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| Adela strode up to the front door of her mansion. It was dark out still, despite the glimmer of light on the horizon. It was just daybreak and Adela was just returning from a night of hunting and dancing. The clubs inside the city always had the best meals. She paused when she noticed a black clad stranger exiting her front door. She eyed him warily, wondering what he was doing this far out of town, and especially at her front door. Her left hand slid to her belt where she carried a variety of long, silver objects. Each knife reflected the rising light with such brilliance she wondered if she could blind the stranger and not have to attack right away. Swaying catlike, she moved towards the stranger as if she was gliding and not really walking. Her ebony eyes glinting with malice. "And you are?" Her voice was silky, not alarmed, simply curious. There was not much that could harm her save another vampire, but she knew by this creature's presence that he was no such thing. |
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| Corporal Jones was privately disgusted when Sergeant Devlin and his selected marines returned to Dauntless. He had hoped fervently that the jollyboat would somehow sink between the second-rate and the captured sloop and be lost, along with all the men aboard her. He despised the sergeant with all his heart for what he'd done and would not have been saddened at all to watch the stupid bastard drown. He stood as far from the other marines as he could get, without breaking ranks. Every one of those men shared guilt for what had happened, because they had all cheered when their mates on the pirate sloop had killed their prisoners. Stupid, arrogant bastards. Jones' normally placid temper simmered and threatened to boil over when his gaze came to rest on Devlin's smug face. He had never wished death on a fellow marine until now. The Commodore stepped up to the poop deck rail and glared down at the assembled sailors and marines. Jones knew there was going to be a stern rebuke coming for the guilty parties. He was not disappointed. "The taking of prisoners, when by my order, or any superiors order is to be followed to the letter exactly. Any man who is the cause of any mutinous action, as such I read this, who forgets that my word is the supreme word on here, that it is to be treated as if it came from the King himself, will suffer the harshest of consequences." It was all he could do to keep from cheering. He settled for shuffling his feet, which earned him a side-ways glare from the private standing nearest him. Jones ignored him. He had done what was truly right, and that was to reveal Devlin's treachery to the proper authority. Devil what the other marines might believe - they had a bloody duty to follow any and all orders given them. Devlin was as guilty as the day was long and Jones had seen to it that the errant sergeant would be brought to task for it. "Everyone who participated in this deliberate flaunting of orders will be flogged, and then when we get to Kingston will face a court martial. You all face death, and pray that that is what you receive, otherwise there will be none who look upon you with any less that scorn and hatred." Norrington's angry gaze sought out the boatswain, who stood up just a little straighter. "Matheson, you know what must be done!" "Aye aye, sir!" Matheson cried, knuckling his brow with a flourish. "Mister Colburn, bring up the cat!" A ripple of apprehension went through the assembled marines as the ship's master-at-arms appeared and took a firm hold of Sergeant Devlin. An angry murmur hummed from several of them, until Devlin himself silenced them with a loud "S'all right, lads, jes' the price of loyalty!" Jones felt his stomach fold over on itself. That bastard had no inkling what loyalty was. Suppressing a shudder, the corporal looked toward Lieutenant Forsythe, but could discern no emotion on the officer's face. His question died stillborn on his tongue and he decided to simply act on the impulse that was stirring him into motion. "Punishment parade, move it 'long snappily, this ain't no bloody recruit depot!" Jones barked, his own anger lending him strength and purpose. Almost reluctantly, Dauntless' one hundred and twenty marines moved to their customary positions, though Jones knew if there was to be trouble, it would come from the marines themselves. "The cat, if yeh please, Boatswain," he said, moving toward where Matheson and Colburn stood near the newly-erected grating. Sergeant Devlin was being stripped of his coatee and shirt nearby in preparation for his flogging, and it was toward him that Jones looked, though only briefly. Just long enough to convey in a glance what he thought of the