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 Posted: Sat Sep 03, 2011 4:50 pm
Stray sailors.
A roleplay involving Wickwright Finch, his plague, Hopkin, and Moby d**k, née Richards. The time is evening, the place is a town not far from Anica, and the weather is snowy and cold.
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Posted: Sat Sep 03, 2011 5:20 pm
Night descended upon Shyregoad, and snow came right along with it.
In the crisp chill, Wickwright Finch pulled his cloak up higher as he shuffled through the streets. It wasn't far back to Eli Parson's apothecary shop now, and since the wagon was too cold to stay in when there was a man who had a spare bed and owed him a favour right in the city, Wickwright was staying there at night. As he was staying here on scientist business, he supposed he could probably have sought shelter from the mages, but the idea of it made him damned uncomfortable. Wickwright Finch liked using favours owed to him, not taking favours he'd owe later, and the mages were unfamiliar anyway. He didn't feel comfortable in Anica. It would be a blessing when he was done with the place.
"Wickwright," a voice murmured from his hood. The Grimm slowed, settling under the sign of a busy pub.
"Yes, Hopkin?" he muttered back after a brief glance around the street. In the evening, the Plague liked to ride in his hood as opposed to the safety of the book bag, the dark made it harder for him to be seen. His mouth glowed dimly when it opened though,making conversing a risky business, something the book boy usually saved for matters of importance.
"A curious thing, that man in that alley. His face is displeasingly asymmetrical, but he is quite fla- thin."
Wickwright peered ahead, stepping out of the light of the pub so he might see better. There was, indeed, a man in the alley, and his appearance was rather unusual. "Not a vagrant," Wickwright noticed with interest. "A vagrant in Shyregoad would have something to keep them warm, this man isn't dressed for the situation." Indeed, in the clothes the stranger had, he was likely to catch chill and worse very quickly. "He is, in fact, wholly out of place for his surroundings. Well spotted, Hopkin."
"What shall we do with him?" the Plague asked in a papery voice, mouth glowing a bit brighter as he smiled at the praise.
Wickwright hesitated, tapping his chin as he attempted to come to a decision. However, he was a Finch, and Finches were never in such a hurry as to overlook something out of place, so the course of action he chose was perhaps inevitable. "We bother him," he stated simply, and stepped into the alley. Hopkin descended back into the warm depths of his cloak.
"Ho there, stranger, greeted Wickwright Finch, What are you doing out on this cold evening?"
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Posted: Sat Sep 03, 2011 6:58 pm
This was incredibly distressing. He had only meant to leave Mishkan so that the old ties he had with some shady characters would be severed, but somehow by force of fate or some twisted coincidence, he had been forced into a situation of potentially fatal hypothermia. Where in the world was this place anyways. Last time he checked, he had hopped into a warm pile of nice furs and fluffy things. Then suddenly there had been a terrible ruckus and yelling when suddenly he was uprooted from his delightful slumber into some awfully chilly alley. His body shocked from the sudden temperature difference, he curled up into a ball, hovering close to the just as cold wall, shivering up a storm of his own.
After what had been in reality a few short minutes, but felt like a century to the young chap, Moby began feeling a painful numbness stretching through his body, his neck felt stuck, chin tight against his chest, his shoulders stiff to the point of aching, and his legs felt like icicles. In which case, they might as well have been, considering that he was dressed in nothing but a lightweight, worn out linen shirt, with an equally as old and worn out vest and a pair of grimy, brine-smelling pantaloons and shoes with holes on the bottom.
He was going to die. He was sure of it. There was no way to get out of this situation. He was too cold to move, and even if he did move, that would mean that the precious body heat he was trapping would escape and he would become even colder. He wished he had snatched a fur or something off that trader before he was rudely thrown into this icy hellhole. No. He couldn't die. No. He really couldn't. He wouldn't allow it. It was not within the limits of ability. And apparently it wasn't within the capabilities of some malicious divine being to kill him either.
"Ho there, stranger, what are you doing in Anica this cold evening." With great determination and force, Moby lifted his head, his eyes adjusting to see a sillouette of sorts hovering over him.
