WELCOME

[Lt. Keynes]

(OOC-note: dialogue within <"pointy brackets"> is spoken in Portuguese)

As the stage rumbled slowly over the pitted surface of the road, Christopher wondered if he ought to have given Angelo more of the laudanum. Every time the massive wheel of the public vehicle hit another rut, it must jar his arm painfully; the fact that he was rubbing shoulders with his immediate neighbours in the coach on either side, could not help in the slightest. Packed in half again over capacity to the tune of six passengers within the coach itself (another four were riding upon the roof), the atmosphere was close and heavy with the reek of sweat, bilious breath, and exhaustion. Christopher wished that he had chosen to ride atop the coach, even in the grey, blustery autumn weather. But to be exposed to the elements would have been worse for the man under his care, and perhaps have driven an infection into his arm. The fact that the bone was still not healing meant that even though it had been set, the edges of the break were rubbing against one another even inside of the splint rigged to immobilize and protect the arm. As Christopher understood what the doctor at the Navy hospital had told him, there was a risk that it might become inflamed.

The stifling air inside the coach could hardly be much better for Angelo, though. It was much like the air ‘tween-decks; he supposed he ought to be grateful that there was no bilges underneath them to waft the fragrance of ordure upwards during the seemingly interminable journey. In fact, the mail-coach had not been traveling slowly – with little else to do, Christopher had taken out his watch and measured the time between mile-posts, discovering that they made an average of eight miles an hour – approximately seven knots. Since it was only thirty miles from London to Meryton, and only once had they stopped, briefly, to deliver the mail in an intervening township, the entire time of their journey ought not to exceed four hours. But what hours those four had been, thus far!

Christopher drew forth his pocket-watch and looked at it again, for perhaps the twentieth time that day. The hands told four thirty; they had been traveling for three and three-quarters of an hour. He longed to stand and stretch his legs and arms, which he had been obliged to keep cramped up close to himself in order not to encroach upon his neighbours further than they encroached upon himself. For Angelo it must be far worse. Leaning forward to speak in an undertone to the pale, unhealthily slender young man sitting across from him in the carriage, Christopher met his dark eyes. Angelo’s pupils were contracted to tiny dots from the laudanum which he had taken at the commencement of the journey. It gave him a slightly unnerving gaze, if Christopher had not been used to his companion under the effects of the pain-relieving drug. He spoke in Portuguese. < “We are nearly there, Angelo. We have just passed through Longbourn, and cannot be outside of ten minutes away from the Meryton stop.”>

He settled backwards again and found himself resting against the arm of the hefty, well-dressed woman next to him, which she had reached out to stretch while he was speaking to Angelo. She let out an offended noise and flushed, and he rapidly leaned forwards again to free her hand. “I beg your pardon, madam,” Christopher excused himself, and the lady, still ruffled, subsided into injured silence. It was deucedly awkward to be crushed up like this; he could not wait until they reached Meryton, even though they would have to walk at least a half-mile carrying their baggage to reach his sister’s house.

After a few more minutes, punctuated by pot-holes, the mail-coach finally rattled into a cobbled street between buildings, sending a small flock of geese squabbling out of its way to hail its arrival in the town. It lurched to a stop beside the way-house, and immediately within the coach there was a scramble of people to get up and be the first out. Christopher held back, until the lady on his left had squeezed her way out through the door; he winced for Angelo as the man on his left knocked into his arm. As the last two filtered out of the vehicle, Christopher stood, hunched to avoid knocking his head upon the ceiling, and offered Angelo his arm to help him carefully to his own feet.

<“We are here at last,”> Christopher said, his voice taking on an unintentional note of joy. It had been more than ten years since he had seen his sister or her family, but he had kept them all close in his heart. He was returning home at last, or to the nearest thing which he had to a home.

Christopher had sent word on ahead to Emily. He wondered if anyone would be here to meet them; as he jumped down from the carriage and helped Angelo down after him – under the laudanum the young man’s balance would be impaired – his eyes scanned the station for the familiar faces of Charles and Emily. He did not see either his sister or his brother-in-law; and with some disappointment turned to the stage to take down his and Angelo’s luggage from the rack.

From the corner of his eye he spied a young woman plainly dressed, a bonnet hiding her face as she waited upon a bench at the Meryton way-station. At first, Christopher took no especial notice of her, but as she turned her head and the afternoon light caught her face, he did a double-take. He thought for a moment that it was his sister. She was the very image of Emily, but she could not have been over nineteen.