man. Matheson gazed at him for a long moment before removing the leather whip from its sail-cloth bag and handing it over. What the marine corporal had requested was grossly irregular, but the determined, barely-concealed fury on the Welshman's usually-gentle face was enough to convince Matheson to give way. The boatswain glanced at Colburn once the cat had left his possession and said, "Tie him up, Mister Colburn. And send a boat across to that sloop with some of the lads, there to pass the word." The master-at-arms and two able seamen guided Devlin to the grating and wasted little time tying his wrists up. Jones shed his crossbelts and hat, carefully leaving them near the cat's bag. Then he moved toward the middle of the deck, the cat swinging easily in his hand. He received a nod from the master-at-arms and drew in a steadying breath. "Marine for punishment, sar!" |
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| “I want you to act like a human for once!” she snapped, immediately reacting to his tone. She shut her eyes and bit her lips until a pang spread through her mouth, in order to keep in the emotion that was tying knots in her throat. A noose. Every day, every hour and every minute that Etienne was gone, she felt that noose slip about her neck a bit tighter. It was a pain, Aurenne had reasoned, that must be that of amputation; an ache in one’s heart and soul that did not fade. In fact, it grew sharper, bit into her heart at an angle and tore everything inside of her to shreds. Every day Etienne did not reappear, Aurenne felt she had shattered into a million pieces – and every day was a million pieces more. She wanted to tell Isaac about this sensation of dying; of physically aching because her child was gone. Certainly there was something he could do; even if it wasn’t a method allowed only because he was her husband, there had to be something that would help her take this as easily as he was. Though inwardly Aurenne knew Isaac’s tranquility was just his freakish way of dealing with trauma, not an inner peace. She would have liked to think that if he wasn’t worried, she shouldn’t be worried, but she had known him far too long to foolishly fall into that false impression, as tempting as it was. And Aurenne wanted to scream every time he looked at her with those reproachful, antagonized eyes; she felt like hitting him and demanding they go out and look for her, even though that would be ridiculous. But what sort of parent didn’t pace when their child was gone? What sort of parent could read when their daughter might be crying? “Don’t you dare try to feed me any of that—...” Aurenne was going to say shit, but she couldn’t will herself to speak so vulgarly with thoughts of her daughter so tender and bruising occupying the same space in her mind. “I’m not implying a thing; I’m asking you—how can you just sit there reading that damn book when...” Her voice tapered off, not wanting to say anything morose, for fear her words might make it true. She just wiped her eyes, sniffling a bit and glaring at him. “Because sometimes I do wonder,” she hissed, voice strangely fierce despite her fragile mindset. “I do wonder who you really love.” Her pretty blue eyes were blazing with all the ache in her body; not only from Etienne, but from the deceit she had learned of only recently. Deceit she never thought Isaac was capable of. |
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| A shiver of anticipation went through the marines and fingers curled just a little tighter around triggers as the pirates scrambled up over the broken remains of the gate. Private Colbert Smith sucked in a quick breath and held it, steadying his aim as he watched a particularly round fellow come scurrying through the breach. On either side of him, the lads were picking out their own targets and mentally preparing themselves for the reality that this was the very last action any of them would fight. "Ya bastards ain't welcome 'ere!" It was Martin Bell, bellowing out his anger in the heartbeats before a nearly-unified volley crackled from the twelve muskets. Smith turned his face partially away from his musket as he squeezed the trigger, closing his eyes to avoid getting stray particles of powder in his eyes. Screams announced successful hits, and a quick cheer went up from the marines. "At 'em, me boys! Bayonets forrard!" The kneeling rank of marines came up to their feet in a single motion, bursting forward into a run, half a pace ahead of their comrades who had been standing. Each man gave out a wild yell as he charged, musket held before him like a lance. There was barely ten yards of open ground between them and the pirates, and the distance was covered in seconds. Bayonets clashed with sword blades and slipped past to sink