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Post by Hipster Prussia on Oct 9, 2012 20:50:24 GMT -5
[ I have no objections to people being "captured" on my ship. I know Prussia isn't technically landlocked as it has the Baltic Sea, but he is used to cold waters~ So he could have captured a number of you guys along the way. I don't mind either way. XD I'm one of those "I'm absolutely cool with anything. ]
The hot Spanish waters were determined as sweltering to the cold-blooded crew. The Prussian wore a long sleeved white shirt on his ship, and had already suffered sunburns to the point of having a ridiculous red glow about him. The lines were clear to where he fell asleep with a particular bird on his chest. Gilbird was perched onto a wooden pole that was particularly made for the special bird, and was wearing an esteemed first mate hat as the crew sweltered and belly ached from the heat.
"Mein gott. Z'is day... Ich have to find z'at treasure, und kill some dummkopf limeys vile I'm at it." He folded his map under his arms, looking through his viewfinder of a telescoping object that looked adorned with Prussian artistry.
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Post by Thor Odinson on Oct 9, 2012 22:18:41 GMT -5
A chorus of shouts rose from Spain's crew, electric with excitement. It had been weeks since they last made anchor; weeks since they last ate anything that was stale or hard, weeks since they drank anything other than tainted spirits, and weeks since they laid eyes upon the sweet, curvaceous figure of a woman, let alone shared a bed with one.
The door to the Captain's Quarters was flung wildly open, Capitán! We are upon the French shoreline! Spain growled something unintelligible. The man standing in his doorway ducked out of sight as an empty glass bottle was flung his way, which was quickly followed by cries of "Lo siento! Lo siento!" and loud jeers of laughter at his misfortune.
Spain rose, adjusting his captain's hat as he stepped out onto the main deck and surveyed the approaching shoreline through a gilded spyglass. It was a sight branded into his memory; a sight that sent his heart hammering just a little faster in his chest with anticipation. The Drunken Skull was nestled just out of sight, and the approaching docks clung to the shoreline like a half-sunken skeleton. A handful of ships swayed gently on the slow rolling waves, but only one caught Spain's eye.
L'aria.
She was a grand vessel to behold - a crown jewel among ships. Spain would recognize her anywhere. A grin formed on his lips as he lowered the spyglass and delivered a quick series of orders to his eager crew, and made his way to the helm of his ship. He raised the spyglass again, this time catching a soft glint of something golden in the fading light of the sun. A silhouette sat on the dock's edge, elegant and familiar.
France.
He felt his heart swell and he beckoned his crew to work faster, spyglass shoved unceremoniously into his coat pocket. They were at the docks, anchor sinking into the shallow depths and bringing the ship to a steady stop. His rowdy crew set off for the tavern at the first possible moment, leaving Spain behind to descend from the vessel at his own leisurely pace.
He approached Francis, calling out to him as soon as he was within hearing distance. "Hola, Francia. It has been too long, no?"
...I am editing that first paragraph the first chance I get...*glares at it*
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Post by Loki Laufeyson on Oct 9, 2012 23:12:38 GMT -5
Though he had never been a particularly religious man-- and what final shreds of such holy sentiments were stripped and bleached by the monstrous sea and unforgiving sun-- what happened in the next few glorious moments was nothing short of miraculous. Francis was reminded of the annunciation, when a poor and devoutly unsuspecting soul was accosted by an image most magnanimous, most sacred and adored. Ah! Ah! Could it be? Could it really be? After all of his desperate prayers? There, swelling up from the horizon like the arm of God, was a huge and hulking vessel-- a familiar figure, an image which so haunted his dreams that France was left clutching his chest. The Spanish Armada cut open the ocean like a blade, its flag seared through the darkening sky leaving bloody scarlet scars in a masculine assertion of raw, inconceivable power.
The image was enough to knock the wind out of his lungs; he was taken aback. Francis felt not unlike the saint who, after many hours of prayer, was finally met by an angel, but because the sight was so beautifully unbelievable, he could only shake his head and swear it was but a dream.
"Non. It can't be."
