PLOT TWIST-TH' FINAL

TH' SAILIN' O' VIOLET MOORFIELDS: TH' NOOSE AIN'T LOOSE
FINAL PLOT TWIST

Ahoy luvs!

'Tis wit' a wee bit o' sadness I post this final PLOT TWIST submitted by my dear new friend Libby Boswell. It has been fun recountin' th' Jacobite adventures o' Violet Moorfields and creatively sharin' along th' way. Oh, Violet ain't dead yet....jus' sailin' on a sea o' cheese.....and I watch th' horizon fer her return........

My sincere thanks t' ye all fer readin this far......

Fair Winds an' a followin' sea......

~Foxmorton

******************

Tis Libby's last word--and she has Violet to thank for it.




And ooooh she done right for the lobsterback’s liver she did. Well, says I, here’s me opportunity to get shed of the Cameron’s, the Atholl’s and those bloody soldiers. They raised a proper hue and cry, what with the officer’s shouting for men, and then, ah yes! a messenger to send word to the coast for a pursuing ship.



Well, well, maybe fortune might smile upon me yet. Now among the many things I have to thank Greta Van der Kuiken for, one of them just happens to be the finer points of using a cudgel. You do have to know where to hit, for fastest effect.



I do. Sadly, the messenger boy now does too—or I expect he did when he came to.



They do go down with such a nice sound, I must say. But I couldn’t linger.



It was but a hurried heartbeat to strip off my skirt, to the breeches I wore underneath, grab his coat, frisk him for the coin he was given, and leap into the saddle. I figured his coat would cover my bodice well enough till I was further away.



I clapped my heels to that poor beast and we went off hell for leather.



After a few miles I got to chuckling…Violet will make a very clean get away this time—no message will go to the headland, no ship will pursue: I have no intention of delivering it.



I suppose it were the sisterly thing to do. And oh, we may be that after all—what else, I suppose, would you call a person what leaves her husband for the sea, and the promise of treasure but a pirate, hmmm?



I slowed the horse to a better rhythm, and the miles went on, as I mused. Foolish Willie. He just can’t hold his whisky!



Of course he didn’t need to.



I was holding it—and pouring it down his gullet, him being tied to the bed and all. Funny how that worked out.



Men are simple creatures really, Greta once told me—offer them anything to do with their John Thomas, and you can end up leading them by it.



Oh the stories we tell…



Of course, where the hell he thought I was going to find a willing Hessian in that lot, I will never know, but it sufficed to get me his half of the treasure key, some of his clothes, and a very sharp little boot knife with a stag handle, along with his boots to put it in, and get him foxed enough to forget his own mother, let alone where his ‘wife’ may have taken herself off to.



Soon…soon…the hooves drummed along, taking me further away from hated respectability.



Soon, we could hit the coast, and look for a ship. Then soon it would be back to Albany…the jenever cache… and then maybe a trip up the coast to deal with Greta’s turncoat nephew what sold her to the Frogs.



I wonder if Violet might be interested in a joint venture…I know where there’s a sweet little snow that just begs to spread her white wings to a good wind and what might need new owners…


submitted this day by
---Libby Boswell

PLOT TWIST III

AND THE PLOT THICKENS...OR TWISTS AS THE CASE MAY BE.......
ANOTHER WEIGH-IN FROM LIBBY BOSWELL......
~Foxmorton
****************

Part the third of the Boswell backstory--why Libby turned in Violet, and the proper response for unruly singing males.


“EEEEEeeww!! I’m not marrying HER”
“Fauuugh!! I am NOT marryin’ HIM!!”


Which was how I, and me prospective groom, greeted the concept of wedlock, one to the other.


What?


I am not wandering off on tangent, dammit!! Ye did want to know why I was there to turn Violet in, don’t ye?


Well I’m telling ye—because I am…


for my sins…


married into the peripheral clan of the Camerons.


Aye well, it happens.


I tipped the Forces That Be about Violet to save me own neck. Well, technically our necks, but as I am married to good master William only under gravest duress and necessity I like to forget about him as often as I can.


Which hasn’t been easy of late—being in such close proximity with half the Camerons in Christendom about.


Ye see, Willie is one of Lady Cameron’s godsons, and loving, caring icon that she be, she has begun to ask embarrassing questions about Lack of Heirs, with many a pointed glare at my still flat (and going to stay so if ‘n I have anything to do with it) belly.


Pointed comments served with very noxious tea-like substances and oddly shaped,
charm-like nosegays have been appearing with regular frequency—or as regular as a bloody-minded Papist can stomach practicing such hexery.


