250 || The Pirates of Tortuga || Topic 1 - Speeltopics

[ bericht aangepast op 17 okt 2015 - 21:18 ]

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It's not that I don't love our little talks, it's just... I don't love them. ~ Loki

{Aight.}

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Tijd voor koffie.

[Aye Aye Cap'ain,
Where 'n how'll we start?]

[ bericht aangepast op 30 sep 2015 - 22:12 ]

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Bowties were never Cooler

Everybody starts in Tortuga, doin' they're own thing. The pirate c'tain is seeking out a crew.

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Don't walk. Run, you sheep, run.

What about my character, who is a prisoner?
Oh, and I don't want to be annoying, but I was lookin' at the character list and it doesn't say that Briar is a prisoner - Sorry, I just happened to notice.

[ bericht aangepast op 30 sep 2015 - 22:44 ]

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Tijd voor koffie.

Anchors aweigh!

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Quiet the mind, and the soul will speak.

A S I L A H • S I N E A D • S A L O M N

      'You'll not be gettin' anymore, Asilah, so enjoy your drink because it'll be your last.'
I intended to pound my fist on the bar, ready to tell him my thoughts, however–– due the amount of liquor that flowed through my veins, I instead hit the person next to me. Right into his manhood. At least, I think it was a man. Otherwise it'd be her womanhood. The place between the legs and. . . I don't care.
      'Listen, you scurvy dog,' I hiss menacing, while I start pointing my finger at him. He doesn't seem impressed, though. 'When I pay, I'm getting it.' Although it sounds clear to me, I wonder if anyone else can understand what I'm saying. Probably not by all the faces I'm getting. It's either that or I'm so hot that they need to stare.
      'That's the point,' the bartender starts. His voice still sounds calm, cold even, as he starts cleaning glasses. 'you haven't paid.'
      'Well, that's ridiculous,' I interrupt, 'you just can't handle a lady like me.' The small amount of alcohol still in my glass starts staring at me. In one movement, I throw it backwards in my throat and sigh. I'm surprised he can still comprehend what I'm saying, since I'm so loaded my sentences can't be correct.
      'That must be it.' He stiffles a bitter laugh. 'Actually, you haven't paid for the last week, so while I'm still nice: bugger off.'
      'Bugger off?' Our eyes met for a painful second. He is shooting daggers at me and for once–– I'm thinking he is right. 'Aight, relax, already gone. See? Not even here anymore.'
      When I try to get up, I accidentally hit the person next to me, again, this time in the face. I do not apologize, after all–– it's not specifically my fault. 'If I return, I'll ensure you'll have absolutely no more costumers. Not even a mouse.'
      'Are you threatening me, Salomn?'
      'I wouldn't dare.' I spit sarcastically.
I managed to get up, I hereby bump into another person who –– as a result –– throws his beverage against a person. once again, the one sitting next to me. He'll be pissed now, I guess. Oh well.
      'Think about your heart,' is the only thing I'm saying in defence when I slip away.

[ bericht aangepast op 3 okt 2015 - 17:45 ]

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Quiet the mind, and the soul will speak.

Oliver Hornigold
I was busy rounding up pintglasses in the tavern. People were starting to become drunk, now the evening started to set in. My mum would start her shift soon, while I would be off in a few hours. The boy who worked the bar during the day was still here, and seemed to have a row with one of te customers. I silently walked bar towards the bar to listen in, but it went to nip me in the butt. The girl was clearly drunk and irritated, and stumbled against me, making me almost drop all the glasses. Benjamin, the bar boy, wanted to go after her, when she tried to get away. I stopped him. "Let me go, mate. She's already past gone with you." I gave him the glasses and slipped through the crowd after her. I put my weak hand on her shoulder. "Hey, mate. Are you okay?" It was an innoscent question, but I hoped to get her into a better mood. We didn't need problems in the tavern. I didn't want problems in my home. "Please don't mind, little old Ben the bar boy. He's just a cranky and tired. " I tried to calm her and get her in a better mood. I let my hand fall from her shoulder and went through my hair, to get some of the hairs out of my face. "Want to get a a pint of juice? We got fresh oranges today." My mum had allowed me to eat a whole one today, which was a treat. It was sweet and juicy. We didn't get much fresh fruit and vegetables here. Most were pickled and canned, so fresh produce was very special to me. Especially because my mum wasn't very wealthy, so she couldn't afford fresh greens when they were scarce. Meanwhile Ben ended his shift and my mum started hers. This would hopefully calm everything further down and let us all live in peace, while I still hoped another captain would show up looking for a crew, though that hope was slowly started to fade.