Ah, ah! But what may have been mirage or feverish daydream became more real by the moment. The ship drew near, and the raucous cheers of a rather rambunctious Spanish crew swept over him. Standing to his feet, Francis watched the ship pull into harbor; his breath was held burningly tight in his chest, and he felt rooted to the spot. His legs felt the way the did the first time he had boarded a ship--wavering, completely unsteady, with little thrills of unbalance coursing through his bones. It was, of course, the dreaded effect the Spaniard had upon him.
After the ship had groaned into the dock and after the crew had blasted through the pier with nary a word to him (so eager were they for the comfort of a tavern), Francis watched with mounting affection as Spain descended from the ship. Mon Dieu! He returned more dashingly attractive than when he departed! His swarthy skin, the color of supple brown leather, gave France a deep chill of desire-- his mouth watered. Not only that, but Antonio's lips were curled into a charming bow of a smile, an irresistible boyish grin, and his wind-swept black hair begged for the loving stroke of France's fingers. The man was loping toward him with a confident ease, and all of a sudden, all in a ridiculous rush, all the broken pieces of life and love came falling together, a melodious harmony of perfection, and now, yes now! All was right with the world. Ah! Perfection! Perfection!
"Antonio," he breathed, as if saying the man's name too loudly would cause him to dissipate into the darkness, "Antonio, you 'ad better 'ave brought me somezhing nice. I expect a liberal amount of...booty, mm? You 'ave been gone for too long, mon cher! What 'ave I told you about zis?"
He meant to seduce Spain, to play coy and hard to get, but before he could concoct such a marvelous plan, he had launched himself full-bodied into Spain's embrace, thrown his arms around that rough and salty neck, and crushed his lips against the man's full lips-- even now he tasted of sun-dried, salted tomatoes.
"I've missed you more zan you know..."
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Post by Thor Odinson on Oct 14, 2012 10:29:23 GMT -5
You know I would never return without bringing you something, Francis. His customary smile unfurled into a smirk, green eyes bright with mischief. All the booty you want es yours, pero I think I will be the one doing the pillaging y plundering.
Lo sie- Spain was suddenly cut off as France threw himself into his arms, pressing their lips fiercely together. He immediately wrapped his arms tightly around the other man, one hand sliding up to cradle his head and the other sliding around his back to hold him by the waist. The kiss ignited a fire within him, all burning desire, but before he could cave into the sensation France had pulled back.
He felt a spike of guilt at France's words, unsure of its meaning. It was an unusual feeling for a pirate, and Spain was no exception. He had nothing to feel guilty about; at least nothing that made any sense to him. What a ridiculous feeling! He tossed it aside without any further thought, running a hand through France's silky, golden locks and gazing into eyes bluer than than sea.
I have missed you too, Francia, muy much. To emphasize his point he brought their lips together again, almost desperately. How he missed the taste of France's lips and the feel of his body pressed so close to his own. How long had it been? How long had the sea cast her spell over him, holding him captive with his own desires to conquer and rule? Her cold embrace and salty kisses simply could not compare to the warmth France's embraces brought him or the sweet taste of his kisses.
It was not enough to just stand there on the dock with France in his arms, Spain wanted more. He was growing impatient with need, and it was reflected in the way his lips roughly explored France's. All other thoughts were abandoned. He pulled away slightly, breathlessly, cupping his cheek and stroking it lightly with his thumb. Mi amor...I think we should leave the dock, no?
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Post by Loki Laufeyson on Oct 14, 2012 11:47:14 GMT -5
For several glorious moments, the rest of the world was but ash and smoke; in Spain's arms, there was no need for land, sea, or sky, there was only the gentle, desperate warmth of his lover's lips and the comforting cradle of his arms. Inwardly, Francis cursed himself. Somewhere along the way he had slipped into the pathetic role of lovesick wife, but--! If after the endless waiting and painful, lonely nights led always to this moment, he could endure such a role for a lifetime.
"Zere es no need to apologize," he lied. Words were rolling from his tongue, though he did not mean them to, words that he knew would soothe the Spaniard's soul despite himself. His previous, fleeting desires to somehow punish Spain when he finally returned crumbled into dust. "I knew you would return as soon as you were ready." He hadn't known this. He hadn't known this in the least, and, quite frankly, had spent many ridiculous nights sobbing into his perfumed pillow, convincing himself that Spain had left him for the last time. Mon Dieu, Spain made such a fool of him again and again!
