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Snippet #2068360

located in The skies and Valdmire, a part of Madam Midnight and the Sky Pirates, one of the many universes on RPG.

The skies and Valdmire

None

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Adair "Sock" Ravensdale Character Portrait: Fingall MacCreary
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Some Time Ago...


"Oh my, oh my, how dreadful..." Fingall MacCreary was tutting over a note on his desk that Captain Ravensdale had written. He had been staring at it for the better part of a day, as a matter of fact. Adair had handed it to him that morning over breakfast for proofreading, and over the course of the long working day it had become no clearer. The financier could only wonder whom had taught the good captain his penmanship lessons. Mayhap it had been some sort of old god, or someone who only knew a foreign language, far separated from the proper Valdic he had learned. He had only learned what the purpose of the note had been, in fact, when Adair had told the crew they were going to kidnap the Princess of Valdmire.

He hoped he had kept his reaction under control. It would have been most ungentlemanly for him to stab his king in the intestines over the kidnapping of the heiress apparent to the throne of his country.

Aside from his rampant jingoism, Fingall had his own reservations about the kidnapping. For one thing, this wasn't some penny urchin in a dark alley--this was the princess of the realm, for God's sakes! She would be heavily guarded, of course, and given Adair's penchant for going in guns blazing, they would only have a matter of minutes to slip in with the faux princess and out with the real ones. That was a few minutes to either avoid or disable the castle's staff and guard complement, break into the princess's chambers and perform the switch, not to mention engage in some sort of diversionary tactic to draw attention away from the princess's chambers, a task which Fingall volunteered to perform, but wasn't sure whether or not he would actually be performing during the raid. For another, even if there was a clean escape, there was no way to tell that their ship wouldn't be identified--or what if, say, there was a bounty put out? What if someone saw the princess aboard their ship? They would have literally the force of an entire nation trying to run them down.

To say that Fingall wasn't at least a little nervous would be a lie. But he was confident, at least to some small extent, in his captain, and (moreso) in his crew, and he trusted that they would get him through this debacle alive.




Now


Shhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrrr...

Fingall had his grinding wheel out again. He was glad for the little wood-burning engine that he had acquired and retrofitted to the machine; as good as the exercise was for his calves and thighs, he had to admit that his gentleman's vegetables something fierce. The little stove powered the foot pedals that spun the grindstone, and all he had to do was make sure not to be burned and keep the fire stoked up and he could sharpen to his heart's content.

Fingall was very fond of sharpening his lovelies. He was quite good at it, as well.

Take this particular blade, for example. Fingall had been working at this particular weapon for several hours now, despite the fact that previously it had been sharp enough to shave the wings from a fruit fly in a single swipe. It was a rapier that had been given to him some months ago as a gift for rescuing a minor noble's son from a bar fight whilst Fingall and Django had been drinking; in addition to a hefty purse of gold for the lezard and gratis repairs and refits to the ship's hull, of course. It was well made, of fair quality and little wear, and Fingall had seen fit to use it properly in the short time (compared to many of his blades) that he'd owned it. In addition to being a fine potato peeler and vegetable slicer, it served admirably as a letter opener! And Fingall supposed that, in a fight, it would do its job fairly well... Fairly well.

Fingall had a great many other fencing blades he would prefer to use. This one was just too pretty for actual fighting, like an ornamental chestpiece or a ceremonial robe--great to look at, but easily ruined when used for its truest purpose. So, it remained a kitchen implement. Which was ironic, in a way, because Fingall was pretty sure that somewhere in his collection was a kitchen knife he used as a fighting blade--

TUMP. TUMP. TUMP.

That was the captain calling for him, he imagined--and sure enough, here he was shouting down the gangway. Fingall sighed, dressing himself in a padded waistcoat of deep chocolate brown over a dark gray shirt and brown trousers, and his softest pair of boots. He quickly tied on his belts and his shortest fighting sword--an arming sword with a slightly curved, double-edged blade--and threw his knife band around his neck, tucking its ends beneath his waistcoat before grabbing several small lengths of leather cordage and tying down the sleeves of his shirt and the cuffs of his pants--a necessary precaution to prevent the loose ends of his clothing from flapping, making unnecessary noise and generally being a nuisance. Once these tasks were complete, he quickly scrambled through the dark entrails of the ship and climbed to the deck, letting the cool night air grace his features as he watched the lights of Valdmire close in the distance.

He assumed a place several paces from the Captain, a respectful and polite distance, and called to him in the loudest voice he dare use (even though they were far from the city, Fingall was nervous about alerting anyone to their presence). "What ho, Captain Ravensdale? I am here, as you requested. Is the hour of reckoning nearly upon us?"