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Bowties were never Cooler

Waking up offers no relief, as I'm still captured on a ship I do not know the name of. Now, there's been a change of location for me, as I'm in a small, half hidden place in a cavern. I can watch over the crowd, but can't walk over to them and the same goes for the people on the other side, as we're shaded away from them. Besides, my hands are tied to my back and I prefer to stay a bit in the shadows. The lingering looks of the men are quite obvious and I don't fancy a worst-case scenario.
I've never been a pessimistic person and I certainly want to continue living, but this sight has become rather depressing. The moist and damp floors, cage-walls and limited horizon has been getting on my nerves and even though I wouldn't ever speak my fears out loud: The walls have been closing in on me. Never, not even once, will I ever admit my flaws or my fears, but ever since my survival game began, I've somehow developed claustrophobia. My survival game - it's almost a mock name for the events. Ever since I was stolen from my home, the Damned Emerald, I feel as though I've been part of a very realistic catch 'n get game, in which I am the unwilling object.
I might just be a pessimistic person after all.
I've grown bitter, but how could the blame fall on me? It's been a long time since I ever felt relaxed, not even on the Sanctum. I snicker cynistically thinking about that ship, which was so overthrown by officials, it barely was a pirate ship anymore. However, those officials never discovered my true identity, so it was safe enough - for a short while at least. I might whine about it a lot, but the Sanctum was a good enough ship to stay a bit longer, they never made too big of a deal out of the stupid superstition that women would bring bad luck (I can honestly say I often bring good luck to a ship, I'm a hard worker) and the crew was okay-ish. I had to fight for my own right sometimes, but no one was forcing me into marriage.
Goose-bumps are forming and covering all of my arms like a soft layer that's expanding over my bare skin. Intuitive, I try to touch my bandana to see if it's still there and glance at my hat, which I has fallen of just out of my reach. Whenever I try to get it, the shackles cling in laughter at my attempts.
Hear me, bickering about my long-gone past, like I'm some kind nostalgic madame. If there's anyone who never complies to melancholy, it'd be me. Prison really takes the piss out of me.

[ bericht aangepast op 6 okt 2015 - 20:17 ]

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Tijd voor koffie.

John Delahaye – Blackwood
A couple of drunken pirates walked past a young man leaning against a wall in the shadows, his hat over his eyes hidden. The drunken men are supported by damsels, where you could see their deep neckline. They went into the pub and walked towards a dark corner, where they sat down. The young man in the shadows pushed himself careless from the wall.
      Two drunken pirates murmured something about 'bumboo', which was grog. The waitress, named Jean, had just nodded, sighed, and watched the ladies who were sitting there giggling at. 'Do me some pancakes, honey.' Laughed a blond woman exposing her yellow teeth.
      The waitress followed the familiar path to the bar and came back with the order - on the point that she put down a glass, her arm was grabbed. 'Beautiful ringg yer got th're, doll.' Rang out in a hoarse, raspy voice. She looked up and wanted to withdraw her hand, but was held firmly by the old man with the beard.
'Aye,' he studied the ring carefully to her slender finger. 'Arrr, such a thing is too obscure for a little girl like'yar,' his gaze turned mysterious but dark. Now she withdrew her hand away from his grip. 'Get your stinking paws off of me, bucko,' and with these words she turned around.

