Sorry about this chaps. I promise a return to clarity and brevity in the very next update.
Önsdåg, 11 April, 19Ø6
Någonstans i Skandinavien.It wås one of those dark nights of the soul, as Saint John would have put it, ånd one of those dark nights of April, as I would have put it, where one is rather glåd for the warmth and company afforded either by å deluxe bound set twenty four volume Norwegian-Swedish dictionary, or by a beautiful woman with whom one has shared a few absinthes and who might very well be interested in sharing something else: the redoubtable haven of Love, perchance. Alas, last night I was on an airship in the middle of the North Sea, and women, of pleasing countenance or otherwise, were in short supply; and so, somewhere towards the end of the evening, I retired to my cåbin with a large glass of brandy, and opened the letter A in an attempt to combat my seething insomnia. I was set hard and fast 'pon the honourable path of Learning, and nought would sway me.
And so it was that I was awoken with a great cry of alarm not long after I had opened the aforementioned tome of knowledge, which flew across the cabin as I jumped to my feet in a fit of steely determination.
"ALARM!" sang the great airship, cruising through the deathly still night.
"ÅNGESTKÄNSLA!" could, indeed, have echoed the very same craft, had I not fallen asleep before reaching the end of the section describing those magnificent and valiant Swedish words beginning with "Aa", thereby depriving myself of being reminded of this glorious word.
"Blast!" came a second echo, from your very own Swedish narrator.
"What the bloody devil is this?"... .... ... ... ... ...
So saying, I rushed forth from my well equipped, at least in dictionarial terms, sea-crossing cabin, grabbing my umbrella-blade and drawing my revolver. I fully intended to seek out the source of this disturbance, and to confront it, forcefully. Suddenly, the noble craft which was thus far conveying us faithfully to the last known whereabouts of the missing Professor seemed as if to receive a vast and stunning blow on her side, and she seemed as if to swing precariously in the blackness.
As I rushed down the narrow corridor I saw my American colleague – worry not, for despite these harsh words,
Smith is a fine man – gesticulate with considerable fierceness by one of the doors. He was waving his walking stick furiously in one hand as he tried to open the door, muttering something about an outrage. I was several seconds into deliberating the politeness or otherwise of attempting to reason with or even restrain the fellow when he stopped his stick-waving long enough to point in the direction of the source of this outrage. Finally, I understood.
'Twas the bloody Hun, dear reader!
... ... ... ... ... ...
Yes.
As my companions
Wellington and
McGeenyton rushed from their cabins to their station by the second door, I realised that nigh on a company of German air-sea-soldier types were tottering perilously towards us upon a pair of ladders.
They outnumbered us several to one, and they clearly intended to board and capture our ship! My first thought, naturally, was to call out and offer them tea. Alas, the blast-proof windows of the airship prevented them from hearing me. The obvious solution was to help Smith open the door which was still, sadly, resisting him.
"Bloody good idea, Mr Smith! Allow me the honour of offering my aid!"You can understand my surprise, therefore, when, upon finally wresting control of the door and becoming able properly to invite the Germans in for tea, I beheld Smith before me raise his walking stick and start dashing the ladder to smithereens! More than one poor German fell screaming to his death.
I was reminded that, in fact, we were in the ghastly business of trying to repel these blasted invaders when a hail of bullets flew towards Smith and I, pinging off the stanchions either side of the door.
"Cover me, von Fersen!" called out Smith, calling on my not-long uttered promise to aid him. I propped open the door with one hand, so he could continue his dashing of the ladder, and with the other hand I drew my revolver up and blasted away at the bloody Germans but ten yards away from us.
Several of my targets fell out of the sky the way a pigeon might were I to blast it from the air with my trusty shotgun; within seconds they were replaced by another group of German marines, who lined up on the side of the enemy airship to provide covering fire for their crossing comrades. Their appearance seemed to stoke something ancient and vengeful in Smith’s noble soul, and the rage upon his face thickened. Alas, for this is where things took a turn for the worse.
