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Post by Father Alvito on Mar 21, 2017 23:40:18 GMT
Distracted by all the movement, ALvito soon found himself wandering astray from his group. It was always the same when they came to Roatan, half the crew would go the whorehouse, the other would get hammered in a nearby public house; ALvito always ended up alone, checking the exotic wares around town. Needless to say, in his first visits to Freeport, it didn't end up well... More precisely, he had to buy new clothes by the end of the day. Thrice.
Alvito found himself attracted to a rather unremarkable shop a little away from the square. He had just finished reading the Tale of St. Brendan's Voyages and expected to sell it, or trade for another tome. As much as he loved collecting books, he didn't have much of what you'd call 'space' in his cabin.
"Excuse me. Would you happe..." He said entering the establishment, only afterward noticing that the shopkeeper was busy with another costume. "Oh. Mil perdões, ma'am. Had not seen you there, I shall wait."
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Post by Frances Harte on Mar 21, 2017 23:57:04 GMT
Frances looked over her shoulder, her initial surprise shortly replaced by mild amusement. Priests were uncommon here; ones that still wore their robes... practically unheard of. She turned around and leaned against the counter to get a better look at him. "No need. Perhaps it is I that should be apologising. Forgive me, Father..." she said rather earnestly, even going so far as to briefly cast her eyes down, "...for I have sinned." She looked to him again with a glint in her eyes and a smirk slowly spreading on her face.
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Post by Father Alvito on Mar 22, 2017 0:12:39 GMT
This was not how a proper how confession should go, but He and learned to make do with what had.
"He forgives you, child..." He said with a kind smile, making the sign of the cross. For a priest who lives among heretics and was constantly mocked for being so, Father Alvito had a really hard time identifying sarcasm. It was already too late when it dawned on him.
"I'm going to be honest, ma'am." Alvito said, not losing his kind smile and good humor. "It's amusing to hear the words coming from the mouth of an Englishwoman, nonetheless. Probably a one in a lifetime experience. I should count myself lucky."
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Post by Frances Harte on Mar 22, 2017 0:32:36 GMT
Frances' smirk turned into a wide smile upon realising her words had at first gone over his head. She shook her head, finding the situation and the priest quite precious. "It has been a while since I last met a priest," she confessed. "Are you here to bring us all salvation?" she asked in good humour, appreciating the irony of having been brought up believing her community and its people were, in fact, closest to God.
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Post by Father Alvito on Mar 22, 2017 0:49:34 GMT
(I probably should have made it clearer, but it dawned on him as soon as he ended speaking for the first time. His second quote was more of a tease back.)
"Some of you, maybe... I try my best. I occasionally even try to bring around one of those Creole fellows; eerie folk, but I can't resist their turtle soup." Alvito was quite impressed when he was told that there was good eating in one of those. He would never have guessed. "If you haven't tried it, you should."
Alvito didn't mind some teasing. Some years ago, it might have gotten under his skin, blasphemy and such; but he'd lived long enough with pirates to care too much about it. It was better this way, anyhow. He still had the scars from the last time he had a heated religious debate with someone in Freeport. He had learned not to expect much from others, he could be godly enough for the whole of them.
"I see you have a book in your hands, ma'am. Not always that you find some lettered folk around here." He said, pulling his own tome from his satchel. "Been wanting to trade this one for something new."
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Post by Brighid Murphy on Mar 22, 2017 9:41:54 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." Brighid laughed. "Oh, I'm sure you can find some pretty Irish lass for Peter. Want me to take him aboard with me? Then he could look for himself, when we're at Dublin or Belfast. I do hate to think of the poor lad all alone."
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Post by The Drunk Bard on Mar 22, 2017 11:52:17 GMT
Molly chuckled. "Oh, ye still journey back to the auld country, do yeh? Maybe soon," she said, "if he keeps being so obstinate." As Molly babbles, Peter O'Brien, the actual owner of the tavern, walks up and smiles at Brighid.
"Well, Cap'n Murphy," he said, his voice boisterous but touched with an instinctive Irish piety, "it's been too long since ye touched anchor at Freeport! What's it been, six months? I'm surprised y'ain't on a ship o'the line yet." For all Molly talking of her son, Peter is a true giant among men, four inches or more taller than the next biggest man in the room, his arms like logs as he fills up a pint to hand to her. How he had never turned to piracy was a mystery many captains had struggled to answer. "There's trouble in the auld country, ma, as yeh well know."
