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Put about 1,800 words on l'Abattoir, breaking the 20k barrier by a little more than 500 when you add it all together. There is now, officially, an Act Three, as the outline (five or so words of it eaten up so far) gives way to "finished" story. Our tiny (150' long, if I recall) ship is tossed as a storm approaches... then we get all kinds of actiony things going on, full of piratey goodness and Lady MacBathory bloodthirstiness and manipulations, before we get to the grand finale...

And from the other day:

Almost 1,000 words on l'Abattoir ~ all the more surprising because:

  1. it was at the dealership while they took care of a recall
  2. it was all in outline form... 1k words in outline form... and theres still a whole lot of the 3rd act that is not fleshed out, and none of the act is what I'd call "fully" outlined! Meaning the 3 acts of this piratey steampunkity (pre-punk, really) story may not be a novella, but might actually end up as a full-sized (but probably not ginormous) novel.


Which was further updated with:

And 1.5k words more... and the outline phrase "land excursion" now has some bones to it... some of them broken, some eaten... Lady MacBathory is having fun now!

Time to switch gears, turn on some sea shanties (non traditional, as they really came from the period of clipper ships, but they help set the mood!) and PotC soundtracks, and write some of this thing!

You can keep up with updates on Facebook by liking my Author's Page.
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"Why if I didn't see it with me own eyes..." John Jilkey stood on the main deck of the Bloodhawk ordering the cannons into silence as the spectral, blazing bowsprit of the l'Abattoir broke through the Spanish ship, which was crumbling fast, the bow already dipping below the waves. When the stern followed suit, and the fires had faded so that the strange ship was barely visible, it began to move forward with nary a single sail, and pull alongside the port rails of the 'hawk.

Since the fires had died out, Jilkey wasn't able to see a man on board the decks of the devilish ship, and until he heard familiar voices call out as they came out from below decks cheering, he wasn't sure any of his shipmates were aboard her.

"Captain Pelham!" Jilkey called out upon seeing him, and was filled with relief.

"Captain Jilkey, how fares the Bloodhawk?"

"Not near as bad as she should be, if you hadn't arrived. They were toying with us, and that's why we're afloat still."

"Can you make for Tortuga? I can't see the Governor of Port Royal welcoming you into the dry dock after this little affair."

"Aye! We can get the 'hawk there without difficulty, even should they come looking for us."

The two men shook hands as the ships were made fast together.

"So, I take it you're signing on with l'Abattoir?" Worsley asked, a wry smile on his lips. When Captain Pelham nodded, Worsley introduced himself, "I am, as you no doubt have guessed, the inventor of l'Abattoir, and her master. My former employer saw no reason that his clerk's musings should see light of day; I've been laughed out of the offices of the naval powers. I have seen ships made by the former and those bearing the flags of the latter to the bottom of the sea, and shall continue to do so."

The work aboard was simple, as he sailed the ship himself - man the guns, serving more as marines than sailors. Even shares for all, and that was that. In addition to those who had already served, they took on more crew to bring her to a full complement of sixty men, in addition to the four officers, the captain, and Worsley himself.

As they made the Bloodhawk ready to sail, the first thing they did was raise anchor, and allow l'Abattoir to tow them to sea. Despite the early hour, they could see stirrings ashore, and knew it would not be long before several Navy vessels were sent to investigate, including, most likely, the Alahandra's sister ship. As soon as the 'hawk had sails out, they cut the line and l'Abattoir set out her sails as well, racing from Port Royal before the sun rose over the wreckage of the man o' war.

End of Act I
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"Ahoy, l'Abattoir ! Captain Isaiah Pelham, late of the Bloodhawk, and officers, requesting permission to come aboard!" called out Seth Morse, who had been named first mate for their venture.

Worsley leaned over the rail, looking down at the two boats approaching. He dropped a knotted rope. "J-j-just the Captain, p-p-please." He smiled, feeling a bit more comfortable at the unease of the sailors, and at their readiness for trouble, clearly wary of whatever unknown threat was aboard.

