Gyles F. Stowett
Captain of the Golden Hide
Staff member
Officer: Captain (Commander)
Gentry: Gentlebeast

- Character Biography
- Click Here
The truth was, most sailors never made it past the Bilge, and the few slovenly sons of the sea that made it as far ashore as the Arrow were quickly forced to beat a haphazard retreat from that fine doorstep back to the Bilge with a boot in the tail for the trouble.
Unnatural, it was, a fish that far out of water. Here Gyles was all the same, tacking straight uphill dead into a devilsome bitter wind, tramping on sealegs that had to be sure or stumble on the slick cobblestones of the steep Bully Harbour street incline leading to the Ministry of War and the office of Zshama Cossatra, Navy admiral. He quickened his pace as he drew near the looming War Office building, until at last he stood in the roke and wet before a small door, remarkably stout for its size, with the spartan shelter of a short stone slab arch providing little protection from the spindrift borne high up and inland off the harbor. He took hold of the weathered ring knocker in the door's center and swung it once. Thup.
He studied the door for a response. Sturdy thing. Weathered oak from a Navy ship's hull bound latticewise with broad iron strips like barrel hoops unwound and flattened out, and where they crossed one another, square iron rivets with pyramid points. Only Army ornamentation could look so functionally grim - not meant to invite, was it?
From within came a metallic tumble of deadbolts and the door creaked heavily on ungreased hinges. From the space peered a thin, short little rat in Army uniform, so small he marveled at just exactly how she had just opened the weighty barrier that still separated them but for the narrow crack. Her spectacles gleamed when she adjusted them at him.
"Hm...name'n'bizness?" She ran it all together, like one word she was particularly used to saying.
"Captain Stowett, for Admiral Cossatra." He doffed his tricorne, a pleasantry the gatekeeper ignored.
"Cap'n, izzit." She scratched her ear. She had all day, and so did he if he meant to enter. "Ship?"
"That'd be the Golden Hide, marm."
The eyes narrowed behind the wire frames. "Minister Ryalor's actin' Golden 'Ide cap'n o' the moment."
In answer, he produced the missive that had made the trip with him in the warm safety of his inner coat pocket that made the roughly five hundred souls aboard the Golden Hide, and the burdens they bore, his burden to bear. The ratess scanned the document warily, down to Duke Ryalor's sweeping signature, onced the stoat sailor over, and nodded bureaucratic acceptance. Another squeak, only to open a crack more, barely enough. No sooner had he stepped inside than she shut the door with a perfunctory glance at the street outside and bolted it.
These were dangerous times, he granted that: the attempt on Talinn's life in the streets of Bouillabaisse Harbour; the explosion at the Opera House; the statement those attacks made about the intended future of the Rainblade-Ryalors was still a boil freshly lanced on the public skin. The Imperium's savviest and strangest might even venture the recent expedition to Urk was as much a means of gaining the terrible idol as it was temporarily removing a target from the reach of their enemies until some semblance of order could once again be established at home.
"Foller me, Cap'n Stowett."
Gyles mentally retraced the path: directly down the hall, four doors, up the lefthand polished stone stairway, second door on the right of the top. Still, an escort was customary in here, and it made a body feel like an important guest moreover, for what that might be worth (not much). As the rat ambled along ahead of him with chelonian urgency, he found himself studying the columns supporting the vaulted ceiling, more of the same utilitarian work that characterized the whole damned place. He found himself thinking when war came - why did he not think on if, but when? Was the state of things really so grave? - for those on land, this might be one of the few places of refuge safe from sabotage.
Yes, he decided as they ascended the much-too-cramped spiraling stone stairwell, this place would be most defensible, even by a creature so small as his bristly little guide.
"Offis to yer right, seckon' door." He could've completed her sentence for her. Instead he offered a brief bow of his head and a "thank you" to a back that was already turned and making its way back to the stairs.
Though the door was already ajar, he waited slightly out of view, so as not to disturb the beast inside just yet. The weasel he recognized well enough, as much by her appearance as by her present doings, situated behind a desk performing the onerous pen-pusher duties that had driven him to a lifelong career at sea: papers, inkblots, feathers, dust, the quill's scratch-scratch-scratch that only ceased briefly in order to dip again in its inkwell before resuming a war on the fresh parchment of the world it was fated never to win.
Vile business, ain't it.
He looked at the timepiece tick-tick-ticking away on the wall, the only other sound in the room besides the scratch-scratch-scratching of the quill pen. Mr. Songfox would be here any moment as arranged. The poor devil had no idea what he was about to be thrust into.