In his mind, Moby had wanted to say, "Shove off, old geezer, I'm trying to freeze in peace," but considering his teeth were too busy chattering, he couldn't quite manage to say anything at all and simply stared, gaping a little. His body tensed even more than usual. From his experience, anyone who helped a stranger either wanted his neck or his money. But considering he had no money to speak of and he would die anyways if he sat there for any longer, he calmed his jaw muscles enough to say, "Help... me," before chattering away again.
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Posted: Sat Sep 03, 2011 10:46 pm
Wickwright considered his options once more. He knew nothing about this man, but leaving someone to die on the streets of Anica, even a very foolish someone, was not his modus operandi. If the boy was dangerous, Wickwright had already transported a caravan of the dead and dying across Imisus, so he figured dragging home a half frozen corpse could not be any more dangerous than that. Anyway, the friend he was staying with was not quite so old as he- if the lad tried anything daft, together they could probably best him.
Probably. His friend was not so old as he, but Wickwright himself was long past his expiration date, so the comparison said very little. Wickwright himself said very little as well, merely an "As you wish," and moved to heft the half-frozen figure upwards. It was a difficult task considering his aching everything, but he managed to position the stranger into a somewhat standing position and, without further ado, wrapped his cloak around him, Hopkin scrambling back into the book bag on his shoulder. He doubted the frostbitten boy would notice in his pitiful state. "Can you walk, or shall I drag you to my lodgings?" he asked cheerfully. "I'm not as fit as I was, but I'm not stiff with ice either, so if you can't, I suppose that accommodations can be made."
He paused, then added, "I'm Wickwright, Wickwright Finch. Call me Finch, but not right now. Your half of the introductions I'm willing to postpone until you're in a fit state to make them. Isn't that generous of me? Yes, I'm sure it is." He reached to thump the boy on the back with good humour, then made to point him in the direction of the apothecary shop he had lodgings over. "As I said, ten minutes that way, then you'll have access to a warm fire and blankets. Can you make it?"
"Nine minutes and thirty-seven seconds," a voice from his book bag corrected. Wickwright coughed to cover the sound.
"Nine minutes and thirty seven seconds," he amended. "Even better."
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Posted: Sun Sep 04, 2011 8:55 pm
If he had more energy, he would have wrapped his stone cold arms around the old man's body and hugged him so tight and maybe even land a fat kiss on a cheek for good measure, because that was just how happy he was to be able to live just a little while longer. Anything to keep alive. Anything at all. But of course he really did not have any energy to spare after bringing himself out of his curled up position to stand again. The cloak really helped block out the cold as well as the additional body warmth in close proximity. He noticed nothing of the extra companion, and suspected little.
"I can walk." His teeth stopped chattering enough for him to whisper out a few words, clouds of white puffs forming with every breath. At least that meant he was still warm enough to be alive and breathing. Of course just as he said he could, he tripped over a particularly protrusive rock and stumbled forward. Thankfully with the extra support, he didn't fall right over onto his face in the cold snow, which wouldn't have been too good.
Wickwright. Such a peculiar name. Somehow even the name seemed to be from a time long passed, as if to fit the man that carried the name. He nodded wordlessly. Yes. That was very generous, since he wasn't really too particular trusting of the old man just yet. Who knows, maybe this old man is actually a very discreet serial killer who wants to have his throat and lures his victims in by his gentle demeanor.
He decided perhaps that was a bit too ludicrous of a suspicion, but what could he say, he had an active imagination. He nodded again. He could make it. Of course he could. Or at least he hoped so.
His eyes darted over at the old man when his sharp ears caught another voice, soft and faint, almost covered completely by the small cough, but he could hear it alright, correcting the approximated arrival time. He didn't like the sound of it. It didn't make him feel quite comfortable, hearing another voice. They say strange voices coming from nowhere are the first signs of illness and malady. And if that meant anything like the plague. He would prefer to find some other method of survival.
