There was perhaps nothing more depressing than the sight of a dark room filled with humans, weeping in a frightened state of dismay and confusion. And, perhaps, there was nothing more inspiring than the tempted aggression born of that scarring, and dark depression. Those few, roughly two hundred, who made it from the black, roaring fear from above, and into safety, were surrounded by these sources of human experience. Some were in the warm cobblestone circular room attached to the Capuchos hermitage, which humbly housed the monks in the Sintra region. Cork lined the floors of the narrow passageways which led into their snug tower, giving the hermitage it’s nickname the “Convent of Cork”.
Others huddled over the open mote-gate and into the stony hugeness of the Sintra Palace. Three towers, proudly praising the various flags of the Lisbon region, met the Sintra Mountains halfway, their tops adorned with red-clay shingles. As roars came from overhead, fire spewing from the dark clouds, seemingly from god himself, the poor citizens of Sintra sought refuge in the beacons of safety among the suffocating ash, soot, and brimstone. As the night passed the people who survived were barricaded into a dark room and watched by guards. The terrifying night was simply waited out in the damp, humid rooms, as the people tried to create reasons for their plight. The monks said prayers that provided consolation for believers, and annoyance for unbelievers, not that the latter had any way of expressing their frustrations aside for on pain of death.
There was no word from the clergymen, nor from the quiet and closed rooms of the nobility, set in one of those imposing towers high above. Soon the roaring, and screaming, and searing-hot burning death was over, and there was nothing left but the fear of another attack or the apocalyptic retribution they’d all been told to expect since birth. No second attack came, and, of course, there was no divine judgment to hear of when the barred doors were opened and the peasants were thrown out to the sun-washed courtyards.
Anyone not in the Palace courtyard was told to head there to receive the word of their Count, Philipe Caoulo. None of the guards would answer questions; none of the available priests or monks could provide anything other than an obscure and beautiful piece of scripture. Those in the hermitage were tossed out with a reverence, and thoughtlessness, befitting the papacy, and told to head through the charred remains of their home to the palace atop the hill, overlooking, at once, the Atlantic and the beautiful Lisbon countryside.
The village was in absolute disarray, to say the least. Most buildings were either burnt out or burning. Most of those which stood untouched by fire were swiped by a wayward tail or claw and broken to pieces. Of course, there was no real evidence that there ever was a beast in the town. No noticeable claw-marks, no footprints. Anyone who could provide any reliable testiment of the beast was probably burnt to a crisp. Only the wavering flames around the crushed ruins and charred corpses could speak for what had happened here, and they were as silent as one would expect them to be. Some guards and a few strong men were working through the wreckage to find survivors, but most everyone was differed to the Palace courtyard.
Philipe Caoulo walked with a purposeful stride, his black heels clicking against the ancient stone floor. He was dressed in a rather beautiful crimson jacket atop a white blouse. He was adorned with all sorts of metals and ribbons and sashes, most of whose origins he could cite as easily as his own name. A full black moustache ran parallel with his pale lips until they swooped upward and into his sideburns. He wore a hastily fastened coif which framed his face like some sort of porcelain doll. Trailing behind the Count was a handsome, and darkly dressed, Viceroy by the name of Antonio de Melo e Castro, and behind him trailed two guardsmen in splintermail armor.
“This better be good,” The Viceroy said quietly, his gravelly voice striking true in Philipe’s heart. It cooled him, and brought forth a hatred and annoyance like no other. But the Count ignored his superior, and continued walking down the dungeon hallway toward the singly lit cell amongst the bunch. He approached it confidently, but that dispersed as he got closer. He glanced from the corner of his eye so he could barely see the Viceroy in his periphery, a bead of sweat fell from his brow to his finely crafted sideburns.
In the dimly lit cell, sat atop a wooden chair with his hands bound behind his back, was a dark complected man with shoulder length hair. He only wore leather breeches, and his head hung over his bare, beaten chest like so many other prisoners before him. His hair was drenched, and dripped periodically, as if he were splashed with a bucket of water, which he could say that he ungratefully was. The cell was opened and the brown-skinned man looked up slowly, his deep chocolate eyes coming into view. His face housed the beginnings of a reckless beard, stubbled and slightly malformed. He worked up the energy for a half-smile and then his head fell again.
“Alcalde,” he whispered, since that’s all he could do, “a pleasure to finally meet you.” He spoke in a romantic Portuguese, all of his vowels as open as could be. He continued, “Your men worked me over already, in preparation for your visit.”
