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Fingall MacCreary

0 · 184 views · located in The skies and Valdmire

a character in “Madam Midnight and the Sky Pirates”, as played by Cypher

Description

Image Gender: Male
Name: Fingall MacCreary
Age: 20

Occupation: Fingall has been a sky pirate under Captain Sock for two years. He serves as the crew's liaison to royal courts and embassies, lawyer, clerk, financier and negotiator. Didn't think that a crew of vicious cutthroats would need an accountant, did you? You would be wrong. Somebody needs to keep track of the take, of costs for repair to the ship, of loot divisions, and so on, so it may as well be someone who is fair and unbiased!

Personality: Fingall is a quiet, reserved man, an oasis of calm and sanity in a wooden world of psychosis and alcoholism. He enjoys the privacy of his tiny quarters, which he has lined with a great number of trinkets and doodads from his travels--he really enjoys souvenirs. With his crewmates he serves as a sort of comic foil, acting as the rational straight man amongst them--he is their connection to normal society, in a way the superego to the crew's ego and id. He is courteous and polite to all comers, easygoing and aloof with a good smile. He will drink socially, although never to the point of severe inebriation, and is a clueless, hapless romantic--his flirting and small talk skills are less advanced than most new teenagers, and he finds it difficult to talk around pretty members of the same sex, or women who take an interest in him. He is something of the crew's baby in a few ways, really--except for one respect.

Fingall loves swordfighting, and bladed weapons in general, really. He's something of a fencing aficionado, having participated in many duels in his short time on this planet. Beneath his well-dressed torso are a great many shallow scars from duels well fought and won. Despite his fighting skills, he remains unfailingly polite even in the heat of battle, and once reportedly apologized for stabbing a man in the lung instead of the heart because "it isn't the quick, painless death one should get in a duel". Despite this, he has an almost loving connection to his collection of blades; rarely lending them to anyone except in the direst circumstances and becoming absolutely furious should they be lost or damaged in battle. This is reportedly the only thing that will make him angry or hurt in the world. Aside from bears, but that is a different and perfectly justified fear. What business do bears have in the sky, anyhow?

Appearance: Fingall stands at 5'9" tall; a fact that he seems mildly embarrassing given the average height of most males seems to be much higher than that. He is always dressed immaculately despite the inherently dirty and cramped nature of a skygoing vessel, in a paisley-patterned waistcoat, ascot and shirt, cuffed trousers and high boots along with a satchel bag filled with all manner of important papers and identification. His fingers are frequently stained with ink, but the nails are--rather entertainingly--perfectly maintained and manicured. This is a fact that Fingall prides himself on. His hair is likewise combed and oiled, and tied back to keep it out of his face. He always wears at least five blades on his person (four knives and a long blade), most of them in secret pockets throughout his clothing.

Equipment: As mentioned before, Fingall is in ownership of a great many sharp things. He possesses, in racks and chests throughout his room, no less than fourty-four instruments of pointy, stabby death, ranging from particularly robust kitchen knives to medieval longswords to rapiers to claymores to a boarding pike. His particular favorite is a basket-hilted broadsword, which he takes with him almost everywhere, and he also has four favored throwing knives, with a custom-tailored hidden harness for them to wear under his waistcoat. He also has a pistol and cartridge pouch and a sighted rifle for ship-to-ship combat.

Aside from that he has several ledgers and financing texts, numerous inkwells and pens, sheafs of paper by the mile and a small icebox for his small collection of exotic wines.

History: The only reason he is working for the pirates is because he stabbed his boss in the chest with a butcher's knife over a "gentleman's disagreement" and decided to make his living in the sky; where people don't so much mind when someone dies a horrible stabbing death. Other than that, his history is fairly unremarkable.

So begins...

Fingall MacCreary's Story

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Elizabeth Grey Character Portrait: DJ Arnolds Character Portrait: Adair "Sock" Ravensdale Character Portrait: Fingall MacCreary Character Portrait: Faulkner Frey Character Portrait: Django
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Madam Midnight's request to the Respectful Captain Ravensdale.

To whom it may concern I, Madam Midnight offer thirteen thousand in gold for the capture of the Princess Elizabeth Grey of Valdmire. I offer a further twelve thousand for her safe journey to me.

On entering this agreement you will be entering a contract. This will ensure that you, your crew and ship will be under my orders until the Princess is delivered to me. Only then will we exchange flesh for gold. If you in anyway divert from the agreement I assure you no one will bargain, trade or deal with you again.

Whilst she is in your care I expect you to restrain from spoiling her so that future profit will not be compensated. Any attempt to sell the Princess for self gain will be prevented by my sources by any means necessary.

