Old stuff rediscovered.
Friday, February 21st, 2003 11:59 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
caddymanI was rooting around in the dusty recesses of my hard drive, and there, hidden behind the plaster busts of Napoleon and the mummified winged monkey, together with the other detritus left behind by yeras of noodling and random-saving of stuff, I found this.
It is the first of a couple of small pieces I wrote in character for a PBM role play some years ago, loosley based around En Garde and set in a Paris of the 1630s which never, but should have existed.
Mort is a well meaning, short-sighted and clumsy buffoon who has somehow managed to become a Major in the 13th Fusiliers. He is trying to learn to duel since his arch rival D'Bleur has absconded with the mighty Leonora, love of Mort's life.
I remember having immense fun writing Sgt Major D'Anglie's dialogue. Read it out loud in a Windsor Davies type voice and it should just about make sense, although some of it is a bit strained.
The Duellist
or
Sticks and stones may break my bones,
but Mort will never hurt me.
Mort was fed up. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. Since Leonora has left him he'd had to get used to shaving himself again and once more his face was a red and orange mess of bloody welts, scabs and gouges. Annoyingly, the more he shaved, the more skin he removed and the more the whiskers remained obstinately and resplendently in place. It was rumoured that Leonora had left him because she felt it was the only way to save him from a monthly thrashing from a love-struck D'Bleur. Mort pondered his tattered chin (no easy feat). By God, but those duels had hurt a lot less than these daily shaves and, on the whole, were probably not as likely to send him to an early grave. Mort reached for a bottle on the shelf, 'Friar Balsam's Patented "Après Rasage"(Contains 98% Wood Alcohol)' and splashed it over his cheeks. There was a blinding, searing, flash of pain across Mort's face as the shaving cuts instantly cauterised. As he hit the floor, Mort had his last conscious thought for twenty minutes, "Blimey, I've forgotten how to breathe!".
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Madame Pretencia de Livre, 'Librarienne-en-Chef' as she liked to think of herself, looked up. Across the floor of the Bibliothèque Provençale, there approached a small, gaudy figure with a peculiarly fluorescent face. "Morning your librarianship!" quipped Mort (for it was he), "Got any good books on sword fighting, duels, fencing, that sort of thing?" Madame de Livre arched an eyebrow at the bottle-eyed gnome before her. "I think that you're in the wrong place. This is a library of erudition and fine learning; we have books covering the fine arts, philosophy, history and the sciences. We take 'journals' on neither pugilism, brawling, fisticuffs nor weaponry and its uses. Besides, you're too loud for a place of quiet contemplation." Mort goggled. "I'm a scholar. I've barely spoken sixteen words since I arrived. How can I be too loud for a library?" Pretencia raised the other eyebrow so that it met its companion in an uninterrupted hedge across her face. "I can hear your face glowing" she said.
After a short debate during which it became apparent that Mort in true limpet fashion, would not budge, Madame de Livre reluctantly agreed that there may just possibly exist books on duelling. Not that she had ordered them of course, they had arrived by mistake and nobody had yet found the time to rectify the error. Mort strolled purposefully off towards the reading room at the back of the library with a very large copy of Pointillism in Three Dimensions: A Swordsman's Guide by Hugo Hackenzlay, a pamphlet imported from the Austrian Empire entitled Shaving Without Blood and Tears, a Psychological Treatise by Hasso von Bumpsfeldt and a copy of Fencing and Swardplay which turned out to be about gardening.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Six feet of imposing, hirsute muscle, Sergeant Major d'Anglie, blade master of the 13th Fusiliers, jerked to his feet and stood to attention. He hadn't noticed the major enter or, rather, he had noticed but hadn't realised that it was the major. Clothed in his overlarge and customized uniform, with bandages all over his head, the diminutive form of the Major Sir Mortimer d'Arthur had taken on an uncanny resemblance to Aziz, the Turkish laundry boy who had deserted to the regiment during last summer's campaign. "Awl present anchor heck, Sah!" d'Anglie barked. Mort jumped. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that he could barely understand the sergeant. He was all accent. "Er, hello, sergeant." he ventured. "I've er, come to have a chat about er, fencing..." "Sorry, Sah. Don't know nothing 'bout gard'nin', Sah! Suggest ewe try Eng'neerin' Comp'ny, Sah!" Mort took a step back, momentarily speechless. "Juice my little joke, Sah!"