“Shh!” The Count hissed as he smacked the bound man across the head. “You will only respond to my questions, and only after I ask them.” His voice was strong and loud, but it held in it the shakiness of a coward. Philipe composed himself briefly, then spoke evenly. “Are you Emilio Cicatrise?” he asked.
“Yes,” came the unusually steady response from the bound man.
“Are you known as the Dread Captain Scar?” Philipe asked. The Viceroy peered from behind the bars expectantly, his dark eyes flickering with the wavering torchlight.
“Yes,” Emilio said, his face still shrouded in shadows as he looked into his lap.
Philipe glanced back at the Viceroy confidently, who merely responded with a small wave of his hand. “And is it true,” Philipe began again, “that you, and your ship of brigandens, hunted and killed a sea monster in the Adriatic?”
Emilio lifted his head, his mouth contorted into an oh as he seemed to recall a distant memory. His eyes were fixed directly to Philipe’s, and they searched for something in the Count’s features. When the search revealed nothing, not a single thing, Emilio smiled. Then he started laughing, a hearty, full laughter. It was a laughter that ought to have been bigger than Emilio, but he owned it. He laughed, and he shook his head, and his eyes bugged, and Philipe could see the back of Emilio’s throat as he cackled.
“Stop it!!” Philipe demanded, more loudly than Emilio would have given him credit for. And his voice shook the walls of the dungeon, and stopped the Dread Captain Scar from his hysterical tirade. The Viceroy let a small smile creep across his face, and disappear in much of the same fashion. “And answer me!” He yelled again, breaking the silence, this time a little lower.
Emilio glanced over to the Viceroy with a hidden interest, noted his presence. Philipe moved in front of Emilio’s line-of-sight, engaging him aggressively. “Yes. The answer is yes.” Emilio relented finally.
As Philipe and Antonio made their way back toward the front part of the Palace, the silent hatred causing extreme tension between them, Emilio was dragged out of his cell and taken to be washed. He was cleaned up, and dressed, and fed.
Philipe stood in front of the door which led to the balcony from where he would deliver his speech. The Viceroy sat a good distance away at a desk, inkwell, pen, and paper laid out before him, in preparation for a letter.
“Don’t be too cordial.” Was the only advice the Viceroy gave before starting his letter.
Philipe straightened his bow-tie as the trumpets, which signaled the word of the Count, blared into the open coastal air. As Philipe opened the balcony door, and stepped upon it, the sun seeped into the room behind him, and doves, which were placed around the balcony floor beforehand, flew off over the heads of the awaiting crowd in the courtyard below. Distant and silent murmurs followed the Count’s appearance, as everyone wondered what it was he would say. Their soot and blood covered faces peered up toward the balcony where Philipe, dressed only slightly more formally than before, was flanked on one side by a serious looking Spanish Archbishop, Vitaliano Visconti, and by his various consultants on the other. Heavily armored guards stood on either side of the door, shields and swords drawn in resolute loyalty. Philipe looked at the ground for a moment, composing himself and remembering the speech he’d been preparing since the night before. He exhaled and then spoke:
“Citizens of the Sintra Valley community, and those unfortunate enough to be visiting us during these distressing times, it is with a heavy heart that I reflect upon the huge amount of losses we have suffered over the night. I share this pain and confusion with you, as I’m sure all of Portugal will once it is made aware of our plight.
“I have heard conjecture hereto of many compelling, albeit mythical, accounts of last night. There has been word of a Dragon. I want to, immediately, settle everyone’s mind to rest, and cease the harmful discourse of human frailty and sensationalism. I want to stop that and direct your attention to the truest enemy of Portugal, of which there is no equal anywhere on earth. Having discussed the matter with Archbishop Visconti, and referring back to the scriptures, the only word of God, I have determined that this was a warning. A warning of the judgment to come in the face of our godlessness. Our Father has deemed us heretics, and cast us into hell on earth. The fury of our creator has been meted out justly, and our loved ones have paid the price. How much longer will we allow our quest for independence stifle our religious duties? Surely God is with us in our endeavors against Spain, as the Archbishop has so warmly ensured me, but he calls out for peace, and the quietness that brings the heavenly worship our lord deserves.
“I ask you to bow your heads now, and join in a silent prayer to Our Father, so that he may, once again, smile upon us.” And Philipe lowered his head, along with almost everyone else, and pretended to pray. He was, actually, not a very devout man, but the perks that came from openly defending the church was too much to turn down. Once there was enough silence, and people seemed to be ready to get out into the courtyard, Philipe extended his hands out to the crowd, took a deep breath, and then bowed slightly. The trumpets blared and Philipe, along with the Archbishop, disappeared into the Palace.