I do hope you consider my request. Looking at the numbers I'm sure you'll agree it's an offer you simply...cannot refuse. Once you have completed the said mission all records of our dealings will be destroyed.

Yours Sincerely,

Madam Midnight



Life was a web and the Madam was a rather large spider. She placed down her feather quill and smiled smugly with those rich red lips she used to seduce so many poor souls with. With this letter presented to all the under-scum of Valdmire she would have the Princess soon enough and then...her wicked way.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Juliet Marie Bendlet-Cross Character Portrait: Adair "Sock" Ravensdale Character Portrait: Fingall MacCreary Character Portrait: Faulkner Frey Character Portrait: Django
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#, as written by Hingyou
To Madam Midnight. My most humble greeting to you, my lady.

In response to your request I, Captain Adair Ravensdale, take upon myself the task of the abduction of Princess Elizabeth Grey of Valdmire, as well as her delivery to the specified location of your preference. In doing so, I expect a total compensation of twenty five thousand in gold as per your offer.

Naturally, I hereby abide to the conditions imposed by the consequent contract and shall personally take responsibility for the guardianship of the Princess in regards to her health and chastity. Furthermore, I submit command over my ship, crew and myself to you until the conditions to the specified contract are met and acknowledge the consequences that may befall should I fail to meet your expectations.

Let me express a personal gratitude for seeking us, and to a prosperous agreement for the both of us.

Yours cordially,

Captain Adair Ravensdale.

P.S.: Should the transportation of Princess Elizabeth suppose significant additional expenses, I trust you will be willing to engage in further negotiation.




With poor hand-writing worthy of a small child with broken hands, but proper words unbecoming of a pirate, so went the response Madam Midnight received days after contacting the crew of Sky pirates.

________________________________________________________________________________

Adair Ravensdale - Captain of the ship.


No sound but the calm gust of the wind crashing against the sails of a lone ship polluted the silence of the night sky. Surrounded by the darkness of the night, the boat cut through the air at great speed, majestically floating through the clouds, defying the laws of nature. Nothing other than further blackness extended in the horizon, yet the flying vehicle sailed surely in a straight line, certain of its destination. At the front of the fine vessel, sitting next to the bowsprit with one leg hanging like a pendulum outside the safety of the ship's deck, Captain Ravensdale was looking straight at the never-ending, dark mantle of the sky with a smile printed on his face and eyes struggling to remain open against the cold wind. Nothing but the poor illusion of a calm pirate. Though composed at first sight, a second glance could confirm that the captain was beyond any possibility of soothing. The corners of his smile twitched in fixed intervals and his left hand gripped firmly the hat that symbolized his status as a captain while the right one tapped continuously on the wooden floor of the ship. Adair was filled with the uncomfortable excess of energy of anticipation; the only reason why he had decided to remain on the front of the deck was because he wanted to witness the moment when the lights of Valdmire's central city appeared before them. After all, it had been a long time since his face beamed with such excitement as in that instant. Yes, that night promised to be full of thrills.

It had only been a few days since a young woman had somehow managed to make contact with the ship through many struggles, all for the sake of delivering a letter to him. Never in any amount of centuries would Adair have been able to predict that an offer as daring and compensating as the one in the letter the girl carried would be given to him. The sender was none other than Madam Midnight, a woman of great reputation he had only heard about in rumors. Though in appearance merely a madam, she obviously had more contacts and resources than would be expected from someone of her kind, reason why she had gained quite a reputation in the underworld; this, however, he had only realized when he received the letter. While his poorly written response would suggest a different thing, the captain had to admit he had only been able to partially read the letter, as the moment his eyes gazed on the very generous amount of gold he would receive should he succeed in capturing the Princess, the rest of the words seemed to become small and blurry. Whether it had been intentional or not, it still remained true that starting the message by writing down a huge number accompanied by the word gold at the very beginning had had a great effect on the greedy captain of the ship. Otherwise, it wasn't likely that Adair would have accepted the demanding terms of the contract Madam Midnight had set on him... or not. Money was money regardless of the order it was mentioned in, and the ultimate truth was that he wanted it, needed or not.

It was surprising the complete negligence with which he had tackled the issue. He didn't question even for a second how their contractor had been able to find them, nor how she had such a ridiculous amount of money from dealing with young girls, not even why she could possibly want to kidnap the Princess (any other noble would probably offer just as much money for their daughter anyway and the risk wouldn't be as high). Even now, when in only a few minutes he would be attempting to capture none other than the Princess of Valdmire, he was far more nervous and excited than scared; after all, consequences were something he had resigned to think about since a long time ago. In his mind, he already had his plan set in stone, so why should he be worried? He had only briefly considered a silent infiltration in the King's residence at first, which would allow them to fly away peacefully and switch places between the Princess and the girl who had carried Madam Midnight's letter (who bared an uncanny resemblance to Princess Elizabeth) without raising suspicion. However, in order to achieve that, he would require many men able to both climb on the walls of the mansion and defend themselves from guards if necessary, and the only member of his crew he could picture doing that was Django, who he would rather not send by himself. Hence, and much to his own satisfaction, he decided to resort to a different tactic that would appeal more to his own style: a frontal assault!