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Posted: Sun Sep 11, 2011 10:51 am
The voices were something like the plague, in fact something very much like the plague indeed. But they were secret, something Wickwright did not wish to share and certainly wouldn't be forced to share by an upstart boy in a state such as Moby was. Since Moby raised no complaint and made no sign of hearing, he began to make his way back to the apothecary's, leading his suddenly-reluctant companion.
A little more than nine minutes and thirty seven seconds later, the apothecary came into their line of sight, sign swinging in the chill Shyregoadian wind. It looked inoccuous enough, hardly the residence of a serial killer, and as Wickwright pushed the door open, that, at least, might have offered Moby some small comfort. What was best though was not the lack of visual evidence of serial killers, but the warmth, which was a far cry from the snowy outdoor streets. There was a man at the counter, and he looked up as Wickwright came in, frowning slightly.
"Wickwright Finch plus one," he noted. "Did I say you could have guests?"
("Plus two," amended a voice that was largely unnoticed.)
"He was freezing," Wickwright replied simply, hanging his hat by the door.
"So are most of the vagabonds in town, I presume," replied the man at the counter, presumably the same E. Parson whose name was bobbing back and forth on the sign outside the door.
"Yes, but he doesn't fit in," Wickwright replied. "Come now, upstairs! You, the misfit, not you, Parson. Misfit, this is Eli Parson, my good friend, Parson, this is Misfit, my nearly frozen almost-corpse. Surely you can't say no to him when he's already in the door, look how well he's thawing!"
"He could be dangerous," Eli hissed, pulling Wickwright closer.
Wickwright glanced at Moby. "He's just a boy, Parson," he murmured back. "Can you really believe so bad of him?"
"Aye, and worse too, in this day and age, you've seen the riots, Finch. Boys become monsters just like those Plagues do."
(A whimper from the book bag, which Wickwright patted absentmindedly.)
"And Shyregoad's sword protects you and yours despite that," Wickwright noted. "But if you'd like to throw him out, if this boy is a monster, you do it. The cloak is mine, he has nothing else to keep him safe from the elements."
For a moment, the man looked like he would, then simply ran a hand through his hair. "I didn't become an apothecary to send people to their deaths." he said begrudgingly. "Warm him up and ship him out, but make sure he doesn't touch anything! And stop inviting people into my home!"
((Sorry, I kind of pushed them along to the shop! Let me know if I should edit it.))
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Posted: Sun Sep 11, 2011 6:16 pm
The first step into the small shop was possible the most beautiful and wondrous thing he had ever come in contact with in his short life. The warmth was addicting. He just couldn't get enough of it. It drove him crazy with life. The moment his eyes were set on the fireplace, the next thing he near he was crowded in front of it, the cloak wrapped around him, his eyes twinkling in the burning luminescence of the flames. His body thawed quickly in the warmth and he could finally begin to feel his tongue and ears.
It was then that he heard the rather testy way the introduction was going along. Misfit? Who was the misfit, certainly not him. He was no misfit, he was in perfectly fit condition. In a loud and boisterous voice, uncharacteristic of someone who had just brushed with death, he stated without even turning around, "Moby." Both heads swiveled around and their eyes looked at him as if he had grown two heads, but that went unnoticed.
"My name is Moby, not misfit. I am fit in every way. I worked on a ship y'know, and that's tuff business." Then turning around so that he could warm his back too, he folded his arms closer to his chest. "And I'm only dangerous if my life is in danger. Besides what's so bad about being a vagabond? They ain't doing no harm, just wandering around. Well at least I don't. I just need a job is all. Need to make some money to send back to my family, that's why I hopped onto the back of some fur trader hoping they will take me somewhere nice to work at, but noooo, I get thrown in the street like some dirty good-for-nothing leper." By now he was just ranting, finally able to get his frustration out now that his jaw was thawed loose.
"Look!" He thrusted out a bare arm, "I ain't diseased or nothing, perfectly fit ya'know." Grumbling to himself he curled up closer to the fire. "Oh and ... do you have anything to eat? I'm mighty starved."