Spain was growing readily aroused-- France could read his every tell-tale sign-- his muscles grew taut with tension, his kisses became crushing and bruising, and his breathing was as ragged and choppy as a raging sea. France was more than willing to oblige--his body was responding to his lover as it always did. He curled closely into Spain's chest, listening with deep affection to his rebellious heartbeat.
Then, Antonio whispered words that he had wished for for what seemed like ages.
"I have missed you too, Francia, muy much. ...Francia. It has been too long, no?"
All France's organs throbbed with desire.
"Oui, mon cher," France sighed, "Oui. Let us retire to mon chateau, mm?"
In a dream-like state, he loped along the streets of Paris, arm-in-arm with Antonio, until they alighted upon his grand white chateau in the lush green countryside. The large manor was surrounded by noble white lilies, purple snapdragon, big red roses, and a sprawl of blue tulips.
Passing through the grand mahogany doors, France led Antonio into the bedroom that they shared so often in the past. Feeling strangely bashful, his heart trembling his chest, France perched upon the edge of the large powder blue canopy bed adorned with silken sheets and gossamer curtains. He ran his slender fingers over the sheets, then gazed expectantly upon his lover.
"You remember zis... non?"
He smiled charmingly, then tossing his golden hair with nonchalance:
"Tell moi... all about your travels. I want to 'ear about zem."
He didn't really, but he reclined against the good-smelling pillows in a practiced, seductive manner.
(Permission granted to pull Spain away to Chateau-- also: cue porn music. <3 )
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Post by Thor Odinson on Oct 19, 2012 18:12:49 GMT -5
With their arms linked together, Paris passed by in a blur of light and color. Spain had walked the city many times, always with France by his side. He was often struck by the elegant beauty of Paris, so different from the bold beauty of his Madrid, but tonight the details meant nothing.
His body burned desperately with need.
For too long he had fed his passion to the sea; a mistress with a heart colder and more cruel than the glaciers that guarded the northern and southern poles of the earth. He could not clearly remember the last time he caressed another warm body, tasted sweet flesh, and lost himself in the ecstasy of hot flesh meeting hot flesh with a rhythm driven by passion and the promise of glorious release. Surely the last body he held in his embrace was France's; none other could satiate him so completely! Guilt reared it's ugly head again, only to be drowned out by the ever growing heat of his arousal.
They were at France's chateau, a place even more familiar to Spain than the city of Paris. Upon entering the bedroom, he was assaulted by memories that only served to spur his desire for the Frenchman. A grin flashed across his face as he shrugged out of his well-worn captain's coat. How could I forget, Francia? He ran a hand light across the gossamer curtains, boots sliding off his feet as he joined France on the bed, straddling the man's hips. Mmm...I could do that, pero those tales can wait para later, no? He reached out a hand to caress France's cheek, then leaned in to capture his lips in a kiss that was all heat and raw desire.
His impatient body demanded instant gratification, but he still had some measure of self control and he exercised it with some difficulty. His lips trailed along France's jawline, down the warm slope of his neck, and slowly across his collar bone. His hands slid under France's shirt, over smooth skin and the familiar layout of his body. His fingers trailed ever lower, lightly grazing, until they came to the buckle of France's pants and loosened them, slipping down into his hot nether regions.
Clothes found themselves torn away, tossed carelessly aside, and forgotten. Spain's patience had reached its end. Their bodies melded together - flesh against flesh - a tangle of arms, legs, and lips. There was nothing slow and sensual about their love-making. It was hard, fast, and urged on by pure animalistic lust. Spain lost himself in the kaleidoscope of sensations shuddering through his spine, coursing through every inch of his body, and gathering thickly at the core of his being. The build up was fast. Strong. Pleasurable. Unbearable.