Mort's face fell. It was going to be a long day.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Back in his garret, Mort propped the duelling book on the mantlepiece whilst he manoeuvred the large body-length mirror round so that he could see his reflection properly. Satisfied with the position, he drew his rapier and stood back, en repose. "Blimey, what an imposing figure I make!" he thought to himself, as he studied his reflection, "With a bit of practice using these books, I'll be able to meet Dribbler and thrash him properly!" Mort smiled and stood back. "En Garde!" he told his reflection. "Prepare to defend yourself, varlet. I shall win back the hand of the fair maiden yet!" He took a deep breath and... paused; what now? Damned if he knew. The whole point of propping up the book was to follow the duelling guide shown in easy stages by various woodcuts on the page. When the sergeant had suggested this method of practice for a novice, Mort had been convinced, it had made so much sense. Unfortunately he couldn't see the blasted pictures at this distance. Mort blinked. A forlorn reflection blinked back. Mort sat down and thought.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
In the 13th Fusiliers' barracks, Sergeant d'Anglie paced back and forth, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. Little beads of sweat glistened on his brow. A man of action, not accustomed to heavy thinking, he pondered this unexpected problem. Mortimer d'Arthur, King's mascot and regimental sprout wanted to learn to duel. D'Anglie frowned. How to achieve such a feat without wrecking the headquarters or injuring innocent passers-by? He strode out on to the parade ground and paced some more. "This is fully a three pipe problem, Watson." He thought aloud and then stopped. What the hell was he talking about? He hadn't quite been himself since that drunken binge a few nights back with the very tall bloke with very green eyes and very poor dress sense .
The thought of an imbecile like Sir Mortimer wielding a rapier with menace was enough to make a brave man weep. So he did.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
With some effort, Mort cracked the problem. By adapting the harness for his horse and attaching a couple of feet of appropriately curved left-over copper tubing to the model frame he had made whilst designing his wooden gong, Mort's genius constructed a device to hold the duelling book open in front of him close enough to read, but far enough away so that he could use his rapier unencumbered. Beautifully, it moved with him too. Now he could practice directly from the book, just as Sergeant d'Anglie had suggested. Mort drew his sword again and turned to face the mirror. He couldn't see it. The book was in the way.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
D'Anglie blew his nose and wiped his eyes. It wouldn't do for the men to see him like this. He was their leader; the only certain thing in an uncertain world was the sergeant's loud confidence which so often had inspired the men in the face of adversity. It was nearly 3'o'clock and he still couldn't think of a practical and truly safe method of teaching the major how to fence. Having sent the major home to read his book was only a preliminary gambit to give him time to think. But he couldn't.
At 3'o'clock precisely, Sir Mort arrived; his satchel cast over his shoulder bulged ominously as he dragged it behind him. "I'm here sergeant. I practised with the book as you suggested but I'm not sure how helpful it was." Sergeant d'Anglie looked at Mort. Finally he said, "Rate, Sah! Lettuce ear wet ewe've larnt, shell we?"
He reached over to the rack on the wall and drew down two specially blunted practice rapiers. "Farst things farst, Sah. Wheel heft tube-serve safety regulations." Leaning the two swords against the nearest chair, he walked into the back room to return a moment later with a ludicrously quilted doublet which looked and smelt suspiciously like it had been tailored from discarded palliasses from the barracks. "Sensational!" said Mort enthusiastically.
Finally strapped in to his sergeant's satisfaction, Mort waddled across to the practice area. D'Anglie had strewn straw mattresses everywhere, boarded up the window and removed all breakable objects. Light was provided by two hurricane lamps suspended as high above the floor as humanly possible to minimise the chance of Mort catching them with his rapier. As the sergeant padded up, Mort assembled his book-holding device, "I think you'll be surprised by my competence, sergeant. I have been practising, you know." D'Anglie walked in without looking up, "Whale heft arse E-Boat thet, Sah. Nomad a wet tuby leaf, I eggs-pecked yule need a few more lessons!"
Mort turned to face d'Anglie just as the sergeant-major drew his rapier and looked up. The bulk of the quilted doublet ensured that Mort's book holder stood out further than he'd expected. D'Anglie was pole-axed by 6lbs of Hackenzlay's guide hitting him straight in the tree-piece suite. The big man doubled up and his rapier sank into the end of Mort's shoe and snapped. This unforseen manoeuvre surprised Mort who tried to step back but couldn't. As Mort flailed, his rapier inscribed a passable 'Z' shape on the falling sergeant's chest. With a sickening crunch they both hit the floor. "Touché!" said Mort. "I told you I'd practised!"
"Whale oil beef hooked!" groaned the sergeant. The first lesson was over.
It is the first of a couple of small pieces I wrote in character for a PBM role play some years ago, loosley based around En Garde and set in a Paris of the 1630s which never, but should have existed.