Pelham swung over the rail onto the deck, finding it furnished in the same manner as the rest of the ship: clad with somewhat ill-fitting planking, loose underfoot. No other crew was visible in the lamp light, and nothing that could seemingly do any harm. Perhaps the rumours were overstated - but some vague menace still clung to l'Abattoir despite her ragged appearance.

"C-c-c-captain. Welcome to l'Abattoir. I am to understand you are here to sail with us, and not against us?"

Pelham read Worsley as shrewd and intelligent - yet seemingly unarmed. Confidant, despite his nervous mannerisms, despite being dwarfed by the captain's presence.

Worsley smiled at the assessment, ignoring Pelham's hand upon his sword. "In my absence, l'Abattoir will destroy you, as it did the bold men you sent. You will not be her master, but if you stay your hand, you may benefit from her destructive capabilities. I would not ask you to sail to the ends of the earth without an understanding of what she is about."

"Captain!" called the men in the jolly boats - and Pelham turned to see lights flashing further out in the harbour.

The navy holds little love for the Bloodhawk - that looks to be Alahandra, and if you do not act fast, she will destroy the 'hawk and your men )
ellyssian: (Default)
"...and you just ran away?" Captain Pelham leaned over Jilkey and the others, his voice carrying over the still night waters from the Bloodhawk's mooring in the outer harbour.

"Aye," John Jilkey, quartermaster of the Bloodhawk said, "Three losses, and not a damn sight of the man. That boat is an infernal machine."

"That it is. L'Abattoir, you said?"

Jilkey nodded, "That is the name beneath the name, if you get my meaning."

"I have heard of the craft before, she seems to be gaining some notoriety, although perhaps now I know why I've heard naught of crew nor captain. For the love of God, I can't see how that little man can manage her on his own." The captain paced back and forth before the remnants of the shore party. "Do you speak French, Jilkey?"

The quartermaster made a face, as if nothing could repel him more... (cut for length) )
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"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... (cut for length) )
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Worsley held the stump of a hand gingerly - as if afraid or disgusted, or both - at arms length and let it slip into the sour smelling harbour waters. He placed his hand back in the lock, the five levers sticky-wet with blood, the sharp teeth hidden within their sheathes, waiting to separate more hands from their owners. With some force, he pressed down on the levers, speaking quite clearly UNLOCK and was rewarded with a clicking and a whirring as the low metal bars that blocked his way swung freely.

"They'll never learn," he tsked as he stepped aboard and saw the handless man, facedown on the deck not far from where he had managed to climb aboard - a good jump towards the bow from the gangway. His head had rolled about ten feet away.

Scene Four

Note: Now that it is going to a wider audience, some explanation is needed: when you see something in capitals it is awaiting translation, most likely into French. At this time, I have made little or no effort to determine what these words - or phrases - will be.
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"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... (cut for length) )
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by Everett A Warren

started November 30, 2006

A mouse among cats is a furtive creature. A nervous creature. A meal.

"Away w' ye!" scowled the tavern master, a heavy jowled, heavy accented, heavy bodied gorilla of a man. Still and all, perhaps the least dangerous one in the room save for the object of his scorn.

"B-b-b-buh-but I do have business here," replied the mouse to the cat, poking his thin-rimmed spectacles back up the thin line of his nose, his voice thin and fragile, like a delicate wine glass set upon a bar amongst overflowing tankards of ale.

"Is that business you have here, good sir, or b-b-b-buh-business!" guffawed the one sitting beside him - no housecat, this one, but a lion, full of mane and wilder than any king of the jungle might hope to be. His companions roared in laughter, lifting high their ale for the jest and for the good natured slap that nearly broke the poor mouse's back.

Perhaps he was not even a mouse: a mere insect, who crawled away as their good humour overflowed and he was no longer its target.

Charles Stefan Worsley stood quickly upon making the door, leaving the noise of the tavern behind him, slinking as best he could down to the docks.

Scene Two


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July 2014



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