When release came it was in a magnificent rush of pure, intense sensation. His hands gripped France hard, digging into hot flesh, his lips kissing whatever they could land upon as the last shudders left his body and his muscles relaxed in unison. Te amo, Francia. Te amo tanto. Siempre. He whispered the words into France's ear, arms enveloping his body and holding them close, the sheets damp with their efforts. For a while Spain was content to remain like that, savoring the moment and enjoying the feel of France in his arms.
He rose eventually to retrieve his pipe from this coat and light it. As he resettled on the bed he inhaled deeply, releasing the smoke slowly. Spain found himself troubled once again by Britain's challenge of war, and knew he could not withhold the information from France much longer.
He needed allies. He needed to keep moving.
He let out a heavy breath, lowering the pipe slightly. Francia...there es something I need to tell you, y something I need to ask of you. Bright green eyes met soft blue intently. Inglaterra has challenged me to war...again. Pero...I cannot face him alone this time. Something es telling me I shouldn't. Pues...you will join me, won't you? Fight by mi side y help me put that piece of mierda Inglaterra in his place! I can be victorioso again, I know it, pero not if I am alone. He let the last sentence trail off in what was almost a silent plea as he took another drag from the pipe.
France could not refuse, Spain was certain of it. Especially when so much was at stake.
[Permission granted to power play.]
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Post by Loki Laufeyson on Oct 19, 2012 21:24:42 GMT -5
If Antonio's arrival could be likened unto some holy annunciation, this particularly pleasant portion of his visits acted as maddening addiction for France, a devilish, gnawing hunger satiated only by Spain's essence.
It was true that that France was a lover, that he had given himself to many a nation and many a beautiful woman before these torrential moments, but Spain held France in an unprecedented manner. He was haunted by the memory of Spain's masculine scent, the delicious twist of his lips, the strong grip of his hands, and the grunting gravel of his heavily aroused voice. He craved Spain. He craved him so awfully his crew members were certain he made himself sick with it all. Pah! He could not blame them. Often, he would go weeks without eating or sleeping, so ill with longing he was.
And now that Spain had arrived, he gave himself unabashedly to his lover. This strange baptism of lust and love and longing created him a new man again and again; how well the two melded together! How harmoniously did they venture into one another's bodies! Spain's lips set him ablaze with desire-- he wrapped his arms around the Spaniard's neck, met his mouth in a series of warm, searching kisses, and rocked his hips in perfect time with Antonio's. Their lovemaking was wild, a ferocious manifestation of suppressed desire, and soon the house was filled with their raucous, impassioned grunts and groans. When he climaxed, it was as if all of heaven had fallen down around them, and there was only Antonio, only those beauteous green eyes and that rough brown skin salty with perspiration. Yes, yes! Antonio was all he wanted and all he needed-- until the end of time.
Afterward, in the quiet glow of candlelight, France lay satisfied in the comforting cradle of Spain's strong arms. Antonio was smoking a pipe, and France felt his heart twist with affection. These small and tender moments with Antonio were ones he both treasured and feared-- on the one hand, he was able to revel in sheer closeness with Antonio, and... on the other...!
These were usually the moments Spain chose to take his leave.
"Je t'aime, Antonio. Mon cher, mon coeur! I want no one else."
He thought perhaps, having made such an important truth plain, it would deter Antonio for at least a few hours. Thus, when Antonio finally spoke, Francis felt his carefully constructed world crack open, and a kind of panic erupted deep within his belly. This was a joke. This was some sick and twisted joke that Spain had concocted with Prussia. Certainly Antonio would not have returned to him to--! Only to...!
But rumors of Britain's avarice were plentiful. France had heard of them while relaxing in tavern after tavern, and always he thought of Antonio, but he refused to consider such inevitable matters, not when the thought of Antonio at war caused him such incomparable pain!
France felt hot tears springing to his eyes, but he turned away, overcome with emotion.
"Non," he said simply. "Non, I will not join you. Why ze 'ell would I assist you en zis ridiculous endeavor?" He turned again to Spain, blue eyes flashing.You are ze great Spain. You are untouchable. Britain es nozhing. 'E es an entitled leetle boy 'oo zinks 'e is mighty, but 'e is but gnawing on ze ankles of giants. You 'ave nozhing to prove to heem. Why... why can't you stay 'ere with moi? Stay weeth moi et don't go again. Non. Non! I won't allow you to go."
