Post by albion on Nov 1, 2010 22:10:40 GMT -5
Date; Early July 1812
Event; The beginning of the War of 1812
----
- The war was 'officially' started June 18th, though there was a lot of unrest prior to this. However, it takes a while to pull yourself from Spain, go to England, and then go to Canada. At the point this is set some troops have already arrived.
- “small trading port he'd acquired years prior” - Fort Albany was claimed by the French in 1686, only to be snagged by the English in 1693. It took seven years to claim.
- Fort Albany was actually a fur trading post, hence the relevance of him being on a merchant ship.
- As a whole he seems pretty pissed in this, and he will through the whole thread/event. According to his wiki his moods were incredibly bad for a long time after the revolution, this is only thirty years later. This is also worsened by the fact that during this time England was involved in the Napoleonic wars, specifically the Peninsular War in Spain (one of the few times we worked together 8'D). As you can see the fact America's declared war on him isn't helping... At all o/
Since I dunno how much English slang any of you know... Here;
- Yawp --- A middle English term for yelling.
- Stroppy --- This basically means to act in a childishly angry fashion.
- Title from the song 'Zombie' by the Cranberries/Miser... It was just the last thing to play when I finished |D thisiswhyGearrshouldn'tstart
Event; The beginning of the War of 1812
Pacing the small cabin he sighed, breath a shuddering huff of distaste. It wouldn't be long now before he reached the small trading port he'd acquired years prior, though right now the thought of such went little to quelling him. Soothing droplets in a torrential downpour of clamouring disarray. If he was the type he'd have screamed in frustration, stamping about in a state reminiscent to a stroppy child who wasn't getting their own way. This was all assuming he was that sort of man, and of course he was not. Instead he stopped the caged steps, standing all too rigidly with a pensive scowl written into his face. From one war to the next it seemed, leaving one that was far more important to come and dealing with that bloody prat once more! Why? Well he knew why of course, it was his fault. It seemed one could blame everything on he if they tried hard enough. This time one could say he was being oppressive, trying to breach the brat's so called 'freedom'. No, sorry, not freedom. It was 'independence', no? Correct, that's what had been presented before him in such fickle inks. Decelerations given and yet still the same mistakes were being made, and of course he had no doubt that he would be blamed. Or at least his people would be, thus by extension he... Tsk, it all really did come to pointing the finger at a not so jolly old England.
Shaking his head of such trifling idiocy he snatched the envelope from the desk once more, flicking it open as the seal was already cracked for access. He knew what the contained scrawl stated, delivering the news that the troops they'd spared for Canada had been sent, and that he too was to follow in stead. In truth... He didn't want to. A part of him loathed the idea of yet another war in the land that had once been his own, not through any lingering affections... No, rather it was damn old wounds that had never really healed. He didn't want to go there, to him, and face the reasons for all that forced him to sweet liquors. The very reason for this abominational loss of pride. Still, he was ordered to protect the colony he still held in the west. What more could he really do other than that? Nothing of course, nothing but bend over and take it accordingly. Still, it was also an ideal opportunity to put the fool back in his place. England had been far too soft on him in times past, he'd coddled the boy to the point the fool didn't truly know what it was the British Empire could do. He'd find out though, dammit he would! For the sake of his pride England could not lose again.
As he heard a mollified knock upon the door he tucked the letter away, never having had a chance to go over it once more to confirm what he already knew to be there. “Yes?” He demanded, voice clipped in a refined sort of way. It was just so easy to hide behind a barbed mask, or so he thought. Frankly he didn't really give a second thought as to what others thought, not any more.
“We're here, Sir. We're docked and ready to unload when you give the order.”
Swinging the door open he brushed past the other, careful to avoid knocking against him along the way. “Tell them to start. You know what to do.” Unlike his usual ventures the ship this time had not been a grand warship, rather it was actually a merchant vessel, one trading specifically in furs. He'd been lucky really, to put a crew together would have taken too long, wasting time he simply didn't have to squander so freely. “Do as you please from here on out, I thank you for the transport.” The words were so reserved, so clipped. In a way they were monotone, portraying little to nothing of what may have actually been going through his head. None would ever really be able to grapple such an answer out of him at any rate, he was indeed an island after all. Empire yes, but before that he was an island, and of course, islands were the greatest things imaginable at closing themselves off into secrecy.
Taking a deep breath of salty air he straightened the mournfully black suit, running his fingers briefly through untameable blond hair in some vague attempt to smooth it. It didn't work. Obviously.
Striding quickly across the deck he was down onto the dock in a matter of moments. He scanned the small crowd that had gathered, looking for one person, just one. Not seeing them at a glance the scowl that seemed near permanent on his face these days deepened further, leading him to shake his head. So far as he knew word had been sent to the lad before he'd even arrived back to his beloved England from that damned Spanish bastard's turf. Thus he had no doubt that the Canadian should have known England would be here, there was no reason for him not to be after all. Thus he wondered for a brief moment why the other was not here. It was for his benefit that England had pulled himself mid war to actually be here. Granted, it was the fault of the English that this was actually happening in some ways, but by no means had Arthur forced the Americans' hands into trying to screw with what was his. I really was just a whole bitter screwover, one he'd of course deal with using all the eloquence and grace of a gentleman. It was only proper after all. One had to repay debts in kind, did they not? Of course they did.
Catching a glimpse of something vaguely familiar he turned fully, finally finding the blond he'd been looking for. He supposed he could count his blessings that the weather was thus far fine, had a sea fog rolled in there was no doubt he'd have missed the other.