Even though the inside of the King's massive residence was an unknown labyrinth to outsiders, one could guess which areas contained rooms and which didn't based on the structure of the buildings as seen from the outside. Now then, aside from the main anchor, the ship counted with other three supplementary ones that could be used at the same time if necessary. With those two pieces of information, the course of action seemed very obvious to Adair: they would fly above the clouds before reaching the mansion's grounds to avoid being spotted before arriving; once they were at their destination, they would descend and drop the four anchors on the spots they had already determined were most likely closest to the Princess' chambers, after which some of the crew members would be able to descend and infiltrate. Once one of them found Princess Elizabeth, they would give a signal and the lookalike girl would descend and switch places with her; after that, they would retreat, pretending they failed at whatever purpose the attack had. Was the plan perfect? Of course not! The moment an anchor touched the ceiling, they had to keep track of a countdown before guards began to appear and the Princess was evacuated in a matter of minutes. Did the plan guarantee their safety? Most certainly not! The captain hadn't even thought of a retreat signal in case they couldn't find the Princess in time! Did the plan allow for a safe escape route? Again, no! If they didn't act fast enough, they could have a ship following them as they tried to fly away. Why on earth would it work then? Because if getting to a member of the royal family was as easy as infiltrating through regular means, something like this would've happened years ago. Besides, the strong point of utterly preposterous ideas such as this was that no one thought anyone would actually dare to try them.

Adair was mentally going through the plans when suddenly something caught his attention in the distance: city lights! As adrenaline began to run through his system, he jumped to his feet while his grin and eyes widened.

"Come out, ye lot! 'Tis time!", he exclaimed as he made his way towards the quarter deck on the opposite end of the ship with an energetic yet strangely dignified pace. On his way there, he stomped strongly on the spot he knew also served as the ceiling of Fingall's cabin, where he would most likely be doing... whatever he did in there other than sharpening his many edged possessions. He repeated the procedure for Juliet's room and the kitchen, as he wasn't sure which of the two the woman would be in; she rarely ever came out of the kitchen, but then again, that wasn't the moment to be doing anything there.

"Frey, Django! Out!", unsure of where the remaining two would be, he simply called for them in a loud voice. Having been aboard the ship for longer, they weren't as reclusive as Juliet and Fingall, so they didn't necessarily have to be in their rooms.

As he waited for the crew to assemble on the dock, he glanced back at the city lights, which shined as brightly as the gold their dear Princess Elizabeth would help them obtain.

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Adair "Sock" Ravensdale Character Portrait: Fingall MacCreary
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#, as written by Cypher
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?"

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Juliet Marie Bendlet-Cross Character Portrait: Adair "Sock" Ravensdale Character Portrait: Fingall MacCreary Character Portrait: Faulkner Frey Character Portrait: Django
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Faulkner Frey

Frey didn’t wake up until the afternoon. Normally an early riser, sleeping in so late could only be the result of one thing and his throbbing head confirmed it: Django had gotten him to drink again. His memory was foggy- they had gotten some new job, one that paid well enough to put everyone in a celebratory mood. He felt a blush creep onto his cheeks when he realized he was in his pajamas; he doubted he could have managed that on his own. But then, it wasn’t the first time this had happened and at least there weren’t any weird drawings on him this time.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The breeze whipped his already wild hair into a frenzy. He liked it up here in the crow’s nest. It was cold and sometimes hard to breathe, but the other crew members seldom made the climb so it was the perfect place when he wanted to be alone. This was his domain anyway, from up here the whole world stretched out like one of his maps only more vibrant and alive.

He couldn’t believe what they were about to do. Capture the princess? Drop anchors onto a building? Did the Captain come up with this plan during last night’s party? Still if one was going to kidnap the princess (and with that reward there were few people who wouldn’t) Faulkner was hard pressed to come up with a better plan. That didn’t make it any less stupid though. If it were up to him they would sneak into town and scout the place out, learn the guard rotations, make maps….but the Captain had no patience for that sort of thing….