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Post by Thor Odinson on Oct 20, 2012 12:47:46 GMT -5
France's reaction was the last thing Spain expected. He froze, pipe against his lips and eyes staring at Francis with a mixture of shock and disbelief. Here he had thought France would join forces with him, that France would gladly help him bring down the ever persistent force that was Britain, and that together they could revel in victory. The world was at his fingertips, and it could be theirs!
Instead he was spewing nonsense and cutting Spain down with his eyes.
How infuriating! He had come to France, the only nation he could say for sure he trusted with his life and the only man he had ever loved, seeking help and this was the response he got? Could France not see that he would lose so much more than just another war? He would not be seeking out allies if he thought he could face Britain on his own and win, and France should understand that better than anyone.
More than anything he was hurt. What a useless emotion! Anger moved in swiftly to ease the pain that had erupted within his heart, his expression becoming hard and his body tense. He was not going to give up - he had to make France understand.
Make him understand that this was not just some game. Make him understand that he needed him.
And if he could not...then he would just have to leave.
Por qué, Francia? I have to fight him! He es...persistent. Even if I had refused, he would come para me! Britain was out for blood, and determined to conquer the world just as much as Spain was. He had made it clear that he would cut down anyone that stood in his way, and Spain had an annoying habit of continually obstructing his path. After all this time, he was not going to simply step aside and hand the world over to Britain on a silver platter. Especially when Britain would make it his business to ensure Spain would never stand in his way again.
Por favor...I will lose this war if I stand alone. You are either with me, or against me! You cannot keep me here, Francia, I have to go! I am not a cobarde! I will make Inglaterra rue the moment he thought he could defeat me y take what es rightfully mine! Spain had risen from the bed and began to gather his clothes, his eyes carefully avoiding France. I came here porque I need you, Franica. Pero...it seems I may have made a bad decisión.
He slid his feet into his boots and pulled his coat over his shoulders, turning back to look at France at last, the weight of his resolve sharp in his eyes. I am leaving, Francis. With or without you.
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Post by Loki Laufeyson on Oct 22, 2012 21:30:24 GMT -5
No sooner had he tasted the sweet ambrosia of Spain's presence, lulled into a happy and satiated state in the man's arms and surrounded by the gray film of his pipe smoke, was France torn from this heavenly reverie. It was as if the wide chill of the ocean had rushed between them, and France found himself oddly separated from Spain. It was true that they were still sharing a bed, that Antonio still graced his bedroom, but they were suddenly, undeniably miles and miles apart.
Antonio's eyes had taken on the hard, glittering edge of jade. He rose, gathered his things, and spoke with such heat that France felt verily scalded. It was all for nothing-- he was foolish to think that Spain would ever abandon the seductive allure of adventure, deny the siren call of battle. It was buried too deeply within Antonio's blood, and he had sworn greater allegiance to the sea than to anyone else-- least of all Francis.
France felt his heart crumble into dust in his chest. His stomach lurched, his head swimming with sorrow. He felt suspended in a dream-- watching Spain lope about the room, France found he could barely move, and what movement he could manage felt slow and labored.
Spain was leaving him, again, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Panic sent an electric thrill of down his spine. Feeling utterly ridiculous, drowning in his own overwhelming emotions, France felt tears springing to his eyes and stream down his cheeks. He took a finely embroidered handkerchief from his nightstand and dabbed miserably at his eyes, sniffling.
"Non! Non, please don't go!" he cried, feeling more the lovesick wife than ever. What a part he was beginning to play! What a stupid and witless role! Spain was his leading man, and France was slowly transforming into some silly, fainting damsel.
Even now, he found himself playing the part with wonderful potency. He couldn't stop himself. He slipped on a blue silk bedroom robe and threw himself in front of the door, hoping to barricade it with his body, one nimble hand flirting with the gold knob.