Not having enough of a barbaric streak to simply yawp at the other. No, instead he edged his way through the crowd until he drew close to the other. “Matthew,” he greeted with a vague tilt of his head. “How have you been?” How have you been with your brother trying to dominate you? Ah, such a foolish question really, but it was a formality to greet and ask. With a vague relent though he uttered a more sincere; “You look well enough.” What else could he really say? After all, this was war. He couldn't very well apologise to the other for it, not at the moment any way. Fuck, he didn't particularly want to at any point, he was damn sick of being sorry. Besides, for now his simply being here was saying enough. Actions spoke ever so much more than words after all.
Shaking his head of such trifling idiocy he snatched the envelope from the desk once more, flicking it open as the seal was already cracked for access. He knew what the contained scrawl stated, delivering the news that the troops they'd spared for Canada had been sent, and that he too was to follow in stead. In truth... He didn't want to. A part of him loathed the idea of yet another war in the land that had once been his own, not through any lingering affections... No, rather it was damn old wounds that had never really healed. He didn't want to go there, to him, and face the reasons for all that forced him to sweet liquors. The very reason for this abominational loss of pride. Still, he was ordered to protect the colony he still held in the west. What more could he really do other than that? Nothing of course, nothing but bend over and take it accordingly. Still, it was also an ideal opportunity to put the fool back in his place. England had been far too soft on him in times past, he'd coddled the boy to the point the fool didn't truly know what it was the British Empire could do. He'd find out though, dammit he would! For the sake of his pride England could not lose again.
As he heard a mollified knock upon the door he tucked the letter away, never having had a chance to go over it once more to confirm what he already knew to be there. “Yes?” He demanded, voice clipped in a refined sort of way. It was just so easy to hide behind a barbed mask, or so he thought. Frankly he didn't really give a second thought as to what others thought, not any more.
“We're here, Sir. We're docked and ready to unload when you give the order.”
Swinging the door open he brushed past the other, careful to avoid knocking against him along the way. “Tell them to start. You know what to do.” Unlike his usual ventures the ship this time had not been a grand warship, rather it was actually a merchant vessel, one trading specifically in furs. He'd been lucky really, to put a crew together would have taken too long, wasting time he simply didn't have to squander so freely. “Do as you please from here on out, I thank you for the transport.” The words were so reserved, so clipped. In a way they were monotone, portraying little to nothing of what may have actually been going through his head. None would ever really be able to grapple such an answer out of him at any rate, he was indeed an island after all. Empire yes, but before that he was an island, and of course, islands were the greatest things imaginable at closing themselves off into secrecy.
Taking a deep breath of salty air he straightened the mournfully black suit, running his fingers briefly through untameable blond hair in some vague attempt to smooth it. It didn't work. Obviously.
Striding quickly across the deck he was down onto the dock in a matter of moments. He scanned the small crowd that had gathered, looking for one person, just one. Not seeing them at a glance the scowl that seemed near permanent on his face these days deepened further, leading him to shake his head. So far as he knew word had been sent to the lad before he'd even arrived back to his beloved England from that damned Spanish bastard's turf. Thus he had no doubt that the Canadian should have known England would be here, there was no reason for him not to be after all. Thus he wondered for a brief moment why the other was not here. It was for his benefit that England had pulled himself mid war to actually be here. Granted, it was the fault of the English that this was actually happening in some ways, but by no means had Arthur forced the Americans' hands into trying to screw with what was his. I really was just a whole bitter screwover, one he'd of course deal with using all the eloquence and grace of a gentleman. It was only proper after all. One had to repay debts in kind, did they not? Of course they did.
Catching a glimpse of something vaguely familiar he turned fully, finally finding the blond he'd been looking for. He supposed he could count his blessings that the weather was thus far fine, had a sea fog rolled in there was no doubt he'd have missed the other.
Not having enough of a barbaric streak to simply yawp at the other. No, instead he edged his way through the crowd until he drew close to the other. “Matthew,” he greeted with a vague tilt of his head. “How have you been?” How have you been with your brother trying to dominate you? Ah, such a foolish question really, but it was a formality to greet and ask. With a vague relent though he uttered a more sincere; “You look well enough.” What else could he really say? After all, this was war. He couldn't very well apologise to the other for it, not at the moment any way. Fuck, he didn't particularly want to at any point, he was damn sick of being sorry. Besides, for now his simply being here was saying enough. Actions spoke ever so much more than words after all.
----
- The war was 'officially' started June 18th, though there was a lot of unrest prior to this. However, it takes a while to pull yourself from Spain, go to England, and then go to Canada. At the point this is set some troops have already arrived.
- “small trading port he'd acquired years prior” - Fort Albany was claimed by the French in 1686, only to be snagged by the English in 1693. It took seven years to claim.
- Fort Albany was actually a fur trading post, hence the relevance of him being on a merchant ship.
- As a whole he seems pretty pissed in this, and he will through the whole thread/event. According to his wiki his moods were incredibly bad for a long time after the revolution, this is only thirty years later. This is also worsened by the fact that during this time England was involved in the Napoleonic wars, specifically the Peninsular War in Spain (one of the few times we worked together 8'D). As you can see the fact America's declared war on him isn't helping... At all o/
Since I dunno how much English slang any of you know... Here;
- Yawp --- A middle English term for yelling.
- Stroppy --- This basically means to act in a childishly angry fashion.
- Title from the song 'Zombie' by the Cranberries/Miser... It was just the last thing to play when I finished |D thisiswhyGearrshouldn'tstart