to him. The offer will still stand. I n-n-need a crew."
The second mate leaned towards Jilkey. "Should we send poor Owen, here?" he asked, his broad hand buffeting the head of the youngest looking of the lot.
"Nay, Samuel," Jilkey shook his head, then gestured towards Worsley, "Jacob. Touch him."
"Touch him, I'll bloody well throw him arse over skull. Mind you, don't get your finery splashed, now, lads!"
With that, the first mate leapt back to the ropes and up to the wharf. He made quite a show of cracking his knuckles as he leered over at Worsley, and then, in two large running steps he cleared the gangway and went over the rail.
Two large scythe-shaped blades crossed in his path, his body travelling with the momentum and impacting on the flats of the blades, knocking him backwards. He was dead before he hit the water, before his legs and one arm skittered across the deck.
On the jolly boat, some faces turned pale; others livid red. Two shots rang out, one hitting the newly-placed nameplate, knocking it askew, the other narrowly missing Worsley, who pushed his glasses back further upon his nose.
"The offer is still o-o-open," he said before turning away, ignoring the curses.
Scene Five
Worsley looked down in surprise at the laughing men in the jolly boat - which was off of the Bloodhawk, moored further out in the bay - and, quickly hung a board over the stern.
The men exchanged glances, and, with a nod from their ringleader, the first mate began: "The Falcon, eh? She looks more like a Pigeon, iffen you ask me, eh, Mr. Jilkey?"
"Nay, Jacob... 'tho I knew the boat what bore that nameplate and that isn't she," the great bearded one said, eyes flashing with mirth and an undeniable menace.
The second mate chuckled at their quartermaster's comment. "Oh, say it ain't so, John. I thought it was the very one, as it certainly doesn't look like that's a board what he picked off the waves or a beach... no more than the rest o' the Falcon 'ere looks more like the Flotsam or mayhaps Jetsam."
"Don't matter none, we're off the Bloodhawk, and I think we should sink our talons into this wee bird," Jacob said, his hand moving to the pistol in his belt.
"I d-don't think you could. B-buh-but I need men to sail with me. I-i-if you're u-up to it." Worsley reset his glasses again, and looked at them, so birdlike to John Jilkey's eyes that he half-thought the man might fly away.
"You," Jilkey said, pointing a grimy finger at the small man above him, "you don't think we could? Are you bloody daft, man?"
"No. S-s-send the most worthless layabout. If he can lay a hand on me, the boat is yu-yu-yours."
"And if he can't reach you?" The others bellowed at with laughter that John would even mention such a possibility.
Worsley shrugged. "He'll be dead. Won't matter to him. The offer will still stand. I n-n-need a crew."
The second mate leaned towards Jilkey. "Should we send poor Owen, here?" he asked, his broad hand buffeting the head of the youngest looking of the lot.
"Nay, Samuel," Jilkey shook his head, then gestured towards Worsley, "Jacob. Touch him."
"Touch him, I'll bloody well throw him arse over skull. Mind you, don't get your finery splashed, now, lads!"
With that, the first mate leapt back to the ropes and up to the wharf. He made quite a show of cracking his knuckles as he leered over at Worsley, and then, in two large running steps he cleared the gangway and went over the rail.
Two large scythe-shaped blades crossed in his path, his body travelling with the momentum and impacting on the flats of the blades, knocking him backwards. He was dead before he hit the water, before his legs and one arm skittered across the deck.
On the jolly boat, some faces turned pale; others livid red. Two shots rang out, one hitting the newly-placed nameplate, knocking it askew, the other narrowly missing Worsley, who pushed his glasses back further upon his nose.
"The offer is still o-o-open," he said before turning away, ignoring the curses.
Scene Five