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 Ships That Pass in the Night

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PostSubject: Ships That Pass in the Night   Sat Mar 28, 2009 9:47 am



Mr. M entered his room and sat down in a chair. His search for the weapon maker was being difficult. “Was Jean-luc right about the mask?” he questioned himself. Yes otherwise he might have already been dead before he put a foot on dry land. Without his memories he was too vulnerable. He looked up to see a small map hanging on the wall merely for decoration to the already sparse inn room. He got up from the chair and took it off the wall studying it, when he heard a knock at the door.



“Enter” replied Mr. M. “Ah come in mademoiselle and you bring wine too most excellent”



“Oh my, a mask is there going to be a party?” replied the whore.



“Yes and you’re the guest of honor” replied Mr. M. as he took the wine and glasses. He filled them up and with a slight of hand dropped something into one of them. “Santé”



“À la votre.” She replied as they both partook of the liquid.



Mr. M placed his down on the small table. He passed a few minutes in idle conversation as he waited for the drug to take effect. She slowly passed out as Mr. M eased her on to the bed taking the wine glass and setting it aside. He stood up looking at her on the bed for a moment sleeping peacefully. He shook off the moment of familiarity and took a small mirror off the wall and cracked open the door. Edging the mirror out he looked down the hallway to see a guard stationed at the end.



“Damn. Must have been the work of that deMontfort.” He mumbled to himself as he retreated back inside the room quietly closing the door. He went to the window and looked out at the darkened streets. He could make out a regular patrol on the main dock way. Hoisting himself out, he climbed up to the rooftop of the inn. Skimming the rooftops he traversed the dock town with ease until he came to the local shipping and supply office. A skylight hatch provided the perfect entrance inside.



Slipping in, he searched though the manifests and logs for the past several months. The street lamp from the outside provided just enough to make out the horrible scribbling of the bookkeepers notes. A curious anomaly started to appear as he searched. An import of ship cannons on a regular basis but no export. He didn’t recall seeing a stockpile of cannons lying around. Matching the dock logs to delivery he found they were being taken to a quarry not far outside St Augustine. He heard the patrol approaching the office as he slipped back out the skylight hatch. He made his way back to the inn and he eased himself down and climbed in through the open window.



He looked around for the wine and realized something was off. Loud snoring came from the bed as he realized it was the young poet. “You walked into the wrong bloody room” he thought to himself. Easing himself back towards the window his foot landed on a rather vocal floorboard as it creaked loud enough to raise the dead. The poet snorted and rolled over still dead to the world. Easing himself back outside, he climbed over to the other open window seeing more familiar surroundings. The whore was still asleep as she should be and Mr. M eased himself into the chair and looked at the map again.



Only moments before dawn sun began to brighten the horizon Mr. M left his room. A new guard was stationed at the end of the hallway and Mr. M tipped his hat as he passed giving a clever grin. The bar was dead quiet. The fire only fading embers and the still lit candles wicks were low. The mademoiselle he had spoken with had passed out at one of the tables since she had forfeited her room to the poet. Going behind the counter he found an ink well and marked the map he commandeered from his room and placed it on the table. Stepping back he took a long look at her sleeping, hoping it would jog some memory but nothing happened. Adjusting his sword belt he stepped out into the early dawn.

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