"Non! Non! I won't lose you again, mon cher. I won't 'ave eet! Eef you love moi... eef you really love moi... you will stay 'ere et never leave again. We... could be 'appy togezer. Zink about eet! I would 'and cook your every meal, serve you on 'and et foot, 'old you every night-- eef you would only stay...! Please, mon cher... Eef anyzhing ever 'appened to you..."
He must have sounded pathetic. But he did not care. He had tossed all of his pride into the wind! If he could only keep Antonio with him-- for one more hour, one more day-- maybe he could persuade him...! But before France could beg any more, he caught the grim, hard glint of Antonio's eyes again. France sank tremblingly to the floor. There was no hope...! Trying to keep Antonio with him was like trying to catch all four winds of the world in a mason jar. Francis hid his face in his hands.
"F-fine..." he sighed, his voice cracking with emotion, "Whatever you want, mon cher. I will do eet. You know I will. I... I will gazer my crew, non? In ze morning. For now..." he approached Spain tentatively, gazing at his lover through his wet eyelashes. "For now, will you stay 'ere tonight? I'll bring you a glass of fine French wine eef you like..."
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Post by Mathew~Williams~Little~Canada on Oct 28, 2012 13:24:57 GMT -5
(( Bonjour may I join in as Canada?))
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Post by Captain Arthur Kirkland on Oct 28, 2012 13:37:23 GMT -5
The English Pirate loved the sea. He always had. At this point in time, his crew was growing stronger and stronger. His ship was ship-shape and it was a perfect day for sailing-as it usually was. He'd gotten into a few scraps with his worst enemy-Spain. Although, he had to admit, the little French wench he had was desirable-he shook that thought out of his head. That was long ago. He then reveled in the glory of his beautiful ship, the gold, jewels, and precious silks-all stolen. He sighed a deep sigh of contentment. The only thing that was missing was-
"Aye! Captain Kirkland! I've brought ye the rum!"
The Captain replied,"...Why was the rum gone?"
The man looked guilty.
"Yer lucky I'm in a good mood, ye scurvy dog! Next time, I'll send ye off the plank!" The man scuttled away.
The Captain laughed to himself while taking a sip of his rum, thinking, "Yoho, it's a pirate's life for me."
[I modified your post so you can see what the color pattern should be, mon cher. I love your spunk, et I zhink you will be a lovely Captain Kirkland, but make sure your post is formatted so we can more easily follow your story.
Some quick RP tips-- and this goes for everyone: Give us everything you have! Your inner most thoughts, a description of your surroundings, your plans for the future. In this case, more is more and less is less. A brief post can pack a powerful punch if you are a master of brevity, but not many people are. Your first post should always be lengthy to give the rest of us a good idea of who you are! Also, as one of the main characters, you need to give us a lot to go off of, my darling.
Merci, mon cher! <3
Hipster France]
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Post by Mathew~Williams~Little~Canada on Oct 28, 2012 16:02:44 GMT -5
Inside the manor within one of the rooms laid a bundle wrapped in the silk sheets. Little Matthew opened his eyes lazily and yawned. He got up, his night tunic making it hard to stand up.
"Papa?" He looked around. "Huh, no wakey wakey hug?" He thought, picking up his rare stuffed white polar bear. He went to the bathroom to brush his teeth, then he ran downstairs to greet his father. "Papa! Where are you? You forgot wakey wakey hug again!"
He started to search for the older version of him.
[Modified so you can see ze color pattern, mes amis. Color for actions, white for words. Also, always proof-read to catch spelling and grammar mistakes. *Hipster France*]
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Post by Captain Arthur Kirkland on Oct 28, 2012 18:12:23 GMT -5
((Thank you! I couldn't figure out how to do it, Desole u.u probably because I did quick message instead of reply.))
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Post by Monaco on Oct 30, 2012 8:10:07 GMT -5
((OOC: Sorry, it took me so long to finally come up with a post! HUFF, so, here we go~ ))
The sun was just about to rise and steered its dim rays through the old, half-broken-blinds, as Florence still sat at her desk and agonized through the paperwork stacked on it. She honestly was preoccupied in various finance, permits, appeals, as well as newspapers and internal writings of her confidantes during the whole night. There have been tensions between the countries, and even if she had, after many years of negotiations, put her nation under the protective wing of Spain; that did not mean that he enjoyed her full confidence. On the contrary -she looked at his current obsession with shipping and the differences with England with distressed skepticism.