Mort is a well meaning, short-sighted and clumsy buffoon who has somehow managed to become a Major in the 13th Fusiliers. He is trying to learn to duel since his arch rival D'Bleur has absconded with the mighty Leonora, love of Mort's life.
I remember having immense fun writing Sgt Major D'Anglie's dialogue. Read it out loud in a Windsor Davies type voice and it should just about make sense, although some of it is a bit strained.
The Duellist
or
Sticks and stones may break my bones,
but Mort will never hurt me.
Mort was fed up. He looked at his reflection in the mirror. Since Leonora has left him he'd had to get used to shaving himself again and once more his face was a red and orange mess of bloody welts, scabs and gouges. Annoyingly, the more he shaved, the more skin he removed and the more the whiskers remained obstinately and resplendently in place. It was rumoured that Leonora had left him because she felt it was the only way to save him from a monthly thrashing from a love-struck D'Bleur. Mort pondered his tattered chin (no easy feat). By God, but those duels had hurt a lot less than these daily shaves and, on the whole, were probably not as likely to send him to an early grave. Mort reached for a bottle on the shelf, 'Friar Balsam's Patented "Après Rasage"(Contains 98% Wood Alcohol)' and splashed it over his cheeks. There was a blinding, searing, flash of pain across Mort's face as the shaving cuts instantly cauterised. As he hit the floor, Mort had his last conscious thought for twenty minutes, "Blimey, I've forgotten how to breathe!".
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Madame Pretencia de Livre, 'Librarienne-en-Chef' as she liked to think of herself, looked up. Across the floor of the Bibliothèque Provençale, there approached a small, gaudy figure with a peculiarly fluorescent face. "Morning your librarianship!" quipped Mort (for it was he), "Got any good books on sword fighting, duels, fencing, that sort of thing?" Madame de Livre arched an eyebrow at the bottle-eyed gnome before her. "I think that you're in the wrong place. This is a library of erudition and fine learning; we have books covering the fine arts, philosophy, history and the sciences. We take 'journals' on neither pugilism, brawling, fisticuffs nor weaponry and its uses. Besides, you're too loud for a place of quiet contemplation." Mort goggled. "I'm a scholar. I've barely spoken sixteen words since I arrived. How can I be too loud for a library?" Pretencia raised the other eyebrow so that it met its companion in an uninterrupted hedge across her face. "I can hear your face glowing" she said.
After a short debate during which it became apparent that Mort in true limpet fashion, would not budge, Madame de Livre reluctantly agreed that there may just possibly exist books on duelling. Not that she had ordered them of course, they had arrived by mistake and nobody had yet found the time to rectify the error. Mort strolled purposefully off towards the reading room at the back of the library with a very large copy of Pointillism in Three Dimensions: A Swordsman's Guide by Hugo Hackenzlay, a pamphlet imported from the Austrian Empire entitled Shaving Without Blood and Tears, a Psychological Treatise by Hasso von Bumpsfeldt and a copy of Fencing and Swardplay which turned out to be about gardening.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Six feet of imposing, hirsute muscle, Sergeant Major d'Anglie, blade master of the 13th Fusiliers, jerked to his feet and stood to attention. He hadn't noticed the major enter or, rather, he had noticed but hadn't realised that it was the major. Clothed in his overlarge and customized uniform, with bandages all over his head, the diminutive form of the Major Sir Mortimer d'Arthur had taken on an uncanny resemblance to Aziz, the Turkish laundry boy who had deserted to the regiment during last summer's campaign. "Awl present anchor heck, Sah!" d'Anglie barked. Mort jumped. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that he could barely understand the sergeant. He was all accent. "Er, hello, sergeant." he ventured. "I've er, come to have a chat about er, fencing..." "Sorry, Sah. Don't know nothing 'bout gard'nin', Sah! Suggest ewe try Eng'neerin' Comp'ny, Sah!" Mort took a step back, momentarily speechless. "Juice my little joke, Sah!"