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Posted: Sat Sep 24, 2011 9:16 pm
Wickwright and Eli glanced at each other after Moby had finished his tirade, and finally, Eli broke the silence with laughter. "I thought he was half dead, Finch? He seems more alive than the old coot that dragged him in here already!" Wickwright grimaced in reply, but it had done the trick- Parson was a good humoured man, and easily charmed by others, even when he was inclined to be suspicious of them. He had lost both his sons to plague and had a soft spot for rambunctious boys their age. "The wife is asleep, but we have some cold pork in the icebox that we were saving for that one." He jerked his thumb at Wickwright, who shrugged.
"Let the boy have it! I never liked pork to begin with, and your wife knows it."
"Keep an eye on him," Parson insisted as he left, still wary of Moby regardless of his appeal. He glanced back at Moby for a moment, then closed the door behind him, retreating to the living quarters above the shop.
Wickwright watched him as he left, then turned to Moby himself. "Well, Moby! Is there another name to go with that, or am I still addressing an engima? You've explained how you got here, but why did you lay yourself down in the street? Do you have a home to get to, Moby Misfit? What shall I do with you?"
Hopkin took the opportunity to peek out of the bag as Wickwright approached Moby to interrogate him, eager to see the anomaly he found up close. He was in for a disappointment- Moby was not as pretty as some people he had seen, in fact, he was damaged goods, with strange marks on his head. Dorian Arelgren had been far more appealing than Moby visually, even Alae Greaves, who was flatter, had been more interesting. Hopkin let out a whistling little sigh, he had been hoping to find someone prettier as his first out of place person. After all, Wickwright had praised him for finding this man! He just wished the man in question was more appealing. Still, there was that scar, so he queried, "What of your head?" Perhaps if he helped ask questions, Wickwright would praise him even more. Certainly, Moby didn't seem like an Obscuvian or other sort of dangerous homo levis that he should hide from. He even said that he would not be dangerous unless he was in danger, which he wasn't, and Hopkin believed this fully.
Wickwright, however, appeared to be of a differing opinion, as he coughed distractingly after Hopkin spoke. Hopkin furrowed his brow. This man had said he wasn't dangerous! He had to hide all the time at Parson's house and he was getting tired of the whole affair, but he sunk back to the bottom of the book bag anyway. He did wish that Wickwright would let him out, he felt very safe in the book bag, but also very curious, and it was well nigh time he was able to satisfy his curiosity, he thought. It had been easier in the wagon, even if it was less comfortable there!
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Posted: Sat Sep 24, 2011 10:55 pm
He burst out in laughter. "Ironic, isn't it?"
He pulled the cloak around him tighter. It didn't exactly help with the warmth, but it did help the feeling of reassurance that he really was alive. God did he love that feeling. He loved being alive. Breathing, the pain, the hopeless chill that just wouldn't go away. Well... maybe not that latter part, but everything else, he rather enjoyed. Yes. He did. Very much.
And pork? PORK? Wait, was that real? He was going to have pork? Holy s**t it was his lucky day. "Did you just say pork? How the hell do you not like pork?" He spun around, completely appalled. Life had just gotten so much better. "Did I suddenly turn into a king? I haven't had pork since... well god, who know how long!" Jumping onto his feet, Moby dashed over to the counter, waiting impatiently for Parson to return. "Oh boy. Oh boy. Oh boy." He hopped up and down, like a little child. Then as if remembering who he was... or rather where he was he stopped, coughing uncomfortably.
"Uh, well... m'name's Moby d**k, but I mean, just call me Moby. Yeah. Moby. " Blinking, he wondered if he should tell the truth, but then again, who should he trust. God sometimes, he just hated when people pried too much. Really, why couldn't they just leave him alone? Turning around, a bit irritated, he spun on his heel. "Well I don't know, I was trying to keep warm so I didn't freeze to death all of a sudden. I'd really like to not die y'know. And I'd appreciate if you'd stop prying. Alright? We've all got our little secrets. And I'd bet you've got some too that you'd rather people not know about." He spat bitterly.