This post has been edited by Lt. Keynes on Feb 17 2009, 09:50 PM

[Angelo Torrinha]

His world was hazy. It was dark and confusing, like something out of a nightmare, made all the worse because deep down, beneath the swirling lights and overlapping voices, he knew this was no troubled dream but his reality. How long had he been like this? Angelo had lost all concept of time by this point. He could vaguely recollect a ship, the feel of rather rumpled, damp sheets and being bundled into this current darkness. The only thing that seemed to connect these events was a blurred face, which he thought he ought to recognise, and the face’s voice, which he found himself increasingly dependent on for information.

His limbs felt heavy, as if weighed down by some unknown force, like too many blankets only not as comforting, not comforting at all. No part of this experience could be described as soothing, not even the eerie lack of pain. Angelo knew he ought to be in agony, he had been before the Lieutenant had drugged him up with whatever it was. Every now and then, a fresh, sharp pain erupted somewhere in his arm. It usually coincided whenever the box he was in moved and the presence next to him shifted position. He was by no means stupid, or ignorant but his senses, particularly his eyesight, were clouded, leaving him unable to firmly deduce what on earth was going on around him.

The familiar voice rang through his head again, soothing his desire to for knowledge on his present location, though it posed more questions than it answered. Where was this place they were heading to? Why? Was there some secret purpose to this trip? For a man who was unsure of what continent he was on, this place seemed daunting already, and he had not even touched foot on it yet. He imagined that this was how being kidnapped would feel. Angelo almost felt taken advantage of, though he knew this to be ridiculous. The voice was soothing and subconsciously he was sure it was well intentioned. There was no malice in it. It seemed good natured enough.

Some time passed, again he was not sure how long, he could only measure it by intermittent flashes of pain and there was no certainty in that. Quite suddenly, the earth was still again and he was assailed by blinding lights, overwhelmed by gusts of fresh air. After the immediate onslaught, his senses calmed and a clearer picture emerged, something he could make sense of compared to the dank, dim interior of whatever brought them here. The voice, he noticed, had a figure to match, a familiar, recognisable one that led him down onto solid floor. He gingerly placed his feet on the surface, feeling the world sway beneath him somewhat. It was at this point that he noticed just how cold it was. Wherever he had come from, he was sure it was not this place, why else was he so unaccustomed to the freezing temperatures?

The figure had vanished from his immediate sight, causing him to panic as he stared at the bright, alien world around him. From the little he could interpret of his surroundings, nothing was familiar to him. He attempted to bring his hand up to shield his eyes from the light, only to find that his limb did not obey him. How perplexing. He had learnt, through trial and error, not to touch or move the other arm. The last time he had, he was quite sure the pain sent him into a state of lingering darkness. Frozen to his current position, he was too nervous to take another step without the figure's guidance. Wherever it had brought him, Angelo found it terrifying.

((Sorry it's short/kinda crappy- low on muse. Hope its alright))

This post has been edited by Angelo Torrinha on Feb 19 2009, 06:43 PM

[Amelie Shaw]

The morning had been an absolute disaster for Amelie. Her mother had been up and about earlier than she habitually was, and with her waking up comes the culpability of waking everyone else up owing to her usual morning uproar of cries from frustration and pressure. And so, there she was, next to her father in ear on the agonies of her mother, waiting politely by the fireplace with eyes casted down in an attempt to further avoid any eruptions. A moment’s pause was set aside when her mother took a good look at her, as if to assess what kind of job would fit most her eldest daughter on that very morning. There was a tired sigh, a stomp, and a mute leave and Amelie knew her mother long enough to know that she was to do whatever she would like to do, so long as she contributed to fixing the state of their house (And fixed here would be a relative word to yesterday’s mess). She would suppose it was next to fine with her, as she could avoid anything which include heat, needles, and a lot of cloth… all of which she had never been partial to.

The mystery as to why her mother was acting especially quicker and hot-tempered than before was still unbroken, and Amelie spent the rest of the day in the protection of the tree’s shadow, in a place overlooking the house. She peeped through the windows every now and then, looking at the mistress of the house going back and forth, shouting instructions to whoever was available and capable of taking them. Everything was in a clutter and the house had a stuffier feel to it, as viewed from the outside. Though more often than not, the situation inside would be poorer than what is conceived.

A book lay on her lap, innocently waiting to be picked up. But Amelie’s hands have been resting upon them for the past hour and a half, with no future at being opened at all. She had been far too distracted, as indicated with distant looks and soft creases across her forehead. Her gaze was to the far horizon, and she allowed her thoughts to detach her away from reality. Seventeen still and already weighed with the responsibilities not appropriate for her age. What a shame. She ought to have been living comfortably by now in the midst of women her age, with teacups and intimate conversation. Oh how she longed for such…

“Silly child!” Her thoughts had been quickly broken as her mother cried to her through a window she thought of opening. “Lend a hand to your dear mother shall you, dear? And change that rug you’re wearing.” Rug? Now, there was something odd going on. Amelie had been wearing her favorite dress, and this her mother had seen all her life. Why call it a rug now, when chance had been under her nose all the while? Amelie stood up and silently grumbled to herself. She allowed herself in through the door at the front, where her mother met her, forced her into a muslin pelisse and tied a bonnet over her hair, which completely gave in and fell loosely past her shoulders. Her mother pressed a coin in her palm, turned her around and gave a small push towards the dirt road with the instructions in a whisper. “Your uncle has arrived in town. Fetch him for me, dear, for I’m afraid to leave my cooking alone with your brothers and sister. And buy us some tomatoes as well.”

