Frogs in the Parlour

Oh. Daubigny finally understood. "They're coats for us to wear," he told Blanchard. He took the white coat, which was exceedingly soft to the touch - too fine for outdoor use, so perhaps they were chamber robes - and he regretted the muddy state of his hands. He wiped one of them on his own jacket, but it came away no cleaner because his jacket was covered in mud. He set the white robe down and peeled off his coat and waterlogged waistcoat, laying them carefully on the floor in spite of their filthy state. His wet shirt and mud soaked breeches... Well, they would just have to do.

For them to wear? That was... nice of them. Jérémie watched the Navy lieutenant strip carefully out of most of his wet clothes. So they were to give up their uniforms for these white robes. That couldn't be a bad thing, unless the goal was to rob them of their only clothes.

His gaze turned, belatedly, to the newly-freed Frenchman. He wanted a report on this place? "It's an English inn," Jérémie said, not knowing what else he was meant to say. There probably wasn't anything else to say. He was better off getting dry and warm.

Jérémie pulled the blanket off and draped it carefully over the back of the nearest chair. With a quick smirk at Paol, he shucked off his sodden coat next. Unlike that Navy man, he had no reservations about shedding all of his clothes. Everything he wore was soaked through, why keep it on? He tossed his coat down onto the chair's arm and his shirt shortly followed.

Having felt that he had been far from drink for too long, Champlain (still in his Cuirassier armor and uniform) wandered down the road leading away from his cavalry camp. He came across a small pub. He took off his helmet in delight and began to walk towards the pub. As he was about to open the door to the pub, Champlain heard what he recognized has English. Someone was speaking English in the pub. Now this could have deterred most French officers, however, drink was far more important at this moment so the dangers were quickly ignored by Champlain. With that, he swung the door open and let slip a modest greeting,” Bon-Soir!"

Another Frenchman? Blackwood emerged from the kitchen in time to see a tall man in dripping armour enter the tavern. How interesting. This was, of course, a place of neutrality so he was obliged to welcome this newcomer. Or it was supposed to be, he amended wryly, remembering the howls of pain from upstairs. Those damned Americans.

"Welcome, sir," Blackwood greeted, again exercising his French.

Champlain noticed the Englishmen who had come to greet him. Champlain smiled, thinking to himself that this was a perfect time to exercise his English, replied, "Ah... Shank Uoo" Well, no matter how good his English there was no way of hidding his heavy French accent. "Soom Rid Wyne, silvuple. " He continued.

Red wine. That was certainly a straightforward greeting. Or the mark of a road-weary traveller. Blackwood bowed slightly. "Certainly, m'sieur. Just this way." He lifted an arm to indicate the way. Just past the parlour to the larger room that housed the bar.

"How come you to our little haven in this strange new world?"

There was a bang from outside, like that of a door opening and closing. Tide frowned and stuck his head out through the parlour's open doorway. In the entrance hall stood that redcoat officer and... a tall Frog in gleaming, rain-spotted armour.

"Help you with anythin', sir?" The quartermaster asked, looking curiously at the redcoat. This place was just hopping with Frogs lately, wasn't it? At least this one, unlike most of the other Frogs in the parlour, was fully dressed.

Clothes? Paol eyed the white bundles dubiously for a moment, then shrugged. They looked like no article of clothing he had ever seen, but they were dry and that was really all that mattered at the moment. Following Jérémie's example, he began pealing off the soggy layers of clothing. He was in the process of extracting a foot from a trouser leg, rendered surprisingly intractable by the amount of water it had absorbed, when he paused. "Jérémie?" he kept his voice low, more out of habit because of the presence of officers than because there was any real need for it, "They won't hang us for being out of uniform, will they?"

Hang them? Jérémie paused to consider this, his own ragged trousers dangling from his hand.

"They shouldn't," he muttered back, hoping he was right. But that Navy man had shed part of his uniform, hadn't he? "He's done it, too, he added with a nod toward Daubigny.

Now that he had his trousers off, he realised how cold it was to stand in his bare skin. He tossed his soaked trousers onto the pile of his discarded uniform and reached for one of the long white robes.

"It's... soft!"

"Aye, that's the way," Billy said approvingly as the two French soldiers exchanged their wet and muddy clothes for the white robes. "You too, mate. Er, monseer," he added, since the naval fellow was a lieutenant. "Don't wanna keep them wet things on. Give 'em here and that young miss is gonna wash 'em for you." From the stupid stare the French officer gave him, Billy realized that he had not understood. "WASH," he said helpfully, taking the discarded clothes. With a smirk, the officer finally peeled off the rest of his garments and tossed them at the feet of the sailor before enveloping himself in the robe once again. Billy collected the soldiers' discarded items as well.

"What about you Yankee lads? More o' them robes in there."

