The New Yorker — Roleplayer Guild

*A collaboration with Yorg and TNY*

Emilio deligated the organization of the crew and everything above deck to his compotent friend Leonard Comstock as he decided to visit the galley and hold, and all the other rooms below deck. The bronze skinned Pirate lowered himself on a ladder, landing on the sodden wooden floor with a satisfying creek, his leather boots squeeking with the pressure. Some men moved to and fro, but moved whenever they noticed who he was. Emilio peeked into the galley, saw that it was empty, aside from the piles of boxes and barrels filled with food and spices, and made his way further down the hall. He made a mental note to get someone to man the galley as soon as possible.

Emilio haphazardly lowered himself down a steep flight of steps to the aft side of the hold. He passed a small group of men moving barrels into the hold, thanking them as he left them behind. The Dread Captain rounded another corner, planning to head back up to the gun room, but stopped when he noticed a young lad laying on a hammock, leatherbound journal in hand. Emilio was immediately drawn by the young man, and his book. "Oh, well isn't that interesting." Emilio raised his hand to his mouth and leaned against the wooden wall. His dark eyes scanned from the larger man, walking down the narrow passage way toward the aft, to the boy in the hammock. Emilio had the feeling that he'd encountered the man before, perhaps in the palace courtyard, but he could not tell by his fuzzy silhouette. "Boy," he started, "are you literate?" He asked this almost rhetorically, he expected the answer to be yes. But, perhaps, the boy just held the book for consolation. Perhaps he couldn't read or write at all, and he'd only raised the Captain's hopes in order to dash them; no matter how accidentally.

Gaspar quickly stood as he recognized the captain. "Uh, yes. Yes, yes I am!" He proffered the journal in his hands, then remembered that it was empty. "Um... I have some books here, if you want to see."

Emilio waved his hand with a playful smirk, his other rough, freshly cleaned, hand still lingering around his slightly chapped, albeit full, lips. "No need," he said, "there would be almost no point in you lying to me. I don't think you know how serendipitous this meeting is, boy! I'm looking for a yeoman. I need a young spry person, such as yourself, in order to compotently keep up with the action while still documenting major events, along with any necessary bureaucracy on the ship. If you're clever it'll be easy, so I hope you're clever." Emilio mindlessly lifted the journal from the boy's hand and flipped through it, it was empty, which was probably why he wanted to fetch other books. That was no need to worry, Emilio immediately recognized the books symbolism; the Dread Captain was a teen not too long ago. "So, you'll need to come stay with me in my cabin, upstairs. We can deal with matters of privacy later." Emilio added the second statement as an afterthought. Then, with no signal, Emilio tossed the book into the air, directly above the boy's lap. "What is your name?"

"G-Gaspar!" the boy replied with a look of suprise as he barely managed to catch the book. "Gaspar Albernaz, captain."

Emilio nodded with the information he was given, noting the Portuguese name. He began down the narrow hall, "follow me, Gaspar" he said. The boy scrambled to put away his journal and redo the clasps on his chest before taking off after the captain, belongigns in tow.

Emilio lifted himself to the next level via a small flight of wooden stairs. At the top he turned back toward Gaspar, if only to make sure he was keeping up, then continued. "How many languages do you speak?" he spoke over his shoulder, "That'll be important" he added to himself. He was calculating even now, as he led them toward the chained up and barred gun room. Emilio removed a ring of keys from his pocket, opened the locks and walked in. It was mostly clean and organized, probably not opened since the ship was completed.

"Two, captain. Well, two fluently. Spanish, and of course Portugese." His eyes widened as they entered the armory. "I speak a little English and French, enough to survive by."

Emilio ran his fingers along the various tables and bracings in the room until he came upon a rectangular table housing a few carbines and a blunderbuss'. Emilio lifted the firearm into his grasp, eyed the metal piece with a bloodsoaked meloncholy, and wrapped the leather strap attached to it over his shoulder. "To the room, then" Emilio said, leading the couple out of the dark, muddy chamber and back out into the rowdy corridor.

