Post by Ladorak on May 17, 2010 23:12:50 GMT -5
Captain James Saumarez of HMS Crescent was haloed by the soft glow of the candle upon his desk. He was engaged in reading a novel of sorts, his eyes flitting back and forth over the pages and soaking in the words that played before his eyes. A thin smile stretched at his lips at various parts, and the weasel gently laid a paw upon his cowlick, smoothing the fur out momentarily before lifting the pads and causing the tuft to spring back up into place.
"Hah....so they plan to marry each other's daughters do they?" he flipped a page, reading on. The novel so far had been quite dark, but Saumarez had been absorbed in it since it had arrived in last week's mail. Dorothea had sent it to him, saying he would probably wrap his tail around it far easier than she had. It was a story with many twists, and was a new type of novel, according to the author.
A knock on his door interrupted his perusing, and the weasel lifted his head, calling to without. “Enter.” The ship’s Clerk pushed the door open, saluting and apologizing to his Captain.
“Forgive me Captain Saumarez sir. Just bringing in the mail.” He held up a letter, and walked tentatively over to the Captain’s desk, leaving the letter for him to take up. Nodding, the Clerk started to exit the cabin. Framing the letter with his claws, the weasel suddenly looked up.
“Hey!” The Clerk stopped, and turned around.
“Captain?”
“What the hell is this? I don’t answer to the Royal Court of…” he paused, glancing down at the envelope again. “Ferlusan.” He finished. The Clerk shrugged helplessly.
“Sorry sir. I only deliver the mail.” Saumarez nodded, giving the Clerk a speculative look at best as he shuffled out of the cabin.
Frowning, the weasel slit the top of the envelope open with his claw, and retrieved the contents. Sighing, he placed a paw on his forehead and began to read. His expression became more wrinkled, more contorted as he read. What the blooming hell…?
Closing the book’s cover, the title “The Castle of Otranto: A Gothic Novel” could be clearly seen spelt out in the gold lettering. Horace Walpole was listed as the author. The letter was what was drawing the jack’s attention however, his knuckles growing white from the mounting tension. “You, the aforementioned, are hereby being considered as one of the choices to wed Princess Priscilla Steep in matrimony as part of the alliance agreement between the Kingdom of Welkin and the Kingdom of Ferlusan and…and…what is THIS?”
A look of pensive wrath was upon his face as the letter suddenly crumpled under his grasp, the bottom half folding over and balling up as his fist closed around the parchment. Being considered for an ARRANGED marriage!? An ARRANGED marriage!? Since when did Welkin get so damned formal about things!? And why him? He wasn’t single…well officially he was, but that’s only because Dorothea was considerably below his station.
Regarding the letter with a dour look, the weasel sat stock still. Priscilla Steep? Weren’t the Steeps the wealthiest land owners in Crittenden? Steep? What was she even like? Harsh? Genteel? Brutish? Boorish? Was she…attractive?
Slapping the letter down on his desk in frustration, the mustelid inhaled, trying to come up with a course of action. It only said considered right? So not definite! That meant there might be a chance to wriggle out of this! But how? What was the criteria? Why wasn’t he kept in the loop for any of this?
Pushing his chair back, the weasel ponderously got to his hind paws, clasped his forepaws behind his back, and walked over to the stern windows. His right brow was slightly raised, and his own puzzled expression stared back at him in the glass. The darkness outside was vast, an expanse of ink that could not be penetrated. The rest of the fleet was out there, extinguishing their lights as per regulations. One by one they winked out, letting the darkness have hold.
Priscilla Steep? Priscilla Steep. Pri…scil…la…Steep. Steep? Odd last name. But then again…so was his. The name…it had…some sort of ring to it…or did it? Priscilla…Steep. Saumarez sounded it out in his head. “Priscilla Steep.” He whispered the name, rolling it off his tongue. “Priscilla Steep…alright.” I’ll play this game, he thought glumly. Besides, the chances of him getting picked were probably extremely low. It was all just a game for the royals to play. All just a game. That’s all. Wait it out, and he’d come out in the clear.