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Post by Frances Harte on Mar 22, 2017 11:56:55 GMT
(I probably should have made it clearer, but it dawned on him as soon as he ended speaking for the first time. His second quote was more of a tease back.) "Some of you, maybe... I try my best. I occasionally even try to bring around one of those Creole fellows; eerie folk, but I can't resist their turtle soup." Alvito was quite impressed when he was told that there was good eating in one of those. He would never have guessed. "If you haven't tried it, you should." Alvito didn't mind some teasing. Some years ago, it might have gotten under his skin, blasphemy and such; but he'd lived long enough with pirates to care too much about it. It was better this way, anyhow. He still had the scars from the last time he had a heated religious debate with someone in Freeport. He had learned not to expect much from others, he could be godly enough for the whole of them. "I see you have a book in your hands, ma'am. Not always that you find some lettered folk around here." He said, pulling his own tome from his satchel. "Been wanting to trade this one for something new." "I'll be sure to keep that in mind," she offered in regards to the turtle soup, and began leafing through the journal when the priest mentioned it, half-smiling at his last sentiment without taking her eyes off the pages. "Then you've certainly come to the right place," she said, finally turning to the shopkeeper with the only "book" in the store. "How much for this?" she asked.
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Post by The Drunk Bard on Mar 22, 2017 12:07:16 GMT
"For you," he said, with the sly oiliness of a salesman, "two silver," he said. The journal is long enough to be well worth the price. "You should put your own exploits to paper," he said, "the masses would spend much to read of a true pirate's tales. Especially one written by someone...literate." He looked towards the town square. "I got a memoir from a captain not long ago that had a pair of breasts drawn on every page. Savages," he grumbled.
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Post by Frances Harte on Mar 22, 2017 12:16:30 GMT
Frances looked amused at the notion, as well as the price. Her proclivity to secrecy and deceit would have made her a poor memoirist... or perhaps an excellent one. The journal, however, might've been lengthy, but had it really been worth anything, it would not have been lying around in a shabby cornershop. She knew it, and the shopkeeper knew it. "How much?" she asked again.
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Post by The Drunk Bard on Mar 22, 2017 12:18:17 GMT
"One," he said, rolling his eyes. "But when my kids are asking where the food is, I am going to tell them that Frances Harte took it," he said. As he moves, Frances hears a tap on the shuttered window, and one of her friends points surreptitiously down the street.
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Post by Frances Harte on Mar 22, 2017 12:40:40 GMT
She gave a short chuckle and handed over the piece of silver, too well-versed with the tactics of merchants to be fazed by the shopkeeper's words. "If they ever tried hardtack, they would understand," she replied.
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Post by The Drunk Bard on Mar 22, 2017 12:45:50 GMT
"La Tempestad," Ricardo mouthed to her. Frances and Alvito both hear cheering coming from outside. It sounds like the people are celebrating a major haul.
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Post by Brighid Murphy on Mar 22, 2017 13:35:46 GMT
Molly chuckled. "Oh, ye still journey back to the auld country, do yeh? Maybe soon," she said, "if he keeps being so obstinate." As Molly babbles, Peter O'Brien, the actual owner of the tavern, walks up and smiles at Brighid. "Well, Cap'n Murphy," he said, his voice boisterous but touched with an instinctive Irish piety, "it's been too long since ye touched anchor at Freeport! What's it been, six months? I'm surprised y'ain't on a ship o'the line yet." For all Molly talking of her son, Peter is a true giant among men, four inches or more taller than the next biggest man in the room, his arms like logs as he fills up a pint to hand to her. How he had never turned to piracy was a mystery many captains had struggled to answer. "There's trouble in the auld country, ma, as yeh well know." "There's always trouble in the old country," Brighid pointed out, without bitterness. "Before the feckin' English, it were the old lords and kings fightin' with each other. 'Tis our way, my da said. We Irish are born to trouble, an' to fight an' drink better than most." As ever, her accent became more pronounced among her own people. "But you're always welcome to sail with me, Peter, if you want to try your sea legs. Your old da must turn in his grave to see you a landlubber all your life."
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Post by The Drunk Bard on Mar 22, 2017 14:32:59 GMT
"Fightin's one thing, grovelin' to them fookers in London's worse." Peter rubbed his beard. "Trouble may find us, but better trouble'n surrender." As she mentioned going to sea, he chuckled. "I'm bloody useless on the sea," he said, "too damn big for the bunks, and I got all the grace on a ship of a bucket o'chum." He raised his mug in toast. "To the auld country, and to fucking the English one ship at a time."
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