It was in that second when his eye caught a small movement on Wickwright's side, right by his hand. If you didn't have quick eyes on the street, you mind as well have a death wish, after all. "Hey, what was that?" He ducked closer, peeking into the bag before Wickwright could even move a muscle. Afterall, he wasn't a pickpocket for nothing. He did have rather quick hands.
But this was by far the weirdest he'd ever caught. "What is this?" In a flash, he grabbed the little thing in his hands. He couldn't believe his eyes. It was the most peculiar thing he'd ever seen. The paper wrapped around its face, dainty clothes. So... tiny. So small. So.... beautiful.
However, it seemed as if the little thing didn't exactly appreciate the manhandling. And neither did Wickwright. He could obviously tell that the man did not like this. However... he also did not want the thing to be hurt. But really, he couldn't care less at this point, he was so amazed. "Well aren't you something? You're really beautiful, you know that? Man. Can you talk?" Carefully, he held him in his hands so that it was in a sitting position instead. "By golly, you're just something, aren't cha?"
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Posted: Wed Sep 28, 2011 2:39 pm
Wickwright shrugged. "Finches prefer beef, I suppose. Don't you? Not that I turn down pork when it's on offer, by the bone, but I can do without it, certainly." He stuck out his hand as Moby introduced himself, flashing a grin as the boy finally stopped jumping up and down for pork and remembered he was in company. "Moby it is, if that's what you prefer." d**k, he noted, was a bit of an unusual last name, and he filed it away as something to investigate later. Holding up his hands, he fended off Moby's sudden verbal attack against his queries with a hesitant laugh. "Hold on there, Moby, just curious. It's not every day I get to save a man's life, you know," although, he reflected, the occurrence was becoming more depressingly regular what with Arelgren and Coyotl and Meschke tagging along after him. He might not have to pull people out of trouble every day anymore, but he was getting more damned practice at it than he had ever wanted or anticipated as of late. "As for secrets, I can't say I-"
A whistling, high pitched shriek as suddenly Moby pulled his biggest secret out from his bag, where it gaped at him like a shocked fawn, docile in his hands from the shock of being actually snatched from its hiding place. "I-" stammered Hopkin hesitantly, looking to Wickwright for a cue, but his Grimm seemed just as taken aback. "Yes? Beautiful?" he had never thought of himself as particularly beautiful. Important, yes, but plain and bulky compared to Plagues like Chayele Meschke and Lettie Arelgren. "I... Yes, I am something, I am a book, and a boy, and a plague. Hopkin, um, is what to call me, most people to not call me book-boy-plague-Hopkin, although I suppose that would be the most accurate descriptor. What happened to your face?" He had said something wrong, because Wickwright's mouth was a grim line. The older man reached over to snatch the book boy back, hastily and firmly stating, "You can have the pork, but that is off limits." Moby appeared to have never seen an excito before, but any benefit he might have obtained from that fact was spoiled by Hopkin's outburst. "You've found him, so if you're quiet, you can look. Later. After you've gotten your meal and Parson's left, because this particular secret is mine."
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Posted: Wed Sep 28, 2011 8:48 pm
"Yes, yes, fair enough. Whatever." Honestly he had forgotten why he got so defensive over his past, it's not as if telling someone who lives in a different country will ever affect him. He doubted this old man would tell anyone of importance of his whereabouts. Jokingly he waved his hand, "I bet you save a life every day. You seem like the sort." He was too focused on the living curio to pay much attention, that is until it was rudely snatched from his hands.
Flashing with flabbergasted anger, he straightened up, at least a half a hand taller than the elderly man, which wasn't entirely much, but still enough to look semi-intimidating. "Oi, I was having a conversation with Hopkin! Have you always been this rude? Or did it come with age, since you seem to have a supple amount of years too." Grinding his teeth, he seethed, for a moment or two forgetting exactly who it had been that saved him from the cold streets. Not exactly regretting his outburst, but definitely feeling a bit stupid and brash, he grumbled, leaning back, against the counter.