Mort's face fell. It was going to be a long day.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
Back in his garret, Mort propped the duelling book on the mantlepiece whilst he manoeuvred the large body-length mirror round so that he could see his reflection properly. Satisfied with the position, he drew his rapier and stood back, en repose. "Blimey, what an imposing figure I make!" he thought to himself, as he studied his reflection, "With a bit of practice using these books, I'll be able to meet Dribbler and thrash him properly!" Mort smiled and stood back. "En Garde!" he told his reflection. "Prepare to defend yourself, varlet. I shall win back the hand of the fair maiden yet!" He took a deep breath and... paused; what now? Damned if he knew. The whole point of propping up the book was to follow the duelling guide shown in easy stages by various woodcuts on the page. When the sergeant had suggested this method of practice for a novice, Mort had been convinced, it had made so much sense. Unfortunately he couldn't see the blasted pictures at this distance. Mort blinked. A forlorn reflection blinked back. Mort sat down and thought.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
In the 13th Fusiliers' barracks, Sergeant d'Anglie paced back and forth, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. Little beads of sweat glistened on his brow. A man of action, not accustomed to heavy thinking, he pondered this unexpected problem. Mortimer d'Arthur, King's mascot and regimental sprout wanted to learn to duel. D'Anglie frowned. How to achieve such a feat without wrecking the headquarters or injuring innocent passers-by? He strode out on to the parade ground and paced some more. "This is fully a three pipe problem, Watson." He thought aloud and then stopped. What the hell was he talking about? He hadn't quite been himself since that drunken binge a few nights back with the very tall bloke with very green eyes and very poor dress sense .
The thought of an imbecile like Sir Mortimer wielding a rapier with menace was enough to make a brave man weep. So he did.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
With some effort, Mort cracked the problem. By adapting the harness for his horse and attaching a couple of feet of appropriately curved left-over copper tubing to the model frame he had made whilst designing his wooden gong, Mort's genius constructed a device to hold the duelling book open in front of him close enough to read, but far enough away so that he could use his rapier unencumbered. Beautifully, it moved with him too. Now he could practice directly from the book, just as Sergeant d'Anglie had suggested. Mort drew his sword again and turned to face the mirror. He couldn't see it. The book was in the way.
*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*-*
D'Anglie blew his nose and wiped his eyes. It wouldn't do for the men to see him like this. He was their leader; the only certain thing in an uncertain world was the sergeant's loud confidence which so often had inspired the men in the face of adversity. It was nearly 3'o'clock and he still couldn't think of a practical and truly safe method of teaching the major how to fence. Having sent the major home to read his book was only a preliminary gambit to give him time to think. But he couldn't.
At 3'o'clock precisely, Sir Mort arrived; his satchel cast over his shoulder bulged ominously as he dragged it behind him. "I'm here sergeant. I practised with the book as you suggested but I'm not sure how helpful it was." Sergeant d'Anglie looked at Mort. Finally he said, "Rate, Sah! Lettuce ear wet ewe've larnt, shell we?"
He reached over to the rack on the wall and drew down two specially blunted practice rapiers. "Farst things farst, Sah. Wheel heft tube-serve safety regulations." Leaning the two swords against the nearest chair, he walked into the back room to return a moment later with a ludicrously quilted doublet which looked and smelt suspiciously like it had been tailored from discarded palliasses from the barracks. "Sensational!" said Mort enthusiastically.
Finally strapped in to his sergeant's satisfaction, Mort waddled across to the practice area. D'Anglie had strewn straw mattresses everywhere, boarded up the window and removed all breakable objects. Light was provided by two hurricane lamps suspended as high above the floor as humanly possible to minimise the chance of Mort catching them with his rapier. As the sergeant padded up, Mort assembled his book-holding device, "I think you'll be surprised by my competence, sergeant. I have been practising, you know." D'Anglie walked in without looking up, "Whale heft arse E-Boat thet, Sah. Nomad a wet tuby leaf, I eggs-pecked yule need a few more lessons!"
Mort turned to face d'Anglie just as the sergeant-major drew his rapier and looked up. The bulk of the quilted doublet ensured that Mort's book holder stood out further than he'd expected. D'Anglie was pole-axed by 6lbs of Hackenzlay's guide hitting him straight in the tree-piece suite. The big man doubled up and his rapier sank into the end of Mort's shoe and snapped. This unforseen manoeuvre surprised Mort who tried to step back but couldn't. As Mort flailed, his rapier inscribed a passable 'Z' shape on the falling sergeant's chest. With a sickening crunch they both hit the floor. "Touché!" said Mort. "I told you I'd practised!"
"Whale oil beef hooked!" groaned the sergeant. The first lesson was over.
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(no subject)
Date: 2003-02-21 03:29 pm (UTC)Heh - excellent old stuff, keep going, if there's any more lurking in a corner of your disk.
(no subject)
Date: 2003-02-21 04:46 pm (UTC)I'm never really sure what any of this is like and am rather gratified when other people like it. There is the odd snippet or two left - but oddly on my office PC, not here.
I'm not quite sure what thjat says about my attitude to work...
(no subject)
Date: 2003-02-23 03:46 pm (UTC)