Wednesday, 11th April, 1906Dear diary,
I have a slight confession to make, and I fear I am perhaps most uncharitable. Now, should, for example, a poll be taken, the subject of which being,
“Is Mr Wellington a splendid fellow and a first class example of an English gentleman?” I should most certainly be amongst the first to raise my hand and solemnly pronounce
“aye”.
But! Should a poll be proposed, the subject of which might be, for example,
“Is it correct and proper to throw the finest china into the gaping maws of the cold black sea when Mr McGeenyton might like to dine correctly tomorrow, without using the secondary – and non-matching
– set of dinner plates?” then I should most certainly be the very first to jump to my feet and proclaim the very profound wrongness of this suggestion.
Thus I found myself, last night, berating the good
Mr Wellington. If there is no means with which to defeat one’s enemy at range without ruining tomorrow’s dinner, then war is not something of which I wish to be a part.
I was, in fact, so irritated at the prospect of using the non-matching china to eat on that I blasted both barrels of my shotgun towards the Germans, whereupon their confounded airship started losing altitude.
Alas, for this is where things took a turn for the worse.
Gentleman’s log. Wednesday, 11th April, 1906Well. That was bloody strange, what.
First, I was asleep before the roaring log fire of my cabin, having finished off a bottle (or two, I’m not sure) of
fine de Bordeaux. Next, I awoke with a start and found myself dashing off to the port side of the airship where some blasted Germans were trying to gain access.
Von Fersen strolled past me, loudly offering the Germans tea, before helping Mr Smith open one of the access doors.
Mr Smith then clearly felt that leaning out of the door and waving his walking stick was an appropriate form of welcome.
As an Englishman I knew otherwise.
I rushed off to the galley and scooped up much of the available fine china, the dinner plates in particular, and then rushed back to my door. I struggled briefly with the door, then thrust it wide open, only to come face to face with a German! Naturally, I aimed a dinner plate at his rather surprised looking face, whereupon the expression changed from one of surprise to one of terror. The poor fellow was falling to his icy death, you see.
However, I wasn’t going to let this mishap change my pre-determined course of action.
I continued to fling plates towards the advancing enemy with great speed and ferocity, as befits an Englishman in a time of war. Unfortunately, my otherwise esteemed colleague
Mr McGeenyton seemed to take offence at my plateflinging – he is, it has to be noted, a stickler for decorum, and I may have been doing it incorrectly. In his rage he shot at the nearby German airship with his tartan-trimmed shotstick: the airship nearly immediately began to lose height.
Of course, this impeded
Mr Smith in his waving his walking stick, and as he crouched forward the better to express his welcome – although, given the burning rage that his face seemed to express, I could be mistaken in this interpretation of his acts – the poor chap fell from the English airship, floating gracefully through the air until he landed on one of the ladders protruding from the German airship.
Even from afar, the expression of burning rage upon his noble face was now clear for all to see.
The brave American climbed the ladder, until he himself, much like the Germans had intended to do to us, boarded the enemy.
Touché, eh.
As the enemy craft sank further and further towards the sea, our own craft descended also, so as not to lose our colleague Smith. Thus it was that we could hear what came to pass upon this accursed zeppelin. There were many shots and indistinct cries of terror and anger, and observers could make out the words
“outrage” and
“bloody marines, you bloody imposting bloody”. I particularly enjoyed Smith’s
bon mot about the Germans being like a bunch of ducks, which initially perplexed me, until I realised that, like a duck, the Germans too were heading for the water. Rather witty, I thought.
All that could otherwise be made out were muffled cries of terror, the crunching sound of stick against bone, and the ping of bullets being swatted out of the air and ricocheting around the rickety old zeppelin.
Barely a minute later
Mr Smith’s head popped out of one of the side doors on the zeppelin and shouted towards us –
“Ahoy! I say! Any chance of a rescue? I seem to have fallen into a zeppelin. Blast.” Alas, for this is where things took a turn for the worse.
Wednesday, Scandinavia somewhere, Europe, 1906A bloody outrage.
I have barely recovered from my frothing anger at seeing the Germans shamelessly attempt to copy our brave, valiant, and above all
historical marines, and now I have to repress my frustration at, instead of being in the glorious city of Hammerfest rescuing the good Professor, being stuck on a bloody rock somewhere.
