dizzy_land | closed(ish) rp, Percy and Beaufort

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closed(ish) rp, Percy and Beaufort

Beaufort woke up and realised something was incredibly wrong, even before he spoke. His clothes were...distinctly not a suit and not made in the 1940s. In fact, it struck him more as something distinctly historical. He frowned, wondering when he invaded one of the exhibits for clothes, how drunk he was, and where the hell he got that much alcohol from. There was also a sword. He was pretty sure it was not a good idea to go to sleep with a sword attached. After having woken up and realising his accent was...coarser, less educated and more prone to swearing at the situation, he shook his head and decided to head outside to see what the hell was going off.

Part of him, somewhere, was looking for one man in particular, as there was a pirate in him. A rather angry pirate.

((Peanut gallery is most welcome, but don't, um, interfere just yet, pleaaase))

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Percy jumped out of bed with an excited yell that day. He had an eyepatch, and a rapier, and his hair was mussed and he felt dirty and freed. He left Marguerite (to come back to later, of course, he had the urge to ravish her senseless) and went about the park to see if anyone else was smelly and suddenly speaking in a garish accent. Oh, but what fun!

He was bouncing about the park, growling and cursing and being the complete opposite of a fop today. He was rather in his element, all let loose and wild and debonair...but in a rustic way.

And...Beaufort was pretty sure he recognised that face. Admittedly, a more tatty version of that face, but there was a certain tightening of anger in his stomach which told him instinctively that it was Percy. Everything was off today, so it didn't strike him as odd that he recognised him, despite the change in clothes.

"Avast!" What? What had happened to his English...? Admittedly, his French had slipped into an accent that confused him, but surely he could still speak sensible English...? "You! I 'ave a mighty fine bone to pick with ye..." Okay, this was definately odd. None of this made any sense.

Percy was more ... Errol Flynn as Geoffrey Thorpe, than a Blackbeard or a Calico Jack. He flounced about until he spotted - Ods Fish! Was that Monsieur Beaufort? How positively delightful!

"Ahoy thar, m'fellow scurvy dog!" Percy called. It was clear the man was horribly angry at him. He stepped back as the...rather large man approached, keeping him at bay. "Can I 'elp ye?"

Beaufort had a thin patience when provoked, under layers of carefully applied patience. Pirates weren't patient, though, and now he was angry. Very angry. Normally, he'd resort to words, but they weren't really working for him either, "Ye can 'elp me, aye, mate. Ye can start by treatin' your women with more attention an' respec'." He took a step closer, internally horrified at how confrontational he was being, "Because if ye don't...well..." He smirked at Percy in a way which only a pirate could, even if he desperately was trying to stop himself somewhere deep inside...

Percy put his hands into the air. The man was a lot bigger than he was, despite his own tremendous size, and a lot more cross with him that anticipated. His mind was telling him to simply walk away (or rather run, and run damn fast), but for some reason his blood began to boil at the accusations. He should be calmer than this!

"Why ye son of a whore," Percy spat, clenching and unclenching his fists before shoving Beaufort hard on the shoulders. "Shove off, man! Who do ye think ye are, speakin' t' me like I'm somethin' ye found on th' bottom o' yer boot. Me wife is me own demmed business - I'll not be toleratin' such talk!"

Beaufort stood up tall, knowing that he was the bigger man, even if they were even in height. He cursed his suddenly found anger and convicition to do...well, a lot of the things he'd thought of doing to Percy, but never intended to act upon, but couldn't stop himself doing now. He gave Percy a firm shove back, "Then why don't ye start actin' like she's your damn business, instead o' lettin men like me do all the hard work, hm?" Again, that piratey leer he couldn't seem to stop...not that he felt like he was at all in control of himself, anyway, right now. "I'll talk to ye how ever the 'ell I like, ye know, as ye are no better than the scum on my boot, if ye ask me." Was he even wearing boots? Oh, look, he was. Beaufort was baffled, as not only couldn't he stop himself thinking this, he couldn't stop himself translating it, then he couldn't stop himself saying it.

Not to mention, his accent was horrendous.

Percy was enraged. His normal sensibilities were all still there, telling him to just ignore the man and walk away, flounce away like usual for Godssakes, but he was smelly and he had a sworn. Not to mention, the topic was Marguerite.

The return shove made him stumble backwards some, but he caught himself before it became too embarrassing. "She be my wife, ye stutterin' lace-wearin' bulbous-nosed Frenchie! Stay out of me affairs! Stay out of me wife's affairs, or I'll run ye through!" He glared and found himself reaching for his rapier, "Always knew ye were tryin' t' have yer way with me missus!"