Smirking at himself in the window now, the weasel moved over to the candle, snuffing it out with a quick breath…and his room too joined the outside world in shade.
"Hah....so they plan to marry each other's daughters do they?" he flipped a page, reading on. The novel so far had been quite dark, but Saumarez had been absorbed in it since it had arrived in last week's mail. Dorothea had sent it to him, saying he would probably wrap his tail around it far easier than she had. It was a story with many twists, and was a new type of novel, according to the author.
A knock on his door interrupted his perusing, and the weasel lifted his head, calling to without. “Enter.” The ship’s Clerk pushed the door open, saluting and apologizing to his Captain.
“Forgive me Captain Saumarez sir. Just bringing in the mail.” He held up a letter, and walked tentatively over to the Captain’s desk, leaving the letter for him to take up. Nodding, the Clerk started to exit the cabin. Framing the letter with his claws, the weasel suddenly looked up.
“Hey!” The Clerk stopped, and turned around.
“Captain?”
“What the hell is this? I don’t answer to the Royal Court of…” he paused, glancing down at the envelope again. “Ferlusan.” He finished. The Clerk shrugged helplessly.
“Sorry sir. I only deliver the mail.” Saumarez nodded, giving the Clerk a speculative look at best as he shuffled out of the cabin.
Frowning, the weasel slit the top of the envelope open with his claw, and retrieved the contents. Sighing, he placed a paw on his forehead and began to read. His expression became more wrinkled, more contorted as he read. What the blooming hell…?
Closing the book’s cover, the title “The Castle of Otranto: A Gothic Novel” could be clearly seen spelt out in the gold lettering. Horace Walpole was listed as the author. The letter was what was drawing the jack’s attention however, his knuckles growing white from the mounting tension. “You, the aforementioned, are hereby being considered as one of the choices to wed Princess Priscilla Steep in matrimony as part of the alliance agreement between the Kingdom of Welkin and the Kingdom of Ferlusan and…and…what is THIS?”
A look of pensive wrath was upon his face as the letter suddenly crumpled under his grasp, the bottom half folding over and balling up as his fist closed around the parchment. Being considered for an ARRANGED marriage!? An ARRANGED marriage!? Since when did Welkin get so damned formal about things!? And why him? He wasn’t single…well officially he was, but that’s only because Dorothea was considerably below his station.
Regarding the letter with a dour look, the weasel sat stock still. Priscilla Steep? Weren’t the Steeps the wealthiest land owners in Crittenden? Steep? What was she even like? Harsh? Genteel? Brutish? Boorish? Was she…attractive?
Slapping the letter down on his desk in frustration, the mustelid inhaled, trying to come up with a course of action. It only said considered right? So not definite! That meant there might be a chance to wriggle out of this! But how? What was the criteria? Why wasn’t he kept in the loop for any of this?
Pushing his chair back, the weasel ponderously got to his hind paws, clasped his forepaws behind his back, and walked over to the stern windows. His right brow was slightly raised, and his own puzzled expression stared back at him in the glass. The darkness outside was vast, an expanse of ink that could not be penetrated. The rest of the fleet was out there, extinguishing their lights as per regulations. One by one they winked out, letting the darkness have hold.
Priscilla Steep? Priscilla Steep. Pri…scil…la…Steep. Steep? Odd last name. But then again…so was his. The name…it had…some sort of ring to it…or did it? Priscilla…Steep. Saumarez sounded it out in his head. “Priscilla Steep.” He whispered the name, rolling it off his tongue. “Priscilla Steep…alright.” I’ll play this game, he thought glumly. Besides, the chances of him getting picked were probably extremely low. It was all just a game for the royals to play. All just a game. That’s all. Wait it out, and he’d come out in the clear.
Smirking at himself in the window now, the weasel moved over to the candle, snuffing it out with a quick breath…and his room too joined the outside world in shade.