Emilio, after filling up on grapes, and oranges, and pork roast, and rice, was dragged back down into the dungeon. He thought he would be tied back up, a cruel joke played by the evil Count. But, in fact, he was taken even further down, through a door he was sure would lead to a broom closet. A narrow, decrepit stairwell led all the way down, perhaps to where the ocean met the sand, and suddenly Emilio was in a natural cave. Blue lights, perhaps on sconces, were farther ahead, over a natural stone dais which hung over an empty cavern. Emilio was not allowed to stand and was dragged all the way from the hole in the wall to the center of the dais. The blue lights were, indeed, not in sconces at all, but floating in midair.
The Dread Captain Scar was tossed into the center, the guards backing away quickly. As he landed on his hands and knees he felt a warmth all around him, and the lights had become a sick green color. He could not move anything aside from his head, and as he looked around Emilio could make out distinct figures appearing around him, in a circle, one by one, surrounding the dais. The figures were quiet, but they mumbled things amongst themselves. It was a sort of ethereal sound which seemed to come from air and hung there like effervescent smoke.
“You..” one figure, the one immediately in front of Emilio, said. Emilio was quiet, deathly quiet. Beads of sweat dropped to the stone floor in front of him. The voices grated now, like nails against stone, and there was no escaping them; the voices came from the ghostly apparition, but it struck into Emilio’s mind as well, “… The slayer of guardians and angels. You, the blood pirate, Emilio Cicatrise!” There was an indelible silence which, itself, brought pinpricks to the back of Emilio's neck. “You..” He spoke again, “have been chosen. Plucked from the stream of destiny and dropped into the pool of mysticism—“
“—dropped indeed,” said another voice.
“Quiet,” said the first. “You are to make haste to Morocco, where we know the beast’s lair to be, and with the wind of our church under your wings, to pluck his still beating heart from his scaled chest.”
Emilio's mind raced. He was to kill a dragon? By what means? “But I am merely a man!” Cried Emilio, truly humbled and frightened.
“No man is merely a man” said the first.
“No, not merely…” said another. An object came from behind the misty figure in the darkness and flew to Emilio’s position. It fell to the floor in front of him with a clattering. Emilio could make out a dagger, fashioned by, seemingly, glass and twine.
“Use this to strike at the beasts heart. Strike true and he will have no chance, not even against a mere man.” The first said, a little humor, however dry, to be found in his voice at last. “Do you accept?” he asked suddenly.
Emilio could feel his muscles untangle and his mind uncloud, and he could move again. He lifted himself so he was on his knees alone. He could see the figures better but their visages were murky and undefinable. Emilio lifted the glass dagger in his hand, peered into its crystal form. He knew that he truly had no choice. All of this was insane to him, but it also held a logical place since it answered so many questions. The sea monster was, indeed, a sea monster, he recalled. And this was, indeed, a dragon attack. What other wonders were there to find, he thought. And as if that were all he had to think of, he nodded and answered, “Yes”.
“And so you have chosen,” The first began again, softly. “And so you have been marked!” He yelled. The green lights came to converge on the misty figure, like lightning, and crackled there for a moment, blue and green sparks flying from it's supernova center, then struck out to Emilio. His heart was hit with the lightning, and he convulsed as he was lifted into the air high above the dais. He screamed and writhed and peered straight up. A small hole of light at the top of the cavern was all Emilio could, or wanted to see. He felt no pain, but nothing else either. He was completely ejected from his body and all he could do was peer up at that light. “Spiritum Aeternum!” the first screamed aloud, his old voice shaking with passion. Soon the others joined in as well, chanting the very same words; “Spiritum Aeternum.”
A town crier had been commissioned to scream this among the wreckage of the town: “Your Count begs your attention, for the sake of Portugal. Be you young or old, male or female, the Count, with the authority of the papacy and Lisbon behind him, urge that you meet in the palace courtyard for the opportunity of a lifetime and a chance to travel around the world. All who decide to undergo the task are promised a handsome reward, should you be chosen to do so!”