The town buzzed with so much activity that for a while, Amelie forgot her original purpose. She was decidedly overwhelmed at the sight of men in red coats looking very much regal. She wished to catch the eye of at least one, but who was she to be looked at? Her efforts were forcedly vanquished by her discipline and she finally continued without so much as a glance at the group. She continued to turn her back on them as she went on with her errands.

She was worn out with the task of waiting as she found herself a few minutes after. A bench was provided at the station, but it did little to ease her mind. Uncertainty started to pour in on her as she questioned her sense of recognition. Had they missed each other out? Had he gone to walk astray? She nervously fumbled the ribbon which tied the bonnet to her head. A newly arrived vehicle attracted the attention of everyone but Amelie, who was, by now, under the attack of her poor nerves. Slowly, as if acting on its own, she turned her head in the general direction of the newly arrived vehicle, and struck her that she was looking directly at her uncle, and he at her. If it was her intuition yet again, or the whisper of an unknown divinity, she would never know. But she was sure that he was her Uncle Kit.

She glided towards him with much ease, although the excitement was hard to contain. If this was indeed her uncle, then he was just how she imagined him to be. “Uncle Kit?” She inquired, voice slightly squeaky with the sudden pang of fear for wrong assumptions.


ooc| sorry. crapost X(

[Lt. Keynes]

It took Christopher only a moment to work out that the young woman must be his niece. She looked nothing like the child he remembered from ten years before; gone was the thin, awkwardly graceful frame and the splash of freckles across a snub-nosed and tow-headed face. She was now almost as tall as Christopher was himself, her hair was lighter, and her features had been refined. The only thing he would have recognised as Amelie was the wistful look in her eyes and those upwept eyebrows. She had grown into his sister; if he had Emily and her daughter at the same age in front of him, he did not think he would be able to tell them apart.

How strange it was to see what she had grown into! Even though she had written him letters all through the years that he had been gone, and he had known that she would no longer be little Lily, he had somehow expected the house in Meryton and its inhabitants to be frozen in time while he was at sea. What would Charles and Emily be like? The boys, too – the elder would be nearly a young man. The younger had been an infant when Christopher had last seen him. And Emily had borne two more children in the time since. All of a sudden, he found himself curiously afraid of going to the house. He felt the passage of time resting heavy on his shoulders.

Trying to shrug off the feeling, he raised his hand to wave and call to Amelie, before he remembered Emily giving him the sharp side of her tongue. “Kit, let us refrain from bellowing like a bullfrog; it may be well enough manners on a ship, but it does not do either in the house or on the street.” Christopher laughed to himself before he set their valises down beside Angelo. The young man was swaying slightly, standing like a statue where Christopher had left him; Christopher took him by his good arm to steady him, with a firm grip that he meant to be reassuring.

She had seen him now, and was coming towards him. Christopher’s face lit up with a smile, and he instinctively held his free hand out to her in order to shake her hand. “Uncle Kit?” she said with a tentative note in her voice, and though he had not truly needed the confirmation, he had it anyway. It was Amelie – Lily. She did still sign her letters as Lily, didn’t she? At least that was one thing she had not left behind in her childhood.

“Lily! Good God, how you’ve grown! Quite the lady now,” he said cheerfully. “To think I used to carry you around on my shoulders!” He would have picked her up and whirled her about, just like he had when she was small, but for the grip that he had on Angelo’s slight frame. He was concerned that if he let go, the man might not remain upright.

“How are you?” he burst out again. “And my sister and Charles? Are they in health? And the little ones – I suppose the boys are not so little now, are they?”

(OOC - no fear. Mine's crappier than either of yours. >.< )

[Angelo Torrinha]

The swaying was beginning to become nauseating, he felt like one of those tiny model ships in a bottle, being tossed from side to side. Angelo could even equate the feeling to being aboard a ship, which seemed to be one of the oldest memories he could define at present. The rest he could recall, he deciphered, occured after the ship scene. That was bizaare... He had thought he possessed more than that. Perhaps whatever the man, he had decided that his face and figure were decidedly masculine, had given him made it temporarily impossible to recall them. In fact, he was sure of it. What else could explain his lack of recorded moments? It must be a side effect along with the occasional need to vomit, his dulled senses and the lack of pain. The cold however... No, that was no side-effect. That was just an oddity of the land and climate he was in. So far, he did not have a positive first impression of his surroundings.