A plague, eh? He had heard of them. Though he had not expected them to be so ... precious. He had thought they would look more like those disgusting rats that lurked in the shadows of ships' galleys. Something that was entirely repulsive and detrimental to the safety of his well being. Well... maybe little Hopkin is actually a passive aggressive murderer who will try to slit his throat at the first chance the little one gets the chance, but he doubted that. Sighing, he raised his hands, still stinging from the harsh reaction. "Fine, I won't touch. Geez." Bending down to Hopkin's level, he whispered, "I fought a shark... and won. This is my battle scar." He split a handsome smile, flashing his uncommonly straight teeth. Impressive considering how many fights he's been in really.
A few footsteps thumped, closer and closer, so quickly, he promised, "We'll talk later." He glanced up at the guardian. "When Grandpa here is asleep that is." Just as the door swung back open, Moby stood up, patting himself off, pretending he was just picking something up off the ground. The smell of pork wafted up his nose and sent terribly pleasant feelings coursing through his body. Boy did that smell rather good.
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Posted: Sun Oct 23, 2011 12:53 pm
"It comes with age," Wickwright retorted. "I'm 52, I don't have as much time to reason with strangers from the street who snatch my plague as I used to. You can converse with Hopkin, certainly, but he stays in my hands, if he stays at all."
Hopkin, meanwhile, was looking at Moby with some considerable horror. "You fought a shark?" he exclaimed in wonder.
"Food's here!" Parson announced cheerfully and paused as he sensed the tenseness of the room he had just stepped into. Wickwright hushed and slipped Hopkin quickly back into his bag. Parson glanced at him and Moby, then set the food on the counter. "Ah, yes. You can eat here, my lad, and don't waste any! The wife hates leftovers." He opened his mouth to say more, but the silence was awkward, so instead, he faked a yawn. "Anyway, it's late. I was only waiting for that troublemaker to get back in, so I'll just be off now." He hesitated for a moment.
"Goodnight, Parson," Wickwright relented, smiling and raising a hand. "I'll look after our friend, here."
After Parson left, Wickwright reached back into his bag and deposited Hopkin on the table. There was little point in hiding the book boy when Moby already knew where he was, and his plague had been restless lately anyway.
"You can't have won a fight against a shark unless it was already on land," Hopkin insisted, picking up on the conversation as if it had never been broken. "I have thought about this for a good long while, and I see no alternative. From the stories I know of sharks, they are quite powerful, and you seem to me to be quite flat for a human, which is aesthetically pleasing, but Wickwright tells me it is not ideal."
"Strange stories confuse him," Wickwright interjected. "He's a thing of truth."
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Posted: Wed Nov 09, 2011 4:51 pm
The smell of food attracted him more than the conversation at hand. No amount of intriguing conversation or topic of interest could possibly compete with the savory aroma of a freshly cooked slab of juicy meat. In a flash, without much word of thanks, he shoved his hand on the piece of meat, disregarded the fact that it was still hot and stuffed it in his mouth. Ripping his teeth through the flesh, his eyes rolled back into his head, the taste of earthly heaven permeating through each and every taste bud in his mouth.
If he had felt that he had been less of a person before this meal, the hole in his soul was certainly filled by the time he finally slowed down to chew the last peice of meat properly. Finally, he could be a proper person again. Rather content, he leaned on the counter, and licked the last bits of juice from his fingers. A grin popped up on his face when Hopkin returned to the limelight up on the table. "I'm sorry I've been so rude, it's just... you know, who knows how long it's been since I've last eaten. Anyways, I'll be gone in the morning and out of your hair, though I'll have to steal this cloak from you. Or else all your help would have been in vain, when I freeze to death outside."
Squatting down to be on Hopkin's level, he smiled and said, "I don't know what it means to be aesthetially pleasing and all, and I don't know what you mean by being flat, but believe me when I say I fought a shark, I fight at least one shark every week or else I feel weak. This week though is an exception, since I sudden got caught in the winterlands. Though who knows, maybe I'll find a bear to fight instead."
Standing back up, he patted Wickwright on the shoulder and brushed past him. "Well... so long." He was at the door when he suddenly turned around and added, "Oh and tell Parson, thanks for the food. It was great."
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