flavour of the day, strawberry and rocky road with sprinkles
Story: Timeless { backstory | index }
Title: Regional Pride
Rating: G/PG (mild language)
Challenge: FOTD: libation, Strawberry #14: stairs, Rocky Road #9: basement
Toppings/Extras: sprinkles
Wordcount: 883
Summary: Another night in the cellars of the Crystal Dagger tavern.
Notes: Er, I guess I should warn for anti-Welsh and anti-Liverpudlian insults being used? Just in case! Also, this conversation really got away from me. Libation: A beverage, especially an alcoholic beverage. An act or instance of drinking.
ETA: Haha! I got this fotd in with one minute to go! *dance*
“You’m boys keep the noise down now,” the bawdy barmaid warned the pirates as she set down several tankards on the top of a crate. Once this was done, she set one hand on one hip and used the other hand to tuck some of her hair back under the raggedy band over the top of her head. “Some dandy types just came in. I’m thinkin’ they’re Ashdown’s men.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout us, Liza,” Pete Jones said with an unbothered wave of his hand, one leg slung over the other as he lay back against some sack-cloths. He grinned. “Want to stay down here a bit?”
“In yer dreams,” she muttered, lifting her skirts and hurrying away up the creaky wooden staircase and back to ground floor of the Crystal Dagger tavern. The place had a good reputation, but under the floorboards lay a haven for the Bahama Reef Pirates, who often came brawling their way over to McLean’s Town where the tavern was located when they didn’t have much else to do. It was good business: they weren’t popular with the locals by any means, but half of the money they stole poured right back onto the island by means of alcohol, which meant that the owners of the pubs at least would tolerate their presence.
“Yer should just stop tryin’,” Keller snorted from where he sat with his back against a wall, idly turning his tankard this way and that and watching the dregs of booze in the bottom trickle from one end to the other. He opened his mouth to speak again when one of the gaudily-dressed girls in the dingy cellar suddenly leapt onto his lap, turning whatever he was going to say into-“Oof!”
“Kelly!” the young and bright-eyed Gracie Howell said to him, dark curls framing her face.
“Robbin’ the cradle as well as the merchants now, are we?” Pete called across to him. He picked up one of the fresh tankards that had been brought down and took a long drought, finishing with, “Liza loves me!”
Shoving the girl off of him with a scowl, Keller looked back towards the Welsh coxswain of the crew.
“Shut it, Taff!”
“Ouch!” Gracie exclaimed, pouting. Skirts rustling, she floundered on the floor for a moment. “You are horrible.”
“He is that,” Pete said gravely.
The scrawny youngster was helped to her feet by Rosy Joe, a pot-bellied teddybear-like man with a storm-grey beard. She beamed at him happily. Gracie was supposed to be a prostitute, but it didn’t often work that way-not with the Bahama Reef Pirates, in any case. She was fifteen years old and had known the majority of them since she was a child, having lived above the tavern all of her life, and always loved sneaking down to listen to them. Her wide-eyed appearance and mussy hair turned her into the very personification of little sisters everywhere; her boundless enthusiasm and constant whining left her firmly off of the map when it came to sex.
The more depraved members of the crew-of which, as ever with pirates, there were many-wouldn’t have any objections, but Graham’s most trusted men were the respected core of the crew and not men to pick fights with. Particularly Keller.
Gracie complained that it was bad for business but nobody listened to her.
“Oi-oi,” Pete hissed suddenly as a figure crossed the cellar towards the corner that Graham’s inner circle had taken over. He sat up and wiped all expression from his face as a bulky fellow with no neck, merely a bullet-shaped protrusion of a head, ambled over to them. “Evenin’, Burke,” he said formally.
“Evenin’,” he replied.
There was no more response and silence fell over the group. All of the gathered pirates stared at him, motionless. They didn’t really like Burke and had decided a while ago that the best course of action was to stare at him blankly every time he approached.
After a while, bowed down under the awkwardness, he shuffled away.
“’E smells of donkey grout,” Keller muttered.
“He smells like boiled pig bones,” Gracie said.
“He smells,” Pete finished with the air of one laying down a trump card, “like the rancid pus in a boil on a dead dog’s arse.”
“Ugh!” Rosy shook his head as the Welshman laughed. Gracie was looking at him almost admiringly, most probably storing the insult away for later use.
“And,” Pete said, aiming a wink at Keller, “the dog’s corpse is in Liverpool.”
“Oi, you sheep-shaggin’ bastard!” Keller rose to his feet defensively.
“Liverpool?” Gracie wondered aloud, having not made the connection between the northern English city and Keller’s accent. “What’s that got to do with the price of tea in China?”
“What?” Rosy asked; Keller and Pete also looked at her.
“I heard someone say it,” she said with a shrug of her narrow shoulders. She smiled brightly. “What breed of dog? I had a terrier once. We sold him to the butcher’s when he died.”
“That is disgusting,” Pete muttered.
“I’ve ate worse,” Keller said with a shrug.
“Yeah, well you’re a bloody scouser, it’s only to be expected.”
“Piss off.”
“Was it your cousin?”
“I’ll kill yer one of these days.”
“Can you teach me how to kill someone?”