As the light of the day began to fade he dismantled his pistol and cleaned it, making sure all the parts were pristine before loading and tucking it back into it’s holster- a routine he’d repeated at least three times that day. Then he took one last look through his spy glass and climbed down to the deck. On his way to his room he stopped by the galley for a small slice of bread with cheese. It was time to get ready.

Frey knew it would be difficult for him to get the princess if he was the one who found her. Things would be so much simpler for Fingall and Django who could easily toss the girl over a shoulder and run back to the anchor. He wasn’t sure what Juliet’s plan was, but he was hoping he could convince the princess he was some sort of palace dweller so that she would come with him of her own volition and that required dressing up.

He sighed as he looked the result of his labors in the mirror. Even with all his best clothes and his hair tied back in an orderly ponytail (it had taken several tries to get it that way) it was still a long shot. At least he assumed as much, he’d dealt with nobles before but only minor ones and he really had no idea what to expect from palace folk. But then, there was always his pistol if his “disguise” didn’t work out. He had two shots so if brandishing the weapon wasn’t enough to intimidate her he could afford a shot at her feet; though he really hoped he wouldn’t have to since the noise would send all guards toward him. When he heard the captain calling for him he went over everything in his head to be sure he hadn’t forgotten anything. He was clean, well dressed, wearing boots (for once), his hair was up, his pistol was clean and loaded at his side, he had extra ammunition in his right pocket, a compass in his left. Yes, he couldn’t think of anything else he might need to bring or do so he made his way to the deck with the others.

He took a deep breath, “Ready to board, Captain!”

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Adair "Sock" Ravensdale Character Portrait: Fingall MacCreary Character Portrait: Faulkner Frey Character Portrait: Django
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Django, Mate or Other


One roaming the deck might have glanced upward in passing to catch the shimmer of scales against the moon. And the voice above would sound, 'Allo!, complemented by the glow of a live smoking pipe. "Out of the nest, baby bird," he'd go to the young navigator who occupied the crow's, for that was clearly lizard territory, and to deny this would surely result in a horrible fate. Tonight was different, however. He left his reservations with the wine barrels. The monstre lay dormant, oddly enough, perfectly contented with a tipsy Frey, letting Finny rant and rile over handwriting fit for ill-headed children (and Django himself could have hardly done better) while Bendlet huffed over broths. To the captain, he had no use in squabbling—it is impossible, Addie; why are you such a bastard, Addie—when he could speak with a knowing quirk of the brow. It was the feverish energy that had him bristling, seemingly resting otherwise, as he perched atop the main mast, plotting, scheming, having a laugh.

Right, perched was an odd term. Adhered, more like. He was unperturbed. Gusts whipped at unruly hair. An old formal shirt hung from the red sash round his waist, threatening to blow away at a moment's notice. Narrow limbs outstretched, hands and feet planted on the spur, head pointed downward with chin rested on wood, the man cut the image of a readied spear. His sole movement lay in the tail, which lethargically swished about in the air. Concentration aside, the thought of the Madam conjured wild images; the letter alone had been more than enough to raise his suspicions, and beyond the swig of ale were stored memories of women silhouetted in fog. He knew the goings-on of her kind. He knew the scum of Valdmire, reveled in their ways. Surely she had her methods and motives, questionable as they may be. To risk being immersed once more in past crimes was quite the danger indeed. But disputing the pay was a hapless cause: in spite of his wariness, the glint in his eye spoke of a creature who would not hesitate, no matter the end result, to fulfill their duty. Some small part of him was roaring to strike. Another just wanted a drink.

Maybe the princess was a classy drunk.

Sock then made a point to start heckling. What a perfect alarm he was. The first mate idly opened his eyes, greeted by the lights of the looming city and a rather excitable captain below. Disregarding status, he did not rush to stand at their leader's side. Curiosity tensed him into lingering on the spur, preparing his body for a tidy landing as he watched the small crew file out on deck. A smile tugged at him. They were... cute, for the lack of a better term. Good for bantering in the face of death. With no petit Juliet in sight, at least for now, he descended the mast at a brisk pace, one hand in front of the other. Claws flexed, gripping the surface. It was the odd sight of a writhing, climbing thing that guards of royalty would stand against. He loathed to think of their determination, hot-headed knights charging into a dragon's den. At the very least, a challenge was often welcomed.

From the shadows of sails he appeared to the band of rogues, taking his place beside the captain. "Present."

Django gave a sly salute to them all. He stretched and let out a large yawn, and as he hunched slightly, his spines flared out before flattening against his skin. No holster. No blade. How utterly messy.

Speaking again, he tossed on the white formal shirt. His feet were bare. They would remain that way. "Euh, sorry for ze wait," he said. "I was writing our eulogies." And to Frey with a smirk and a wink: "Found your head?"