"Gormlaith"

--Faolán awoke to the light of dawn as it crept over his rooftop roost. The light illuminated the rooftops around him and sparkled on th enearby harbor. The shadow streets below were just beginning to show signs of life; men with various tools and supplies went off to their jobs, women hung rugs and things out to clean and chased naughty children off with mock tempers.

--Faolán carefully decends from his perch; an old, crumbling brick wall provides a crude ladder. Once safely on the street, he straightens his patchwork coat and heads off to the harbor, dodging children and groggy men as he goes.

--The harbor was still bustling with activity from the previous night. Crowds of people came and went, looking at the remains of some ship. Faolán couldn't help feeling sorry for whoever owned that vessel, but he was glad his own ship was far from it. At the end of the harbor sat a small "La Belle" light corvette, Faolán's ship. He christened the vessel "Gormlaith" a Gaelic word that meant "illustrious princess." There was only a small crew for the ship, 60 men total. Faolán's first mate was an Irishman he served with on the HMS Monck, a man by the name of Bran Quirke.

--Faolán stood admiring his ship, it was rather old and poor--the dark green paint was chipping off of the bow, the old green sails were weathered and bleaching from the sunlight--but she was serviceable, and meant the world to him. Bran caught sight of Faolán and strode down the gangway to welcome his friend and captain.

"Dia duit, Captaen!"

"Taim go maith, go raibh maith agat. Now, how goes the preperations?"

"Aye, the supplies ahre nearly loaded on deck. Should be ohnleh ahnother dey or two before we're seh reahdy."

"Ar dóigh. Make it three days--give the lads a day off to rest. I'll be off till then, continue your fine work, cara."

"Aye, Captaen!"

--Bran went back up the gangway and returned to shouting out orders to the crewmen. Faolán gave the "Gormlaith" one more look over before turning and heading up a street away from the harbor.

--The small shop rested in the shadows of the larger buildings around it. The windows were black with dust and soot, giving the impression it was empty. Only the soft clink of a hammer resonating through the open door gave any sign of life.

--Faolán stood before the shop, searching the ground around it for the remnants of a sing that once proclaimed the building a smithy. The old splinters sat off to the side in a small pile, just as he had been told they would be. Much like the sign, the shop had long lost its prominent standings, now dealing in some shady endevours--smuggled goods, smuggled people. Faolán tightened his collar, loosened his dagger, and headed inside.

-- Smoke hung thick in the air, causing Faolán a coughing fit. With his kerchief out and covering his mouth, he walked toward a dim light that radiated from the back. The hammer had ceased, no sound but the crackle of fire and his strained breath could be heard now. Faolán crept slowly towards the glow, one hand holding the kerchief, the other stroking the dagger's handle. The back room was small. A forge was all that lit the area, its dancing light flickering off of a small anvil and hammer at the forge's base. Just as Faolán began examining the tools, a hard, blunt, metal object pushed into the small of his back and made an all too familiar click.

"Ne bougez pas, monsieur. Ou votre manteau aura besoin d'une nouvelle pièce." [1]
"I mean you no harm, man."
"Celui qui ne pense pas à mal, a encore ses armes prêtes?" [2]
"Je parle peu de français." [3]

--The Frenchman turned Faolán around, keeping his pistol firmly aimed at his chest.

"Then you choose the wrong ports to wander into, Irishman. What do you want with me?"
You are monsieur Fabrice, are you not? I have heard you deal in many fine metalworks... among other things."

--A grin formed on Faolán's face as he looked over Fabrice. The man was older than he, nearing his 50's no doubt, and was dressed in the simple garb of a blacksmith. Fabrice's pistol slowly lowered as he drew shut the door to the room. After locking the handle, Fabrice turned and looked hard at Faolán.

"Who are you, and why shouldn't I kill you now?"
"I am Faolán Driscoll and I captain a ship, one of your "friends" by the name of Gustave informed me of your... services. I was hoping you could help me with some information."
"My ears have grown deaf, monsieur, I do not know if I have any information you seek."
"Tell me, Fabrice, do you have any enemies?"
"Doesn't every man, monsieur?"
"How about the Bloody Arms pirates? I've heard they enjoy a healthy smuggling operation here, that must effect you, no?"

--Fabrice kept his composer, but the muscles of his jaws flexed visibly, his eyes narrowed.

"I am no friend of theirs, monsieur. Why would you seek information regarding such dogs?"

--Faolán smiled at the nerve he had struck.

"I have an acquaintance that these... dogs have been preying upon. They wish them to be put down, and I need to know where their kennel lies."

--Fabrice shook his head and laughed.

"You wish to challenge the Bloody Arms pirates alone, monsieur? Vous avez perdu votre esprit, Irlandais. [4] I'll tell you then, not the first time I have sent men to their deaths, the dog's kennel lies in a small cove to the northwest. There they have a cave fortress, protected by a maze of rocks underwater--any ship that tries to get near them ends up wrecked, their crews and cargo at the mercy of the pirates. No one that's not a Bloody Arms navigator knows of the path to take to enter the fort. Tell your acquaintance to sail their ships elsewhere, you cannot touch the Bloody Arms pirates."

--The last sentance was spoken bitterly, Fabrice had obviously tried to stop them before--without result.

"We shall see about that, Fabrice. Merci pour l'aide." [5]

--Faolán nodded his head and moved to the door as Fabrice unlocked and opened it. When Faolán was nearly outside, Fabrice shouted to him.

"You come back to me if you do stop them, Faolán, I will have something for you. Renversez leur sang, vous l'Irlandais idiot!" [6]

--A hearty laugh accompanied the the last few words, none of which Faolán could fully understand. He simply returned the laugh and went on his way down the street--there were more preperations to be made.

[1]"Do not move, sir. Or your coat will need a new patch."
[2]"One that means no harm, yet has his weapons ready?"
[3]"I speak little French."
[4]"You have lost your mind, Irishman."
[5]"Thank you for the help."
[6]"Spill their blood, you crazy Irishman!"