That was good enough for Paol. Jérémie was a clever sort and was generally right about things. Nudging the pile of wet clothes aside with his foot, he stepped forward to take one of the robes. It was soft; nothing like the rough wools or homespun fabrics he was accustomed to. Paol held it gingerly away from himself. Whatever it was, it must be awfully expensive. There had to be some mistake.

Perhaps.... He glanced at the soggy bundle that was his uniform. No, definitely not worth it. He slipped the strange garment around him, still slightly ill at ease at the prospect of wearing something so opulent. "Warm too."

It was indeed warm. Soft, warm, and comfortable. Jérémie grinned. "Not bad for the English," he said approvingly. Then he nodded toward the doorway, which one of the British sailors was leaning out of. "What's going on out there?"

He ignored the two sullen-faced Americans, who were reluctantly peeling out of their own sodden clothes.

Without answer, the French sous Lieutenant decided not to give the soldiers a reprimind. He did appear bemused to see them change their uniform for the fluffy white robes. Distrustful towards the English fellows he withdrew to one side of the room and studied his own clothes. They were dirty, though he wore no coat, so that his rank was not able to be discerned from it. Just a shirt and his usual trousers, and he was surprisingly barefoot.

He brushed his hand across the fabric. A bath would suit perfectly, was there a possibility to have it.

No answer. Whatever was going on outside the room was of no importance. That was fine by Jérémie.

"Do you suppose there is anything to eat here?" He glanced longingly at the chair he had been so recently ordered out of.

Food... Paol’s eyes unfocused for a moment. Now that he thought about it, he was starving. But then, he was almost always hungry. He blinked, “Uh. I saw drinks somewhere out there. Maybe they have food too?”

"There's a kitchen, back there," he replied, jerking a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the way. "But..."

But to get there meant venturing out into the hallway, which had been the reason for his hoping there was something to eat in here. Jérémie shrugged and shuffled toward the little bar. "Maybe there's something here."

Scrounging. Now this was familiar territory. Following Jérémie, Paol hitched up onto the bar, swung his legs over and dropped down on the other side. Food... He began to rummage systematically behind the bar. No food, but he did come across a clear bottle filled with strange greenish liquid. Paol shook it curiously. “What do you think this is?” he asked, pulling out the stopper. Yellow foam immediately surged from the opening. Stammering a curse in Breton, Paol half dropped, half set down the bottle and backed away, crossing himself.

"Careful there!" Daubigny snapped as he felt himself sprayed with liquid. He wiped his face with his hand and found that it was sticky. But as he turned to glare at the clumsy soldier, his eyes widened with surprise. "What is that?"

"That's - ugh!" Jérémie stepped back, lifting his arms to shield his face from the strange splashing green ooze. "Black magic," he hissed as he got to a safe distance from the wicked bottle.

Without thinking about it, Daubigny licked his lips. A split second later he thought "There it is, I've tasted poison. Well that was stupid." But yet another second later, he said in surprise, "It's sweet. It's sticky because it's sweet." That did not disprove the poison theory, of course.

Black magic? Paol took another step back, now regarding the bottle and its contents with genuine fear. He glanced down at his robe where he had wiped the liquid off his hand, half expecting to see the fabric dissolve. It didn’t. But now the officer had tasted it. Paol’s face went a shade paler. He had opened the bottle, that meant it was his fault if anything happened to the officer. He didn’t know what the army did to poisoners, but he didn’t particularly want to find out.

Meanwhile the sickly looking froth had slowed its egress from the bottle so as to have nearly stopped altogether. “What do we do?” he asked, looking from the pool of green liquid to Jérémie and back again.

Stupid officer! Did he have a dream for death?

"Don't touch it!" Jérémie backed away a little more, keeping a wary eye on the navy officer. Whatever foul witchcraft had created that liquid, that fool had tasted it. What would it do to him?

Daubigny's mind raced, trying to think of all he had ever learned about poisons. The only things he could remember were that they were reported to taste foul, and they were generally administered by evil monks or lascivious uncles, neither of which was present here.

He spoke in a clipped, rapid tone slightly higher than his usual timbre. "Surely no one would store poisons in the same place as ales and wines! And in a tavern, for heaven's sake!"

Paol was not comforted by the lieutenant's logic. It seemed to him that in among the other bottles was exactly where one would put poison, if one wanted others to drink it. However he did not voice his misgivings.

The evil looking froth had resolved itself into a green pool. Paol watched with dread as the puddle seemed to stretch, sprouting a tendril of fluid which it sent snaking along the surface of the bar. Not good. God only knew what would happen if it spread into the rest of the room.

Under the bar there was a pile of neatly folded cloths. Cautiously, Paol reached forward, grabbing a handful of them and dropping the pile gingerly into the path of the liquid. Stepping back, he watched as the rags gorged themselves on the strange substance. What it would do to the cloth was anyone's guess, but at least its progress was checked.

Daubigny watched nervously as the man mopped up the spill. "Are they all wet with the stuff? I think you had better throw them on the fire."