Blast.
It seems that, in rescuing me from the sinking zeppelin into which I unintentionally fell, the British airship got entangled. In the confusion it too began to sink, but the pilot managed to pull off a rather daring emergency landing on a rock.
In the distance to the East I can see what von Fersen has lovingly told me is called a “fjord”. To the North I can see the telltale sign of an approaching steamship. To the South there seems to be a brightly colored sailboat coming towards us. Directly to the West there are the remains of our airship, which takes up the greater part of our small rock.
Time is of the essence. We must figure out how to rescue Professor Blythington-Smythe!Blast and damn. I wonder if I have time to plant a flag.
Current Gentlemen
Player: areyoua
Name: Winston Smith, American
BioStatus: On a blasted rock somewhere off the Scandinavian coast.
Inventory: A Walking
Bat Stick Capable of Serious Bodily Harm, an Umbrella, a Fine German Sword,
Masterwork Top Hat,
Mysterious Ancient Bagpipes, French-English Dictionary, Smashing Coat (extra warm).
Wounds: [HP:100/100]Skills: We Carry Large Sticks,
Knowledge of the English Gentleman,
Walking Bat Stick Deflection,
A little more expertise in the art of walking bat stick deflection,
Baseball Cricket Fatality!,
We Never Lost a War! (yet),
Fallible Pedant!,
Fatally Bad Doctor!,
Not a Zoologist!Gentlemanliness: 9. Caddishness: 4.
Player: _DivideByZero_
Name: William Wellington, Gentleman
BioStatus: On a rock somewhere off the Scandinavian coast.
Inventory: Two Fine Dueling Pistols
Wounds: [HP:100/100]Skills: A Quite Talented Salesman,
Natural Born Top Hat Wearer,
Top Hat Black Belt,
Airship Pilotage,
Top Hat Acquisition,
Extraordinarily Convincing.
Gentlemanliness: 11.
Caddishness: 0.
Player: Geen
Name: Henry McGeenyton, Gentleman
Bio Status: Dismayed at the recent loss of fine china.
Inventory: Monocle, Double Barreled Walking Stick With Tartan Trim, Grappling Hook Wristwatch.
Wounds: [HP:100/100]Skills: Graceful combat,
Monocles,
Refined Accent,
Particularly Calm,
Tedious Oratory! Gentlemanliness: 13.Caddishness: 2.
Player: scriver
Name: Sir August von Fersen, Noble Young Swede
BioStatus: Staring admiringly at a fjord.
Inventory: Umbrella-Sword, Copy of Gentleman Hunter’s Weekly, Fine Hunting Rifle,
Masterwork Gold Eye Patch, Finely Crafted Pipe, a Magnum Revolver, Exquisitely Crafted Letter of Apology, Forster's Norwegian-Swedish Dictionary (24/24).
Wounds: [HP:100/100] |
Left Eye Blown Clean Off Skills: Enthusiastic Hunter,
Well-Versed with Pipes,
Tremendous Orator,
Masterful Pipe Holding,
Fleetfooted Tenacity of the Swedish Elk,
It Runs in the Family,
Knowledge of the Elk,
a Modicum of Knowledge in the Area of Medicine, Published Poet,
Dangerous Misfires.
Gentlemanliness: 16.
Caddishness: 2.
It wouldn’t surprise me if this is unclear.
Smith was beating the ladder to smithereens; when more German ‘marines’ appeared he became enraged, because that’s what happens when you roll a [6].
Seeing Wellington carelessly toss fine china away enraged McGeenyton so much that he shot the zeppelin down with his walking stick.
Alas, Smith was so enraged that he tried to follow the ladder he was beating, and fell out of the British airship, into the zeppelin, whereupon he massacred the occupants without so much as receiving a scratch.
Then the British airship tried to rescue him, which led to a bit of a crash. Now the gentlemen are on a rock surrounded by the sea, only geographically closer to finding Professor Blythington-Smythe.
Edit note: missed a comma. Also disappointed scriver. Corrected both.
Author
Topic: Roll to Be a Gentleman Spy - Chapter Three Part Twenty One. (Read 74831 times)