Re: The BATTLE of the CENTURY! [S!7] - Round 1: The New Frontier
09-03-2012, 06:10 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.
The H.M.S. Vigilance (the title a misnomer, as the vessel currently wore no colors and acknowledged no monarch) was deemed first to make landfall. She settled down among the grass like a lamb settling in for the night. Fisher clicked his pen nervously.
Prodded gently into single-file by the crew, the refugees began to file outwards. Others set to work dragging large volumes of cargo out of the hold—tents, bedrolls, cursory foodstuffs, the basic trappings that made one not feel precisely like one was trapped out in the wilderness thousands of miles from home, fighting for survival. There were not, Fisher counted ruefully, as many tents as there were refugees.
The magician hung awkwardly in the back and allowed most of the others to pass him. Eventually a crewman took notice, established eye contact and made a brief gesture indicating for him to proceed, smiling stupidly as though believing he were doing Fisher a favor. Here, he seemed to be trying to communicate. Here’s some grass that you can eat and a river that you can both shit in and drink out of. It’s all yours except for the eight thousand other illiterate river-shitters you’ll be sharing your tent with and the great host of filth-ridden bugs, carnivorous things and supernatural abominations that have claimed this island as their own since before gravity forgot about it. As I have dragged your ass all this way from some probable genocide or other horrors-of-war situation, I expect your eternal gratitude and for you to overlook the fact that the captain is probably going to give me my own double-sized tent with a shag rug and extensive vinyl collection.
Fisher smiled at the crewman and joined the line.
When he came to the ramp a crewman stopped him and pulled him aside. “Oy!” said the soldier, indicating the pen and paper in his hand. “Where’d you get that?”
Itinerary from the all-powerful science council what dragged me into getting murdered with, that I know so far, a ghost ship and a vampire lord. It’s currently the only thing in the world I can be certain won’t poison me if I wipe myself with it, so please don’t take it away. “Gift from a friend,” Fisher said instead. “Just some stories.”
“Hmmm.” The crewman seemed disappointed. “So you’re not a printer by trade, then.”
Ah, thought Fisher, realizing his mistake. They’re not scanning for contraband, they’re looking for anyone who can help them run a society. “Not by trade, no,” he mumbled. “But if you have a press, I could work it.”
The crewman smiled. “And you can read and write?”
In eleven languages, the magician wished to brag. “Yes,” he said instead. Behold the awesome power of my third grade education.
“Prove it.” The crewman handed the paper back to Fisher.
“Vampires lack both reflections and shadows. They do not show up in photographs or—“ Fisher made a pretense of confusion “—or viddy-oh footage, though any sounds they make or things they say are perfectly audible. They lack a heartbeat and do not need to breathe—“
“That’ll do. What’s your name?”
“Harry Fisher.” Enough of an alias to throw off any bloodthirsty vampire lords that may have gotten a dossier on him, but not enough that he’d forget to answer to it.
“Ah, a fisherman,” agreed the crewman triumphantly, as though he had just solved a puzzle.
“I think I had a great-grandfather who fished his way through life,” corrected Fisher. “And right into the grave. Died from eating fish caught from the same lake he shat in.” A cautionary tale we can all learn a lesson from. “In any case, I humbly offer my services as scholar, scribe, printer, fisherman, or whatever the community requires of me,” he boasted, adding sorrowfully, “I don’t suppose that’ll earn me my own tent.”
The crewman laughed. “Ha! Not quite, Harry. I’ll see if I can’t pair you with one of the pretty ones.”
“Close enough.” Fisher leaned over the railing and surveyed the refugees gathering in the clearing, while the crewmen called their names in twos and threes to receive their tent and bedrolls. It was an oddly peaceful scene.
The sun was already setting. “You can get a move on now,” urged the crewman.
Fisher started. “Hmm? Oh. Yes.” Fisher made his way down the ramp, pausing where the wooden platform gave way to wet, filthy grass and dirt.