Squinting, she slanted her with fatigue and overexertion buzzing head in direction of the light source and twisted her eyes to slits to espy the vague outlines of the outside world. She quickly realized that it did not quite succeed at this distance and went to the window, gently stroking the blinds with her fingertips and pulling apart two of its plates to lenses thereby. The sea was restless this morning. The waves foamed and splashed mercilessly against the rocks of the harbor. "Not a good omen ..." she sighed, ceasing from the window.
Monaco waddled with light steps to the door of her small but spacious work room and beheld, while she put on her boots, the crowded room with furniture out of there. On the wall hung pictures, documents, certificates and only one window with the view of the harbor broke the sad mood of the dark room. And even there, the blinds mostly denied the light's entry because just across the with feathers, ink and paper packed desk was placed and she hated it to be blinded when she was busy working.
Shaking her head she let out a sigh again and decided to stretch her legs in order to get her head cleared up. The young Monegasque went on her way through town, her gaze always distant, but friendly, and glossed over her fatigue, when her walk became an inspection round. She often took advantage of these opportunities in order to hear the views of her people about the current situation. Since Monaco was at sea, she was blessed with ambitious navigation and streamlined men of all ages traveling halfway around the world, to keep her up to date. All the more Monaco was very surprised, when one of them, who just rolled a barrel on the streets, greeted her kindly and told her, finally, to have spotted her Lord Spain in the company of the young French. Furthermore, they seemed to have been very ... familiar. "... I see. Thank you very much."
Confused she walked on and eventually settled on the bridge, staring stolidly at the sea. Whether it was such a smart move from Spain to involve France into that matter? Florence strainedly massaged her temples and sighed. Although his job was actually to ensure her protection, she racked her delicate head incessantly about his political pioneering ways. Hopefully, she thought, her country would remain unaffected. But she tricked the unsettling feeling that that faith was rather naive.
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Post by Thor Odinson on Oct 30, 2012 14:56:44 GMT -5
The emotions that had set Spain's heart ablaze with love and longing for the Frenchman dwindled until the blaze simply ceased to exist and nothing remained but a trail of dissipating smoke. He watched France, now angrier than ever. At himself-- at Francis. He cursed the foolish fancy that brought him here, and his own traitorous heart. The sea may be a cold, ruthless lover, but she never complained when he departed her company. And he cursed France for turning his back on him, for begging that he stay and abandon his duties-- his pride!
A pirate without his pride was hardly a pirate at all.
These emotions were more than he cared to acknowledge. The sea! She would numb his heart and soothe his aches. The taste of her cool, salty breath was the perfect remedy for a clouded mind. Spain needed to leave. He needed to rid himself of France's presence and the confusion it bestowed upon him.
You're in the way, Francia. Spain said tightly, reaching around him for the doorknob. He paused to glance down at Francis as he dropped to the floor in a quivering heap and buried his face in his hands, his own face now set in a scowl. He turned the knob, pulled it open and-- Alas!
Spain froze, hand still on the doorknob. His expression softened with a mixture of relief and newfound affection. He took France's hands into his own, a smile upon his lips once more. That es all I wanted to hear, mi amor! He brought France's hands up to his lips to kiss them, and shook his head. I cannot stay...mi ship. I cannot trust her alone in the manos of mi crew-- I cannot abandon mi duties as a capitán! Spain gently cupped the side of France's face. I will be waiting para you. We leave at dawn.
Just then a small voice wafted quietly through the expansive manner. He released Francis completely, stepping through the door and out into the hallway. It sounds like someone needs you-- don't be late! With that he strode off.
Once outside he took in a deep breath and released it slowly, feeling the cool night air rush in and ease the rising conflict within himself. A war was brewing; he could not afford the burden of a heavy mind or a heavy heart in the face of battle. His passionate heart yearned for Britain's defeat, for victory, and power. There remained room for little else. He would see Britain fall, and he would rise.
The means did not matter as long as he achieved his end.
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