Emilio tapped Epunamun on the shoulder as he walked across the deck to the door leading to the captains quarters, "I'll be back in a moment," he said in Spanish. Emilio opened the chamber door with a juvenile expectancy, his hopes were not dashed, but they were also not met. There was a finely adorned desk partnered with a mahogany table set in front of it. A grand bed was settled horizontally to the right beside an armoire. There were various other nice furnishings among other decorations. Emilio crossed over to a dresser and removed the glass dagger from his side. Now that he was looking at it up close and in the light it looked a little different. It was a clear, ice blue, not a sharp green like before, probably an effect of the magic lighting there. Emilio slid the dagger under a few linens in the dresser and turned to Gaspar. "Set up wherever you'd like. I'll make sure we at least find you a bedroll, or hammock by tonight."

Gaspar nodded and walked to the far side of the room, sliding his chest into the corner. Emilio glanced over to the dining table and noticed a bottle of wine, as well as a note attached to it. Emilio crossed to it and lifted it, he read the note, written carefully in Portuguese: "Always remember whose wine you're drinking." The pirate chuckled, used his scimitar to pop the cork without unholstering it, and took a swig. Emilio turned back to his new yeoman, "Would you like some?"

Gaspar gawked at the scimitar for a moment before replying. "Oh, yes! Thank you, captain." He took a rather hasty gulp, but slowed as the taste set in. Then Gaspar finally smiled, albiet nervously, as he passed the bottle back to Emilio. "It's good."

The pirate took the bottle, chuckling to himself. How old is this boy? Emilio thought, no older than 15.... Emilio glanced down at the bottle, looked back up at Gaspar, then his eyes flicked back to the label on the bottle. Emilio's eyes widened for a second as he considered the date; "It ought to be," he placed the bottle on the table and walked toward his desk, "it's almost a hundred years old". Emilio opened a few drawers, and finally withdrew a covered inkwell, along with a rudimentary pen. "Tools of the trade," Emilio opined, and then he headed toward the door hoping the crew had made a significant effort to get the Bitch out of port.

Sarel watched the flogging with a manifold discord. The rending of flesh and spirit, along with the desperate cries and sputtering, made the Dunmer feel uncomfortable with the whole thing. This girl was not a sailor, she was not a pirate like the rest, so was this appropriate? Also, Sarel saw Sharee as a fair leader, despite her suicidal sense of leading. She would not have ordered this sort of punishment without a reasonable purpose.

Over the next few days Sarel was busy supervising repairs and upgrades to the ship. He reinforced the hull along with some of the beams which were slightly damaged. On the first night Sarel took it upon himself to train some of the men on the ship proper swordsmanship. Of course, without years of training and experience it was mostly superficial. Sarel hoped that those small tips might help them hurt their opponent more often than they hurt themselves, but he could only hope. His team-members also showed up, halfway through a particularly rowdy dice game, and handed him a journal of notes pertaining to every scoundrel and deviant they could find. That night, in bed, Sarel read through what they’d found. Serge’s bed was empty.

The Breton had taken his Khajiit team-member along with him to scout out the plantations. They returned the next morning with information of their own. The officers presented Sharee with the dossier as that day began, leaving them with the rest of the afternoon to train, rest, and plan. Sarel and Serge arrived in the captain’s quarters together. The Dunmer wore his classic, amber-colored, chitin armor along with all three ancient swords attached to the right side of his waist; his face was covered by his rarely worn chitin helmet. The Breton wore his full corundum clad armor. This longsword was at his waist as well. Neither of them brought assistance. They’d discussed it the night before and both had decided that their team-members were more liabilities than anything else in a raid situation. Sarel brought some health and magicka potions while Serge was stocked up with the stamina variety. Before anyone said anything Sarel tapped Noelle on the shoulder, hoping she’d healed.

“I’d like to speak with you about that garden you wanted. We can meet up after the mission.” The Dunmer said quietly. He left her with that on her mind and crossed the room with his friend.

Sarel and Serge took the corner with a table, the former sat in the sturdy wooden chair and the latter leaned against the wall. “Captain, where is this bandit lair? Are we going on foot, or have you arranged another transport?” Sarel asked.

The New Yorker Member

Treading the Rhetorical Minefield

Status

Bio

Most Recent Posts