Beaufort gritted his teeth, still trying to shake that confrontational air out of his head, but unable to do so. It was something about being in...relative rags and having a sword at his disposal, and possibly that messed up accent, which made him feel like the coarsest of the French Navy, or worse, the Foreign Legion. "Who can blame me, when she's got a pathetic excuse for l'anglais as an 'usband. Hardly much fight in it." He found his hand reaching for his sword too, and the part of him which was still trying to make sense of all this desperately wanted to go 'STOP. RIGHT. NOW.' but his hand was closing around the handle and he pulled it out quickly, "I'd like to see ye fight for 'er for once. She worth that to ye, or are ye more prepared to fight o'er sommat more trivial, rosbif."

And yet, there were still insults from his time clearly thrown in there. The linguist in Beaufort's head was nearly as confused as the politician who couldn't believe there was a sword in his hand. Especially as he really had no idea how to use one.

Marguerite reached over for Percy only to find the bed vacant. "Bloody 'ell," she groanded moving to hide herself in her shift when she realized what she said and that she no longer had a shift on. Startling herself out of bed she looked down to find her bosom higher than she remembered, and dirtier too.

"Devil's work this be," she murmured finding a tattered skirt and boots? There was a coat too! Completely and totally confused she fixed her hat (which she also apparently had) and stormed out to find Percy and get some sort of explanation. Uncomfortable with this much cleavage she wrapped the coat around her and felt something cold and hard. Opening the coat she picked up the pistol that was stuck into her waist and heard yelling that sounded vaguely familiar. Two figures in sight, insulting each other and quite as disheveled as she---PERRCY!? Beaufort! Forgetting this entire issue of clothing and speech she stormed over taking the pistol in hand she raised it and shot it. "What be yous Squiffs doin'?!"

Percy immediately snatched out his own sword to meet Beaufort's challenge, ready to run him through, send him to meet Davy Jones, whatever it was that pirates did. "I'll send ye t' meet Jack Ketch, I will!" he cried, his rapier producing a nice little SWISH when he produced it from his...sash.

"I die for me wife, ye petulant-" Wait, was that...

"Margot?!" Percy whipped around and stared at his wife. Or some harlot who looked like his wife anyway. "Stand aside," he barked, slashing his sword towards Beaufort. "Me honour's been insulted!"

Beaufort jumped instinctively at the gunshot, then turned to see it's source. He blinked, hoping to god that wasn't Marguerite, and the real Marguerite would arrive soon to remind him exactly why not losing his mind was a good thing. He turned back to Percy and swished his sword far too boldly to say he had no idea how to handle one bar one lesson of fencing when he was 10.

"Prepare to meet your maker, whoever he may be." He wasn't going to stand aside this time.

Marguerite looked over at Percy strangely before looking over to Beaufort and growled like a petulent child of 5. "Yer honor?" She asked, huffing about that shooting the pistol hadn't worked. "Ye kill each others, I ain't touchin' yer mess!"

The words settling in, she cried, "OR JUST DON'T LEAVE ME WITH A BLOODY HUSBAND A'TALL! THEN WHATS GOOD IS YER HONOR ANE'WAYS?"

He badly wanted to reassure Marguerite that all would be well, and he wouldn't lose, but instead he yelled, "Aside, woman! Aside, ye infernal woman, before ye get yerself hurt." Which he was sure was a caring way of saying that he could handle himself, don't interfere...or something.

Percy turned his attention once more towards Beaufort, his rapier raised and at the ready. "Come on then, man, or are ye all talk? Fight me like a man instead o' the dog I know ye are..." He took a threatening swing at the larger Frenchman, inviting him to parry and strike.

Beaufort was preparing himself by attempting to remember all the theory of how the hell to do this from when he was a kid, as the Great War didn't help him much in the how to use a sword part. He instinctively took a slightly unsteady step back and raised his sword to parry, attempting a strike of his own once he got more steady on his feet. This was not going to go well.

The talk might have been a buccaneer's, but the swordsmanship was all Percy's. It occurred to him that his own wife had never seen him use a sword. He could always blame it on the Park.

Beaufort attempted a hit and Percy easily swayed to the side to avoid it, quickly cutting down on the man's blade with a step forward. It was like he was barely aware of what he was doing.