into warm bodies. Smith jerked his bayonet-tipped musket back and kicked aside the man he had just run through, moving on to swing the butt of his musket against another foe. A pistol cracked and somebody screamed. Smith was pushed back a few paces by the weight of a falling pirate and he saw Higgins go down, both hands pressed against his face. Somebody grabbed hold of his coat sleeve and Smith whipped the butt of his musket up instinctively, cracking the solid wooden stock against his would-be attacker's jaw. His mates were in the thick of the on-rushing pirate horde, all fighting like demons but woefully outnumbered. For a second, Smith spotted the familiar bulk of Colour-Sergeant Crawford, rolling through the fight like a boulder. Good lad! "Smith!" He spun round in time to duck the wild cutlass swing that would have taken off his head at the nose. His bayonet struck home when he lunged forward with it, taking down his assailant handily. Some pirates were fleeing, run off by the fierce and unforgiving application of bayonets, but there were still scores pouring through the shattered gate. Smith swung his musket like a club, nearly cleaving a slow-witted pirate in two with the heavy wooden stock. As the man slumped down with a twice-broken neck, he saw Frazier leap at a fellow with his bayonet leading. There was a quick flash of fire and his fellow Leeds native folded, his face shot away. Smith let out an anguished howl and leaped at the pirate who'd fired the shot, spearing the laughing bastard through his back. Spitting on the dead man as he yanked his bayonet free, he went on with his work. There was a flash of blue nearby and Smith turned toward it, catching sight of Lieutenant Gillette as the Navy officer knocked a pirate sprawling with a well-aimed left hook. Bloody well done, sir! Then, suddenly, the officer staggered, his sword disappearing from his hand. A pirate shoved at Gillette, forcing the officer back toward the unyielding stone wall. "Sir!" Smith bayoneted a man and kicked his body aside, trying to get to the beleaguered lieutenant's aid. The crush of fighting men hemmed him in, impeding his progress. If there was time, he would load his musket, but even as he shoved and bayoneted his way through the press of bodies, he saw a pistol lift to point at the Navy officer's face. Shit. There was no way he could get to Gillette in time. Unless... "Grenade!" Smith roared, quickening his step as if to get away from the deadly little object. Almost instantly, a space cleared around him and he stretched his legs out into a sprint, bringing his musket up into both hands in preparation to throw it like a lance. The long-barrelled weapon left his hands only a heartbeat after the pirate fired. Gillette slid down the wall into a heap, but was joined moments later by the pistol-wielding pirate, who magically grew a bayonet-tipped musket out of his side. Barely pausing to retrieve his musket, Smith hit his knees beside the lieutenant, tearing at his cravat in order to press his fingers against the man's neck. "Sir!" Men had survived being shot in the head, he'd seen it. That didn't appear to be so here and Smith cursed viciously, angry tears forming in his eyes. He hadn't been overly fond of the Navy officer, but he had been unarmed and essentially out of the fight. There'd been no call or reason for him to be shot down so coldly, other than out of pure evil. His fingers fumbled with the flap of his cartouche, succeeding after a moment in taking hold of a cartridge. Kill. That was the only thing on his mind now. It took longer than usual to load his musket, but he managed it. As he grabbed out his ramrod, however, his actions drew notice and a keen-edged cutlass came slashing at him. Howling in pain and nearly dropping his musket, the marine thrust the firelock upward, spearing his assailant through the belly. Better hurry. The musket cracked and a pirate fell, then somebody was yelling. Suddenly, the pirates gave a cheer, some throwing their hats into the air. Smith shifted into a kneeling position and held his musket at his side, blood-stained bayonet pointing toward the pirates around him. What the hell was going on? His eyes swept over the cheering mass of blackguards, until his gaze came to rest on the body of a red-coat on the ground, barely visible amidst the forest of legs. It was Bell. Hands slapped against his shoulders and arms, stirring him back into animation. Smith started to swing the butt of his musket up to fight off his attackers, but a brass-ended pistol butt came crashing against the back of his head. He sagged to the dirt, an arm's-length from Gillette's body. Another cheer went up and his musket was plucked from his hand, claimed as a prize of war. The fight for Fort Charles was over. |