(no subject)

[griffyn]

The harbour at Port Royal is a seething mass of humanity. Arms traced with inkwork and riveted with muscle fling a gleaming catch newly trawled out onto the waterside to be bid or fought for. Beggars and thieves flit through the crowd like little fishes, catching at scraps. The world is noise and colour and stink: not a man without a pistol at his belt or a knife caught in his sleeve. Whorehouses and gambling dens welcome weary sailors in without questions, since honest men and false look the same stripped down to their altogether or their last coin. Pirates and privateers stand shoulder to shoulder in darkened doorways, and the eye kept on the navy wharf is a lazy one. They’re a new presence in a town once called the wickedest and wealthiest in the world, and have not, quite, managed to change its ways. Gallows point welcomes new residents almost daily, but those who swing there are the unlucky few. Port Royal’s promises may as easily become betrayals, but they’re too bright a lure for men not to take the risk. Gregory Pascoe (sir), the disenfranchised son to a minor Irish fiefdom, made his name by working the trading routes from the Indies. His house in fair London town is known for its exotic and eccentric interiors: a storefront where almost everything can be bought or sold, for a certain price. With shares in the East Indies, and significant holdings in several banks, he keeps a mirror of the same house in other harbours, for when trouble presses in. And it always does, when one’s gains are won on other’s backs, and when holding objects of significance and exclusivity. Of which Pascoe has a great many. His home in Port Royal is similarly awash with trinkets and curiosities. Silks from the Indies. A stuffed elephant: only a child – something larger would be absurd – alongside a collection of dead things with jewelled eyes. A parrot with its tongue cut out but with feathers in colours not seen anywhere else. A large part of his business is in maps: these are drawn up on his premises by a personal cartographer and are called the most accurate outside the Navy’s own, and by far more beautiful. Works of art and skill. Men come with their own crude cartography and leave with masterpieces. And Pascoe keeps his own copies. His home stores more of the known world than any other, whether printed onto canvas or kept in the head of the unseen cartographer in his employ. Then there’s his canary. Only a story, of course. Often told, never seen – the caged canary with feathers of pure gold that the man keeps hidden from his visitors. The one of his treasures never to be shown off. Just a story, for sailors are fond of their fairytales. <center><cut text="+"><table border="0" width="517"><tbody><tr><td align="justify"><center><img src="http://i.imgur.com/sPL5ENG.gif"> <img src="http://i.imgur.com/EOA6gpt.png"></center> <small>The harbour at Port Royal is a seething mass of humanity. Arms traced with inkwork and riveted with muscle fling a gleaming catch newly trawled out onto the waterside to be bid or fought for. Beggars and thieves flit through the crowd like little fishes, catching at scraps. The world is noise and colour and stink: not a man without a pistol at his belt or a knife caught in his sleeve. Whorehouses and gambling dens welcome weary sailors in without questions, since honest men and false look the same stripped down to their altogether or their last coin. Pirates and privateers stand shoulder to shoulder in darkened doorways, and the eye kept on the navy wharf is a lazy one. They’re a new presence in a town once called the wickedest and wealthiest in the world, and have not, quite, managed to change its ways. Gallows point welcomes new residents almost daily, but those who swing there are the unlucky few. Port Royal’s promises may as easily become betrayals, but they’re too bright a lure for men not to take the risk.</small> <center><img src="http://i.imgur.com/nCyInyG.png"> <img src="http://i.imgur.com/W8maWHY.gif"></center> <small>Gregory Pascoe (sir), the disenfranchised son to a minor Irish fiefdom, made his name by working the trading routes from the Indies. His house in fair London town is known for its exotic and eccentric interiors: a storefront where almost everything can be bought or sold, for a certain price. With shares in the East Indies, and significant holdings in several banks, he keeps a mirror of the same house in other harbours, for when trouble presses in. And it always does, when one’s gains are won on other’s backs, and when holding objects of significance and exclusivity. Of which Pascoe has a great many. His home in Port Royal is similarly awash with trinkets and curiosities. Silks from the Indies. A stuffed elephant: only a child – something larger would be absurd – alongside a collection of dead things with jewelled eyes. A parrot with its tongue cut out but with feathers in colours not seen anywhere else. A large part of his business is in maps: these are drawn up on his premises by a personal cartographer and are called the most accurate outside the Navy’s own, and by far more beautiful. Works of art and skill. Men come with their own crude cartography and leave with masterpieces. And Pascoe keeps his own copies. His home stores more of the known world than any other, whether printed onto canvas or kept in the head of the unseen cartographer in his employ. Then there’s his canary. Only a story, of course. Often told, never seen – the caged canary with feathers of pure gold that the man keeps hidden from his visitors. The one of his treasures never to be shown off. <center>Just a story, for sailors are fond of their fairytales.</center></small> <center><img src="http://i.imgur.com/GdUjRUN.gif"> <img src="http://i.imgur.com/dpnlIuD.png"></center>