OOC: Merry Friday, Golden Hide crew! This be the sometime-awaited prelude to our side of the upcoming Red Fleet Arc thread, setting up elements of the adventure to come. It's just Silvie, Zshama, and me for now, though open to anybeast meandering through the Ministry of War for good (or no-good) reasons.
Unnatural, it was, a fish that far out of water. Here Gyles was all the same, tacking straight uphill dead into a devilsome bitter wind, tramping on sealegs that had to be sure or stumble on the slick cobblestones of the steep Bully Harbour street incline leading to the Ministry of War and the office of Zshama Cossatra, Navy admiral. He quickened his pace as he drew near the looming War Office building, until at last he stood in the roke and wet before a small door, remarkably stout for its size, with the spartan shelter of a short stone slab arch providing little protection from the spindrift borne high up and inland off the harbor. He took hold of the weathered ring knocker in the door's center and swung it once. Thup.
He studied the door for a response. Sturdy thing. Weathered oak from a Navy ship's hull bound latticewise with broad iron strips like barrel hoops unwound and flattened out, and where they crossed one another, square iron rivets with pyramid points. Only Army ornamentation could look so functionally grim - not meant to invite, was it?
From within came a metallic tumble of deadbolts and the door creaked heavily on ungreased hinges. From the space peered a thin, short little rat in Army uniform, so small he marveled at just exactly how she had just opened the weighty barrier that still separated them but for the narrow crack. Her spectacles gleamed when she adjusted them at him.
"Hm...name'n'bizness?" She ran it all together, like one word she was particularly used to saying.
"Captain Stowett, for Admiral Cossatra." He doffed his tricorne, a pleasantry the gatekeeper ignored.
"Cap'n, izzit." She scratched her ear. She had all day, and so did he if he meant to enter. "Ship?"
"That'd be the Golden Hide, marm."
The eyes narrowed behind the wire frames. "Minister Ryalor's actin' Golden 'Ide cap'n o' the moment."
In answer, he produced the missive that had made the trip with him in the warm safety of his inner coat pocket that made the roughly five hundred souls aboard the Golden Hide, and the burdens they bore, his burden to bear. The ratess scanned the document warily, down to Duke Ryalor's sweeping signature, onced the stoat sailor over, and nodded bureaucratic acceptance. Another squeak, only to open a crack more, barely enough. No sooner had he stepped inside than she shut the door with a perfunctory glance at the street outside and bolted it.
These were dangerous times, he granted that: the attempt on Talinn's life in the streets of Bouillabaisse Harbour; the explosion at the Opera House; the statement those attacks made about the intended future of the Rainblade-Ryalors was still a boil freshly lanced on the public skin. The Imperium's savviest and strangest might even venture the recent expedition to Urk was as much a means of gaining the terrible idol as it was temporarily removing a target from the reach of their enemies until some semblance of order could once again be established at home.
"Foller me, Cap'n Stowett."
Gyles mentally retraced the path: directly down the hall, four doors, up the lefthand polished stone stairway, second door on the right of the top. Still, an escort was customary in here, and it made a body feel like an important guest moreover, for what that might be worth (not much). As the rat ambled along ahead of him with chelonian urgency, he found himself studying the columns supporting the vaulted ceiling, more of the same utilitarian work that characterized the whole damned place. He found himself thinking when war came - why did he not think on if, but when? Was the state of things really so grave? - for those on land, this might be one of the few places of refuge safe from sabotage.
Yes, he decided as they ascended the much-too-cramped spiraling stone stairwell, this place would be most defensible, even by a creature so small as his bristly little guide.
"Offis to yer right, seckon' door." He could've completed her sentence for her. Instead he offered a brief bow of his head and a "thank you" to a back that was already turned and making its way back to the stairs.
Though the door was already ajar, he waited slightly out of view, so as not to disturb the beast inside just yet. The weasel he recognized well enough, as much by her appearance as by her present doings, situated behind a desk performing the onerous pen-pusher duties that had driven him to a lifelong career at sea: papers, inkblots, feathers, dust, the quill's scratch-scratch-scratch that only ceased briefly in order to dip again in its inkwell before resuming a war on the fresh parchment of the world it was fated never to win.
Vile business, ain't it.
He looked at the timepiece tick-tick-ticking away on the wall, the only other sound in the room besides the scratch-scratch-scratching of the quill pen. Mr. Songfox would be here any moment as arranged. The poor devil had no idea what he was about to be thrust into.
OOC: Merry Friday, Golden Hide crew! This be the sometime-awaited prelude to our side of the upcoming Red Fleet Arc thread, setting up elements of the adventure to come. It's just Silvie, Zshama, and me for now, though open to anybeast meandering through the Ministry of War for good (or no-good) reasons.