And, so it was that, among the dozens who decided to visit the Palace grounds, our destined voyagers would at last meet the catalyst of their fate. Emilio, now tired and depressed, but visibly fit, stepped from the cool interior of the Palace and into the warmth of the courtyard, followed by Count Caoulo’s dutiful assistant, Caesar Luna. Emilio’s skin was a coffee color in the radiant sun, his black hair gleamed with it’s reflection. On his hip was a scimitar, his weapon of choice, along with the glass dagger, sheathed in a simple leather holster. He wore a comfortable looking, knee-length brown jacket atop his finely adorned blouse. His leather shoes met his olive green breeches warmly. He looked like a cardinal manifestation of the earth, such were his colors. His hair was slicked back into a tiny bun far down his head and his beard was lightly shaved, but still visible.
"This is all we have," said Luna in a quiet voice, his nose raised rather too high.
The dark orbs of Emilio's eyes scanned the courtyard for a workable crew. He’d need men, surely, strong ones at that. But he needed more, people with knowledge of the areas, of religion and myth as well, since he was no scholar. He eyed the group scrupulously, judging each of their characters based solely upon what he saw.
The courtyard held several different kinds of people in its stony composition. The verdant artistry of rose bushes and pansies, which were meticulously aligned and primed, drew in the admiration of some of the people who had made it there. Surprisingly, the palace courtyard was almost entirely untouched by fire, which lent credence to the position of the Count, since the palace was deemed a holy place. Some of the towers high above bore dents and scratches which were mostly indistinguishable to the people down below. They’d be fixed soon enough, but the Dragon had tried at the palace. He was unsuccessful due to wards and magics commissioned from the papacy. No one knew that, not Emilio, not Ceasar Luna. The unfamiliar couple stood side-by-side at the base of the castle, surrounded by a couple dozen men, some women, and even a child or two. Some guardsmen, and more than a few of the team that worked in the palace, moved crates and barrels from a door which led into the cellar from under an archway, to Emilio’s left, and down the hill behind the palace which led to the harbor.
Emilio noticed a group of men in the corner of the courtyard, commiserating like a bunch of fools, sailors no doubt. Emilio stepped up, through the crowd, and whistled at the seamen, demanding their attention. It was a piercing whistle which drew attention from not only the sailors, but everyone else in the courtyard too, not to mention the birds who’d made their roost on the castle balcony. “You bunch! Go with these men moving boxes, help them get the supplies from the dock onto the ship, then join the crew.” It was easy talking to them, they were sailors through and through, and they knew a captain when they saw one. They chuckled still, but got to work nonetheless.
Emilio turned toward the crowd, eyed who remained; soldiers, mercenaries, merchants, and “explorers”. And then there were the children, he’d leave them for last. “We need people for an expedition into the Berber coast. If you’ve never been on a boat, or have a weak stomach, I recommend you stay behind. It’s a risky mission but nevertheless lucrative. We’re working on Portugal’s bankroll.” Emilio had a slight smirk on his face for the last statement. He could be charming if he was in the mood, and since his stomach was full he felt like he might be in the mood. “I’ll be happy to answer questions now, but I recommend that everyone follow these men and get to the ship if you’re satisfied. We should set sail by nightfall.” People started to move toward the harbor, including one of the children, Emilio interrupted the child and set him back into the crowd, “Not you, not quite yet.”
One of the men in the crowd, a smart looking gentleman with a large beard, spoke up, his black cane raising high into the air. “What is the expedition about? Does it concern the Dragon?”
Caesar Luna stepped up from the shadows to cover the question. “This is a relief effort. Sintra has owed bonds, and friends in the barbaric capital. As for your fairytale assumption: The count made an appointment this morning. The mythic claims have been debunked. You’ll notice no beast marks in town, no one has been found bitten or half eaten. There are not dragons, nor have there ever been. Next you’ll say we should start exuviating for Excalibur.”
Emilio eyed Luna as he spoke. He was surrounded by an aura conceived of vicious lies. Emilio wanted to scream out, end it all, but he could not. The Count would have him on the crooked man that very night if he compromised his word so easily, so consciously. These things, Emilio knew, were better off not known for as long as possible. The Scar wished now that he could have but a few more moments of ignorance, a few more seconds without the hideous fucking mark. He took a small breath and then nodded and smiled, stepped forth with a confidence befitting a Pirate Captain. He extended his hand in compassion to Luna and placed his palm on the lordling’s shoulder.