      With a bang she ended up at a table, the people who sat at that table started to quarrel with others. The plate of pancakes landed on the woman who had ordered it and Jean saw how a pancake, which was stuck to her face, fell down and revealed an angry face.
      Jean looked frantically up – who had this on his or her conscience? She could only see a burgundy cape, black pants and a pair of worn–out boots. He stood with his back to her. She wanted to ask him why he did such a thing, but when she noticed a deep gouging on the table where she first stood for, she already knew why. It had certainly been a sword.
      “Ha ha, yer can't win from me,” he said, while jumping on the table. The sharp point from his sword pointed on the tip of the old mans nose. “Haven't yer hear'f me, mate? I'm. .”
      'Blackwood!' A woman screamed.
“Yes, exactly!” Happily he agreed, a grin on his face that someone recognized him and became more known (especially under the ladies). The man started to swing his sword in the air and John said with a happy voice “en garde” while he, you almost could call it dancing, on the table.
      'Blackwood!' The same voice sounded more demanding. Jean was yelling something, but her voice didn't go over the noise.
He jumped onto another table, ignored the voice, pricked a beaker filled with beer on his sword and knew it so handy to get it to him; he put it back quickly on his familiar spot – empty. “Why yarrr torrm'ntin' that l'ttle,” he gave a glance on Jean's body “full grown lass, yarrr scurvy old' cloth,” he jumped over the sweep from the sword and when back on his feet, he kicks the man against the chest and catches the sword that was thrown out of the old pirates' hands.
      “Lookit me new sword!” Blackwood said excitingly.

There jabbed something at his back. His smile was as good as gone. 'Blackwood,' he turned around at the same time his name was said – by a the same woman.
      “Jennifer.” His hands opened wide as an greeting and wanted to bow forward, gladly that he had her name right – to give her a kiss. But the sharp point of the sword retained his movement.
      'Who is that girl?'
      “Who?”
      'Who.'
      “Err, nobody,”
      'Don't yer lie to –' “My cuddly, busty Jenever,” he interrupted her sentence – he added there an underlying sense of his love for alcohol – and hoped she didn't heard that. “Thers' no other girl.”
      At that moment the door swung open and revealed two other girls, asking loudly if anybody knew where Blackwood is. When Jennifer looked back John was already gone – fleein' the back door.

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Don't walk. Run, you sheep, run.

Sherrinford schreef:
What about my character, who is a prisoner?
Oh, and I don't want to be annoying, but I was lookin' at the character list and it doesn't say that Briar is a prisoner - Sorry, I just happened to notice.

Sorry, for the late answer. :x But I will edit the list, thanks for saying. You're not annoying.
The prisoners also get of the ship, but they will be in a place in the bar where Bladeren van keep an eye on them and their hands are tied together with rope on their back.

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It's not that I don't love our little talks, it's just... I don't love them. ~ Loki

Magnus schreef:
(...)

Sorry, for the late answer. :x But I will edit the list, thanks for saying. You're not annoying.
The prisoners also get of the ship, but they will be in a place in the bar where Bladeren van keep an eye on them and their hands are tied together with rope on their back.

Bladeren van? I'll make the talkie-talkie topic. Here yer go.

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Don't walk. Run, you sheep, run.

Herakles schreef:
(...)
Bladeren van? I'll make the talkie-talkie topic. Here yer go.

... Auto correct on my phone. --" * where Blade can keep een eye on them.
Damn, yesterday I thought about making that topic, but I forgot it again.:x

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It's not that I don't love our little talks, it's just... I don't love them. ~ Loki

Blade Mahir Lynston

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Kill them with success and bury them with a smile.

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A growl left his mouth as he pushed the last prisoner into a corner of the bar. All of them were tied together with a rope around their waist and hands and bound to a pillar.
"Stay." The word left his mouth as he turned around to walk to the bar. In his eye corners he could still see the prisoners looking around them.
Blade took a seat on one of the old bar stools which looked like they could fall apart every moment. He ordered a whiskey after which he turned around.
He let his eyes wander through the bar, seeking for some potention in this goddamned place. He was sorry to say that the most potential candidate was a pig, for he was one of the few who was not drunk.
Blade pulled himself of the stool again, which made a terrible sound, taking his glass in his hand. After he had emptied the glass of whiskey through his mouth in one go, he put the glass with some money on the bar. For one more time he looked at the prisoners before he set off to look for some people who could do well for his crew when not being drunk.
He passed a couple who were swinging with a glass in their hands, the woman clinged onto the man like he was made of freakin' diamonds.
As for another man, who had two girls on his arms, he almost spilled some alcohol on Blade. After Blade growled he had to watch what he did, trying to keep his cool, he made his way more to the back of the bar, knowing that there were the more quiet, qualified types of people.
He stepped on a table, spilling some of the drinks people had left standing on the table, so that he could overlook the people and say something. The man picked up a glass and threw it in the air. Faster than the light he got his gun out and shot at the glass. A loud banging sound sounded throughout the bar. Some people went quiet in the back, but some kept talking.
"Shut the fuck up." Blade said in a low warning voice, it helped. "I need a crew. All the people who know they are crap, don't volunteer. People looking for something better than being drunk the whole day and going around fucking of girls, please volunteer." He tried to say as cheerful as possible, though that went terribly wrong. He sounded more like if you would not volunteer, he would probably shoot you. The fact that he was swinging his revolver around in his hand while saying so, was something he did not think helped.
"So, volunteers?"