The sword was a lot heavier than Beaufort had first imagined, and he ended up grasping the handle in both hands, just to get it to do what he wanted, and not what gravity wanted. Luckily, he was quite a big, strong man, and he got used to the weight, if nothing else. He pushed Percy's blade off his, forcing it upwards, making an attempt at a dramatic swish of his sword, not really aiming for anything apart from the general area of Percy.

This swordsmanship was also, all Beaufort's. Just in an interestingly different direction. There was the sensible part of him cowering inside, hoping nobody'd get killed because of actions he really couldn't control.

If Percy was afraid of one thing, it was the sheer size of the man he was fighting. He had ghastly images of the sword bearing down on him and cracking his skull, or perhaps worse, someone stepping in to try and put an end to the fight and getting this bull of a man's sword through their chest. He didn't think Beaufort would be able to stop himself once he got going.

Percy's lightweight rapier was thrown into the air, but he quickly recovered himself and tried to barrel his way through Beaufort's strikes to disarm him. Or disleg him. He laughed out loud at his own little twisted joke.

Jean-Etienne was aware of one thing, mainly, and that was that he had the size advantage, if nothing else. He had no idea what he was doing, but hopefully, being bigger and stronger might just get him through alive. Even then, there was a desire he couldn't explain, or control to...swashbuckle? He took a few steps backwards, nervously fending off Percy's blade, now distinctly on the defensive, although still trying to throw in the odd prod and jab here and there.

Percy wore a smug smirk as he drove Beaufort back. "Bilge-sucking Frenchie!" he swore, suddenly laughing that inane, familiar laugh of his...only slightly more gutter-rat than previous times.

In a rather suave move, Percy spun a bit on his heels and managed to get beside his French adversary, kicking a leg out and then backwards quickly to trip the man. As he really didn't fancy running him through, not really.

Beaufort was really starting to lose his balance and timing at this point, and when Percy tripped him, he fell back hard, the hilt of his sword slamming into the floor and jumping, sending the blade along the inside of his palm, "Foutre." He looked at the blood on his palm, and was terrified, but yet, all that came out was a distinctly piraty "Go on, then you English dog. Or 'aven't you got the balls to follow through on your threat." Oh Dieu, he was inviting the man to kill him. Why was he doing that? Why couldn't he stop it? He was bleeding, and still unable to stop it. That really hurt, for a start.

Part of Percy was absolutely horrified to see the sword run through Beaufort's hand, but the other, more dominate part of him, yelled in triumph when he tripped and fell. "I always give a man a sportin' chance," he replied with a low smile and a wink.

"They seek 'im here, they seek him thar, them Frenchies seek 'im everywhere! Be he in heaven, he might be in 'ell, that demmed an' dastardly Pimpernel!"

Percy cackled and stepped off. He had won the fight, clearly, even did that stupid little poem of his in...whatever it was that had overcome him. Oh well, at least he wasn't making out with men this time. "Be off now, before I do run ye through fer real."

Beaufort was far too proud to hold his hand to his mouth and cry in pain at the searing pain in his hand, swords were clearly not his thing. After all, what kind of man could cut his own sword hand. Clearly, despite the voice, the clothes and the hair, this pirate thing was not him. Ever. It was quite probably one of those park things.

He did, however, even as a pirate, know when to accept defeat. He left the sword on the floor, feeling somewhat betrayed by it, and got to his feet using his good hand, wrapping his hand in his shirt and gritted his teeth at Percy's taunting as well as the pain. "Alright, but one o' these days, I'll 'ave you, and I'll run ye through fer once. Yer gonna regret letting me go." Again, with the ballsy talk. Just go, Jean-Etienne. He turned and left, quickening his pace to find that new doctor. Who hopefully wouldn't laugh. Maybe he could tell him he was left handed.

"Yer all talk," Percy huffed, sheathing his rapier and letting it hang by his side in his rather pathetic victory over the Frenchman. He actually hoped the man found some kind of proper medical attention, but instead just glared as he walked away.

Now, on to a different matter entirely.

"Marguerite!" He marched up to his wife, catching sight of her bust and deciding that these little pirate trousers were just a bit too much. One could say a good swordfight was a rousing sport. "Home, Marguerite," he demanded, then picked up his wife and threw her over his shoulder. "Now."

"If yer thinkin' that yer gettin' anythin' from me you've got 'nother thing comin'!" Marguerite cried as she was hoisted over his shoulder.

"Aye, aye," Percy sighed, sallying forth towards their little cottage in Adventureland. "Fight all ye want, missy, ye know the struggle jus' makes things more interestin'."

Percy grinned. He rather liked this Park Event.

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closed(ish) rp, Percy and Beaufort

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