|
Post by The Drunk Bard on Mar 21, 2017 16:12:22 GMT
Where most of the activities during Festivale are occurring. The streets are filled with dancers and vendors and the buildings have red and green and yellow streamers flying freely with the wind. Two dozen pirate vessels are docked at the port and the crews are spending money like it is going out of style.
|
|
|
Post by Brighid Murphy on Mar 21, 2017 20:30:45 GMT
Brighid arrived at the square. She had, of course, left a watch aboard ship with the promise that they would have their turn on shore leave, but most of the crew had come with her.
|
|
|
Post by The Drunk Bard on Mar 21, 2017 20:45:54 GMT
The raucous atmosphere makes the already oppressive heat seem even more unbearable, the stifling town having little traces of a breeze from the ocean, its weather influenced far more heavily by the mainland it faced to the west. Brighid's oldest sailor, a strange old Dutchman named Jan Depoortere, puffed on his pipe and looked about, the strong bite of Jamestown tobacco in his every breath. "Too many people," he grumbled in his thick accent. "Make the men weak. Distracted." He points to the other barely visible sails behind them. "Women here on Roatan make mice of men."
|
|
|
Post by Father Alvito on Mar 21, 2017 20:53:50 GMT
Freeport, a land of opportunity! A land where a man could become anything he wanted; a land of ostentation and debauchery... Although Alvito preferred to focus on the former rather than the latter. Father Alvito was not an unknown figure in Roatan; in a place ruled and frequented mostly by pirates, it was hardly common to see a young man, clad in the black robes of a Jesuit Priest, with a rapier and a flintlock strapped to his waist. His first couple visits to the Island had not been very welcoming, pirates are not known for being a very godly bunch. It was only after three years, and several hours learning to fend for himself, that Alvito started to feel at home among the scammers and ladies of the night that infested the streets of Freeport. Getting used to the place would have to happen sooner or later, with the Holy Mother Church after his head, there weren't many places left where he could feel somewhat safe (though safe is not exactly the word to be used in a town filled with psychos and arsonists).
Alvito trailed after Captain Brighid. The priest had a certain weightlessness to his walk, each step he took seemed to be millimetrically calculated not to hurt the land beneath his feet. It was good to step on earth again, he had learned to accept and even enjoy life on the sea, as many of his Portuguese forefathers, the Masters of the Sea, had done before him; nonetheless, more often than not, he craved for some steadiness under his soles. Seeing other faces was also something he couldn't complain about, you occasionally got tired of saying Good Morning to same toothless sunburnt faces every day. Hardly anything could remove the warm gentle smile that was stamped on his face.
|
|
|
Post by Brighid Murphy on Mar 21, 2017 21:08:29 GMT
Brighid grinned at Depoortere. "You know you wouldn't have it any other way. And for myself, I have no regard for mousy women. I spit on them. Aye, and on prancing dandies too." She winked. "Keep half an eye on our Father, won't you?" She turned to gesture at the priest following them. "Perhaps take him to a brothel. He still has the stink of the Vatican on him, after all this time."
|
|
|
Post by The Drunk Bard on Mar 21, 2017 21:14:46 GMT
"I'm old," he grumbled, "I have enough problems in bed without bringing that rosebud around. He tries to preach while we're trying to talk prices," he spit, looking at Alvito a moment with resigned annoyance. "You should wash that stink off yerself, cap." He looked about, his three pistols hanging off him a bit awkwardly. "Me'n Grier are heading off to Bella's, you should find yerself a good night's...rest, too," he said. "But I bet ole Padre's little finger is all withered from disuse."
|
|
|
Post by Brighid Murphy on Mar 21, 2017 22:14:31 GMT
"Aye, probably. It doesn't do a man good to be celibate," she agreed. "I'll wish you a good time. I don't know what I'll do yet. Not the brothel, of course. Unlike some, I've never had to pay for it." She smirked.
|
|
|
Post by The Drunk Bard on Mar 21, 2017 22:19:40 GMT
"I'd call that itch ye got last time payin'," the Dutchman grinned. "Be safe, cap." He and his Flemish companion head out. Brighid has the pick of town with her purse flush with coin. She has contacts in every tavern and they all seem to beckon her, free drinks and handsome men and scarred warriors seeking dishonest work.
|
|
|
Post by Brighid Murphy on Mar 21, 2017 22:37:03 GMT
After a moment's thought she headed to her favourite tavern, O'Brian's, the favourite haunt of Irish pirates. It's owner was a retired Irish pirate. Entering, she smiled at the welcome sound of Irish tunes being played on a fiddle and headed for the bar.
|
|
|
Post by The Drunk Bard on Mar 21, 2017 22:44:40 GMT
She hears the tunes before entering, and while still early O'Brian's has a fair crowd. A busty maid smiles as she sees Brighid. "Aye, Cap'n!" She said, "Peter'll be happy to see ye and yer smiling face!" Molly said with a grin. "Me son always had a soft spot for the fiery ones.." a voice interrupted.
"That's cause he's fooking Irish!" A chorus of cheers goes up to it. A giant of a man hands Brighid a barely touched ale. "Drink up lass! Ye been at sea long enough the salt gonna dry all yer parts out!"
|
|
|
Post by Brighid Murphy on Mar 21, 2017 22:55:58 GMT
"Hardly." She grinned. "Slainte!" Raising her tankard, she drank deep then took a vacant seat. "What's new at O'Brian's?"
|
|
|
Post by The Drunk Bard on Mar 21, 2017 22:57:46 GMT
"New here?" Molly asked. "Money and more money," she chuckled. "Tryin' to make an honest lad outta me son, but he insists only the finest o'the old country will do," she shook her head. "Might have to book passage to Cork meself if he stays an unwed man much longer." She raised a finger. "Unwed man bein' an oxymoron, of course."
|
|
|
Post by Frances Harte on Mar 21, 2017 22:58:11 GMT
Frances stepped into a rather unremarkable store just off the square, expecting to find a friendly face - a former crewmate of hers that was known to work there. Unable to locate him at first sight, she stepped to the side to examine the wares, touching a few trinkets here and there and fixing her tricorn hat in a small round mirror on one of the shelves.
Having waited until the shopkeeper was finished with his transaction, she moved over to the counter, and leaned her hand on it. "You got any books?" she asked with a slight smile, not expecting him to actually have any.
|
|
|
Post by The Drunk Bard on Mar 21, 2017 23:01:28 GMT
The shopkeep chuckles as Frances looks about. "Michael s off today," he said. "He'd have been on time for a day of work if he'd have had an inkling you were coming in," he said. "I got a journal from...well, you don't care where it's from," he said. "A soldier wrote it about the Battle of Rocroi." He seemed a bit uncomfortable. "I hope you have some friends with you, m'lady. I...well, you have heard, I imagine. Michael lives two blocks east of here, yellow building, second floor."
|
|
|
Post by Frances Harte on Mar 21, 2017 23:11:24 GMT
"My friends are outside," replied Frances, tilting her head to the side a little in contemplation. "Beggars don't get to choose. Let's see the journal," she said.
|
|