[ bericht aangepast op 6 okt 2015 - 20:25 ]

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It's not that I don't love our little talks, it's just... I don't love them. ~ Loki

The way I'm standing, helpless and seemingly easy to intimidate, makes my heart beat hard out of anger and humiliation. Almost never, have I been treated like this. There's nothing much I can do, but hope that nobody notices me, and it makes me furious. My heart carries a lot of hate and now, a part of this anger is aimed at him. When I'm angry at someone, I make sure I get revenge. A smile flutters across my face, but disappears quick enough. In many difficult times, the remembrance of the opportunity of revenge makes me feel a bit better - I'm strong enough to get it.
However, there hasn't been a time for that yet. Especially now that Lynston is hoarding a crew, it'll be harder to capture 'n kill him, considering the fact that he will probably keep people around. I grimace, sucked up in my thoughts. It's not a problem in the end, I'll find a way to eliminate every single one of those nasty rats, who dare to stand behind the vile captain. Bitterly, I try to see if there's any possibility of unknotting the knots, but Lynston - even though I don't want to admit it - makes good knots.
When I slowly return from my thoughts, a whole new scenario deploys in front of my eyes. Lynston exclaims that he's looking for a crew, and for a second, I can't contain myself. "So, volunteers?" He shouts.

"Yeah, it's real fun!" I shout back, it's easy ignorable, but people don't call me an obnoxious git for nothing.

[ bericht aangepast op 6 okt 2015 - 20:45 ]

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Tijd voor koffie.

John Delahaye – Blackwood
When John flew the back door, he first saw some filthy, nasty shoes in the shade of white; at least, he thought it was white.
'What yer doin' her,' mate?' Some dark voice said before him. A sharp odor, of what he thought to be pepper, irritated his nostrils. He was in the kitchen. 'Lookin' fur some trouble, ain't ya?' The man with the dirty, old shoes talked to him again and he looked up – slightly a bit hesitant.
      “He he he,” he laughed awkwardly.
The man was firmly build and held a ladle up as if he could strike anytime. John looked a bit carefully, on what the man could do. With one hand secretly on the door, he looked at the man right before him. 'Me seein' it in yer eyes, mate,' the man said, when he narrowed his eyes.
      On that moment John heared that Blade demanded that everybody should shut up. He got a plan and grinned mysteriously, somewhat crafty.
      “Well, err, mate,” his voice sounded skeptical; to what the (he assumed to be the cook) said, “Me got sum' pretty lookin' ship and me and me err, scurvy buddy's arrr lookin' fur'some, well, crew. Yer got sum' volunteers?”
      The man laughed, his awful, yellow teeth exposed; some were no longer there.

A man walked into the bar; moves his head from side to side, searching. You couldn't miss him, because his form was big enough that he almost touched the ceiling. 'Jennifer!' He yelled over the noise.
A well-shaped woman with long, dark hair, that reached far below her breasts, appeared from behind a group of drunk men. 'Daddy!' 'What did I tell you? Go to your mother and help her with the housework.' 'But they're here to find a crew and Joh - ..' The man looked angry, almost seething. 'Okay,' she pouted.
      A couple dreadlocks, and then the whole head came cautiously from behind a door. The figure saw the woman walking away with her head bowed. If the man had known that his daughter had shared her bed with John, then he sure didn't live long. He came behind the door, gave the man a simple nod and followed his path to Blade.
      “And any luck, any heroic sea-scabies?” Revealing a bottle of rum in his hand. What the cook didn't know was that a 'borrowed' a bottle from his kitchen.

[ bericht aangepast op 11 okt 2015 - 21:13 ]

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Don't walk. Run, you sheep, run.