He wished he could possess the power simply to raise his hand, which would be a miracle in itself, and command the world to stop spinning about him. Wouldn't that be absolutely divine? No more tilting and swaying to adjust with the shifting earth beneath him. No more feeling ill, on the verge of being sick, because he couldn't adjust to the lie of the land. Just to be able to stand up straight for a moment and collect himself. Yet Angelo was aware that if he couldn't even raise his hand to shield his eyes, lifting it and compelling the world to remain still even for a few moments was asking to do the impossible. Perhaps sitting down would help... Being left alone with no supervision gave him the perfect opportunity to do so. It was probably the nearest he could get to ordering the world to stop for a second. However, his limbs were not being particularly co-operative at present. Surely they could remember how to sit? Though the impact of his backside on solid earth might somehow reverberate into his arm, he thought it worth the risk.

Angelo got as far as flexing his left leg slightly at the knee before a firm grasp on his good arm diverted his attention and all progress was lost. He was momentarily frustrated by the interruption. However, he admitted to himself that he was probably better off standing anyway for the time being as apparently they had company. As with the man, whose only distinguishing features were his voice and his dark hair, he could pick out very little detail other than the fact it was a she and she was blonde. Either that or his sense of colour had gone out of the window. Now hearing and balance, thoughts and speech he could handle- not anything to do with colours. For a moment he became particular nervous until he surveyed the landscape a bit more, even with his currently limited vision. Everything he thought saw was the correct colour, which eased his mind somewhat, enough to make a go at speaking. Turning his attention to the girl, he attempted a small smile and an "Ola", finding his voice was rougher from time spent unused.

{{Sorry its short but tis a post! And tbh, there's not much he can do, being off his head somewhat. XP}}

[Amelie Shaw]

“Well, uncle, I am but Time’s fool.” Said she, in a light tone and a laugh, careful in giving him a small curtsy, allowing herself to give way to the proprieties she had been cultured with. It had been more of habit though, than sincerity. She supposed he wouldn’t have minded… or perhaps he would, as they were in public. She quickly discarded that thought. What was done was done.

“Contrary to mother’s assumptions,” She added, reverberating the general conversation towards him. And true, the image of Uncle Kit from a child’s point of view was still what she saw today, though she added a room or two for creases… unless she had been far too desperate for an ideal father figure in all aspects that she had been blinded to the truth. She was quite sure, though, that the weight of time and tension had yet to goad Uncle Kit’s shoulders down. “The winds and the sea have actually done you well.”

“How are you? And my sister and Charles? Are they in health? And the little ones – I suppose the boys are not so little now, are they?”

“I’ve been quite well now, dear sir. The walk here was refreshing. As for my mother, things could not have gone better, though your arrival has had an… effect on her. My father is still his own self, I suppose. I do not”—and here she stopped embarrassedly, debating whether to continue or not—“really perceive him much than I’m supposed to. But everyone is doing quite well in their health; none of that flu nonsense, none at all. Robert and Teddy are growing by the foot nowadays. The little ones, Ed and Bess are also in good welfare.”

Amelie finally allowed herself a few minutes to mellow down after the initial shock and the excitement of cramming a few years worth of news into small segments. Her sights, formerly narrowed to only her uncle, finally opened up to everything else and to her amazement, noticed a much younger man in the support of Uncle Kit’s other hand. She heard him talk to her in words that were jumbled, cursing, or foreign. Or sense had been knocked out by her excitement, and it had yet to find its way back to her mind.

In an instant, her eased nature became a strict formality.

Lily bent down in a modest curtsy, wondering who this person was, and how he came to be. And as the effects of the early gawky adolescence had yet to abscond, the book which was sitting precariously on top of the basket tucked in her arm slipped and fell with a dull 'thump' on the ground. A man in a red coat passing by immediately bent down with much agility, and placed the book in Lily’s hands in a matter of seconds. Lily straightened herself quickly, and gave a low curtsy with a word of thanks, careful in remembering him (light brown hair, clear green eyes) so she may remember him the next time they may encounter each other again.

“The pleasure is all mine.” Said the man, giving Lily a most dashing smile before departing. And Lily did not come to notice what it was the man she was supposed to be curtsying to had done in return.

Red cheeked and all, she returned her sight to the new face assessed him as quick as she could, and with an indecisive expression on her face, cautiously inquired, “Uncle…?”



OOC| I was short on lots of paragraphs so I had to use this opportunity for her to 'meet' a red coat. (still short though C:) X3 Me hopes you didn't mind.

This post has been edited by Amelie Shaw on Mar 5 2009, 10:21 AM