So... I bethought me to get everyone’s eyes focused elsewhere for a change.


It worked.


But is it enough of a diversion to get me an Willie back to New-Yorke, before one or both of us is exposed? That will be the challenge.


I did mention that Willie and I are married only under necessity? Well, that and slightly false pretenses, besides. You see, it is just barely possible that he is married already and besides we’ve never consummated said marriage.


Oh not for lack of rum, wine or any other spirit and trying—but Willie, fair, green-eyed paragon that he is, possesses no soft rounded bits.


And I have none of the facial hair, and dangly bits he is seeking.


What we do have, each, is half of a key that leads to a fortune in finest Dutch gin and the wee black booke full of the names and secrets of merchants and shippers what are deeply in the debt of one Greta Van Der Kuiken , tavern-keeper of Albany.


Ye see, I were landed in New-Yorke as just one of a multiple of poor wretches needing to fill out an indenture. I didn’t, however, “take” at auction—maybe I spit a bit too much and I suppose the knee to the ballocks of the one turd what groped me, didn’t help either.


We, the other malcontents and I, were led out in a shuffling line by a soul-driver into the countryside, and it were there that I met up with my salvation, in so many ways—the formidable Mevrouw Greta Van Der Kuiken, relict of the late Jost Van Der Kuiken, taverneer of Albany.


Ah…yes…and fortunate me! Greta, were ne’er averse to a little bedwarming of slow winter’s eve and many was the night I drifted off to sleep pillowed deep in goosedown and Greta.


While she freely admitted that she had taken me on only because she were lookin for another doxy to liven up the tavern of an evening, she find out quick enough I wasn’t to most men’s taste, nor they to mine.


I do have other skills, such as reading, ciphering and an excellent eye for spotting a forgery, so she overlooked my penchant for braining a man with an alepot at 20 paces for taking liberties, and kept me at work behind the scenes.


O, I can tell at a glance—a glance! if a coin’s been washed or clipped, and can spot even the best German-printed counterfeit note before it hits the counter. I were an asset to the business, and was rewarded for such.


But so was Willie—William Ian Kilbourne, to name him rightly. He is quite the skilled card sharp, and can play well and play deep—thanks to his skill. He knows when to quit the cards and let the mark win, and always gives his cut to Greta, who kept him on to keep the nobs coming.


But pretty Willie, has a flaw, however--besides possibly being still married, since the woman in question went missing, and hasn't been seen since the last time the King's Light Infantry came through town....hmmmm.


But he is also a bad Scot for He canna hold his whiskey.


At all--it’s the matter of only a few drams and his sauve demeanor changes. ‘Miss Thing’ will go a-prancing, a veritable molly, fit to do a turn down the arcades of the Royal Exchange, and singing loudly and badly, all the while.


Twenty verses of ‘My Thing is Mine Own’ later and even Greta would take an alepot to his head.


And Willie knew it, too, so he chose to stay far away from home, where he could discretely make his fortune, or fail without creating a major scandal, and everyone made sure to keep him out of the whiskey.

That were the state of affairs.


Now, tonight, from this vantage point, watching the sparks from the cook fire pop and sail up into the darksome night, it seems so long ago and so good.


But all good things must come to an end...


submitted by
--Libby Boswell

DIVERSITY COLLIDES

"Hey! You got chocolate on my peanut butter!"

PIRATE FESTIVAL DAY 2007

Serious 'Tales from Remikreh' reenactor Captain McClain collides head on with frivolous CHAOS Productions pirate Foxmorton in a melding of skills to produce what they consider to be a most excellent Pirate Family Event!


Blending the historical reenactment, weapons and combat skills of McClain's top notch crew with the educational children's theatre presentations of Foxmorton's Street Pirate crew both see endless opportunity on the horizon in keeping history, legend, theatre, comedy and allegory real and alive for our audiences of the future....our children.

Well, that and for piracy.


Captain McClain (Matt Blush) is the coordinator of 'Tales from Remikreh' a combat choreography group based out of Herkimer, NY since 1997. He met Foxmorton when, in a fortuitous incident, she asked him if he would have his crew of pirates attack her bus load of senior citizens.

He did.

Remikreh's goals are to inspire and educate the next generation of entertainers.

They do.

Contact Blush at: talesfromremikreh@hotmail.com

Foxmorton is a children's theatre director since she decided that wearing a white nurses uniform to work everyday was boring.

It is.

Her goal is to create enough plausible excuses to wear her pirate garb to work on a regular basis without anyone paying attention.

She does.
They don't.

The two plan to succeed at this off beat business related (ad)venture.


They will.




MLRF
'07