He stepped on to the ground. It tickled. The wizard resisted an urge to vomit.
The H.M.S. Vigilance (the title a misnomer, as the vessel currently wore no colors and acknowledged no monarch) was deemed first to make landfall. She settled down among the grass like a lamb settling in for the night. Fisher clicked his pen nervously.
Prodded gently into single-file by the crew, the refugees began to file outwards. Others set to work dragging large volumes of cargo out of the hold—tents, bedrolls, cursory foodstuffs, the basic trappings that made one not feel precisely like one was trapped out in the wilderness thousands of miles from home, fighting for survival. There were not, Fisher counted ruefully, as many tents as there were refugees.
The magician hung awkwardly in the back and allowed most of the others to pass him. Eventually a crewman took notice, established eye contact and made a brief gesture indicating for him to proceed, smiling stupidly as though believing he were doing Fisher a favor. Here, he seemed to be trying to communicate. Here’s some grass that you can eat and a river that you can both shit in and drink out of. It’s all yours except for the eight thousand other illiterate river-shitters you’ll be sharing your tent with and the great host of filth-ridden bugs, carnivorous things and supernatural abominations that have claimed this island as their own since before gravity forgot about it. As I have dragged your ass all this way from some probable genocide or other horrors-of-war situation, I expect your eternal gratitude and for you to overlook the fact that the captain is probably going to give me my own double-sized tent with a shag rug and extensive vinyl collection.
Fisher smiled at the crewman and joined the line.
When he came to the ramp a crewman stopped him and pulled him aside. “Oy!” said the soldier, indicating the pen and paper in his hand. “Where’d you get that?”
Itinerary from the all-powerful science council what dragged me into getting murdered with, that I know so far, a ghost ship and a vampire lord. It’s currently the only thing in the world I can be certain won’t poison me if I wipe myself with it, so please don’t take it away. “Gift from a friend,” Fisher said instead. “Just some stories.”
“Hmmm.” The crewman seemed disappointed. “So you’re not a printer by trade, then.”
Ah, thought Fisher, realizing his mistake. They’re not scanning for contraband, they’re looking for anyone who can help them run a society. “Not by trade, no,” he mumbled. “But if you have a press, I could work it.”
The crewman smiled. “And you can read and write?”
In eleven languages, the magician wished to brag. “Yes,” he said instead. Behold the awesome power of my third grade education.
“Prove it.” The crewman handed the paper back to Fisher.
“Vampires lack both reflections and shadows. They do not show up in photographs or—“ Fisher made a pretense of confusion “—or viddy-oh footage, though any sounds they make or things they say are perfectly audible. They lack a heartbeat and do not need to breathe—“
“That’ll do. What’s your name?”
“Harry Fisher.” Enough of an alias to throw off any bloodthirsty vampire lords that may have gotten a dossier on him, but not enough that he’d forget to answer to it.
“Ah, a fisherman,” agreed the crewman triumphantly, as though he had just solved a puzzle.
“I think I had a great-grandfather who fished his way through life,” corrected Fisher. “And right into the grave. Died from eating fish caught from the same lake he shat in.” A cautionary tale we can all learn a lesson from. “In any case, I humbly offer my services as scholar, scribe, printer, fisherman, or whatever the community requires of me,” he boasted, adding sorrowfully, “I don’t suppose that’ll earn me my own tent.”
The crewman laughed. “Ha! Not quite, Harry. I’ll see if I can’t pair you with one of the pretty ones.”
“Close enough.” Fisher leaned over the railing and surveyed the refugees gathering in the clearing, while the crewmen called their names in twos and threes to receive their tent and bedrolls. It was an oddly peaceful scene.
The sun was already setting. “You can get a move on now,” urged the crewman.
Fisher started. “Hmm? Oh. Yes.” Fisher made his way down the ramp, pausing where the wooden platform gave way to wet, filthy grass and dirt.
He stepped on to the ground. It tickled. The wizard resisted an urge to vomit.