“No, Gracie.”
Title: Regional Pride
Rating: G/PG (mild language)
Challenge: FOTD: libation, Strawberry #14: stairs, Rocky Road #9: basement
Toppings/Extras: sprinkles
Wordcount: 883
Summary: Another night in the cellars of the Crystal Dagger tavern.
Notes: Er, I guess I should warn for anti-Welsh and anti-Liverpudlian insults being used? Just in case! Also, this conversation really got away from me. Libation: A beverage, especially an alcoholic beverage. An act or instance of drinking.
ETA: Haha! I got this fotd in with one minute to go! *dance*
“You’m boys keep the noise down now,” the bawdy barmaid warned the pirates as she set down several tankards on the top of a crate. Once this was done, she set one hand on one hip and used the other hand to tuck some of her hair back under the raggedy band over the top of her head. “Some dandy types just came in. I’m thinkin’ they’re Ashdown’s men.”
“Don’t worry ‘bout us, Liza,” Pete Jones said with an unbothered wave of his hand, one leg slung over the other as he lay back against some sack-cloths. He grinned. “Want to stay down here a bit?”
“In yer dreams,” she muttered, lifting her skirts and hurrying away up the creaky wooden staircase and back to ground floor of the Crystal Dagger tavern. The place had a good reputation, but under the floorboards lay a haven for the Bahama Reef Pirates, who often came brawling their way over to McLean’s Town where the tavern was located when they didn’t have much else to do. It was good business: they weren’t popular with the locals by any means, but half of the money they stole poured right back onto the island by means of alcohol, which meant that the owners of the pubs at least would tolerate their presence.
“Yer should just stop tryin’,” Keller snorted from where he sat with his back against a wall, idly turning his tankard this way and that and watching the dregs of booze in the bottom trickle from one end to the other. He opened his mouth to speak again when one of the gaudily-dressed girls in the dingy cellar suddenly leapt onto his lap, turning whatever he was going to say into-“Oof!”
“Kelly!” the young and bright-eyed Gracie Howell said to him, dark curls framing her face.
“Robbin’ the cradle as well as the merchants now, are we?” Pete called across to him. He picked up one of the fresh tankards that had been brought down and took a long drought, finishing with, “Liza loves me!”
Shoving the girl off of him with a scowl, Keller looked back towards the Welsh coxswain of the crew.
“Shut it, Taff!”
“Ouch!” Gracie exclaimed, pouting. Skirts rustling, she floundered on the floor for a moment. “You are horrible.”
“He is that,” Pete said gravely.
The scrawny youngster was helped to her feet by Rosy Joe, a pot-bellied teddybear-like man with a storm-grey beard. She beamed at him happily. Gracie was supposed to be a prostitute, but it didn’t often work that way-not with the Bahama Reef Pirates, in any case. She was fifteen years old and had known the majority of them since she was a child, having lived above the tavern all of her life, and always loved sneaking down to listen to them. Her wide-eyed appearance and mussy hair turned her into the very personification of little sisters everywhere; her boundless enthusiasm and constant whining left her firmly off of the map when it came to sex.
The more depraved members of the crew-of which, as ever with pirates, there were many-wouldn’t have any objections, but Graham’s most trusted men were the respected core of the crew and not men to pick fights with. Particularly Keller.
Gracie complained that it was bad for business but nobody listened to her.
“Oi-oi,” Pete hissed suddenly as a figure crossed the cellar towards the corner that Graham’s inner circle had taken over. He sat up and wiped all expression from his face as a bulky fellow with no neck, merely a bullet-shaped protrusion of a head, ambled over to them. “Evenin’, Burke,” he said formally.
“Evenin’,” he replied.
There was no more response and silence fell over the group. All of the gathered pirates stared at him, motionless. They didn’t really like Burke and had decided a while ago that the best course of action was to stare at him blankly every time he approached.
After a while, bowed down under the awkwardness, he shuffled away.
“’E smells of donkey grout,” Keller muttered.
“He smells like boiled pig bones,” Gracie said.
“He smells,” Pete finished with the air of one laying down a trump card, “like the rancid pus in a boil on a dead dog’s arse.”
“Ugh!” Rosy shook his head as the Welshman laughed. Gracie was looking at him almost admiringly, most probably storing the insult away for later use.
“And,” Pete said, aiming a wink at Keller, “the dog’s corpse is in Liverpool.”
“Oi, you sheep-shaggin’ bastard!” Keller rose to his feet defensively.
“Liverpool?” Gracie wondered aloud, having not made the connection between the northern English city and Keller’s accent. “What’s that got to do with the price of tea in China?”
“What?” Rosy asked; Keller and Pete also looked at her.
“I heard someone say it,” she said with a shrug of her narrow shoulders. She smiled brightly. “What breed of dog? I had a terrier once. We sold him to the butcher’s when he died.”
“That is disgusting,” Pete muttered.
“I’ve ate worse,” Keller said with a shrug.
“Yeah, well you’re a bloody scouser, it’s only to be expected.”
“Piss off.”
“Was it your cousin?”
“I’ll kill yer one of these days.”
“Can you teach me how to kill someone?”
“No, Gracie.”