“That is true. As the count has said, a dragon was not the cause of this, not but ourselves. I’ve been all over the world, to the new world as well. I’ve not seen a dragon, nor a mermaid either despite how much I’d love to.” He chuckled a little. Luna smiled warmly, which was rather unsettling. He was such a narrow chinned, block of ice. “You haven’t seen a dragon have you?” Emilio smiled, and the old man, who had grown embarrassed, shook his head. “No, it was no dragon,” Emilio felt like he might throw up, but he mustered all his strength, all of his sheer willingness to live, “as the Count said, the Archbishop of Efeso himself has proclaimed this a divine judgment, directly from the scripture. We are heathens, it is our burden to bear. I’ve made my penance,” Emilio suddenly opened his blouse slightly, showing his scarred mark, “have you?” He spoke in brash lies, coarse with a maleficent opposition to human inquiry and reason. It was a bluff he could not loose and he felt like a damn basted for using it. He was challenging him to a show of faith he could not contend in public, not without heavy dissent. The old man shrunk so small that Emilio could hardly see him, then there was quiet.
A woman, accompanied by a man who Emilio assumed was her husband, raised her hand and spoke; softly but loud enough to be heard from her position far in the back of the crowd. “Where exactly will the expedition be going?”
Emilio answered confidently, “Morocco. We aren’t sure which port yet, but that’s an easy enough matter.”
Luna looked at the crowd impatiently, “anything else?”
The boat that was being hastily loaded with all sorts of equipment, and which Luna signaled as their own, was a slim galleon. Sure, it was as sleek as could be, and probably sliced through the water like a hot knife to butter, a credit to Portuguese ship-making, but it also looked sturdy. It's sides were reinforced with metal linings and barrings and the wood seemed fresh. The canvas, even now, bellowed at the eager wind. It was just small enough to fit in port, but big enough to make many pirate vessels think twice about messing with it. It's two rows of cannons were another assurance. Emilio smirked and left Luna with whatever official policy he was citing. Emilio snapped along the docks, leaving everything behind him exactly where it was, and practically jumped onto the loading ramp. "Thank heaven," he said to himself in spanish, "I've finally got a damn ship again."
For a moment the Dread Captain considered that only hours ago he was destined for death, or more torture at the least. The best damn thing that ever happened was that Dragon attacking. Emilio didn't know what the Dragon wanted, and it was clear that he was looking for something now that Emilio knew the truth, but it wasn't quite his business anyway. Even if Emilio wasn't scared shitless of the magics the papacy had revealed to him through brute force, there was no doubting his need to explore, his desire to slay another one of these unnatural beasts. The first time was sudden, so indeliberate. This time he'd be prepared, this time he'd be face-to-face with a fearsome beast like no other. And, either it's life or his would be ended that day, but, without a doubt, Emilio would at last have honor.
And isn't that what all men truly want? Emilio let out a puff of air and chuckled at his hidden desperation, his secret desire.
Emilio took in a deep breath and turned from the bay ahead of him to the docks behind him. The last of the resrouces and equipment was just being delivered so he lifted his hands into the air, whistled that piercing whistle yet again, and spoke clearly into the dusty sea air. "Everyone joining on the expedition come aboard! Hear what your Captain has to say!" With a childlike energy, but swagger only harvested after years of experience, Emilio made his way to the upper platform, stopping only oncde to order a sailor to gather everyone below deck. Once there Emilio grasped at the banister and watched as the people came aboard.
What a rush it was to finally lead again?! But, how frightening a proposition it was to do so whilst lying to everyone. He didn't know how long that would last, but his head swam with this fear, even as he was ready to speak.
"Welcome aboard, one and all. Some of you may know me, by one name or antother, but for those who don't, let it be known: I run a tight ship, tighter than your dear mother's twat, that's for sure." There was a stupid, resounding laughter from the sailors. Feed them a roll a day and Emilio would have them heeltoeing in no time. All sailors were the same.
"I like to have a good time, but we are on a mission on behalf of poor Sintra. Some of you may know me for running Pirate ships, let it be known that this is not one. And, though it looks like a military vessel, it is not one of those either. My word is law, but I accept criticism and advice. What I will not accept is betrayal. I have a certain bias against conniving snakes at this point in my life, so be forwarned." Luna, at this point, had made his way up to the platform with Emilio. It was ironic, to say the least, how he was in place as Emilio discussed snakes. And perhaps it wasn't entirely coincidence.
"We have woman and children aboard, so you scalawags ought to be on your best behavior," he said, clearly favoring the sailors and some of the other men for this comment. "Drink as you will, but be certain that when I ask you to sober up I mean for it it happen immediately." Luna whispered something into Emilio's ear, the Captain nodded and returned to the crowd. "We're going to Mogador, also known as Essaouira. We don't expect much Berber interference, but we should always be careful. So, I am..."
A voice came from one of the men below, a battle-scarred decendant of the Incan Empire, Emilio knew him well. Epunamun was his name, and he wore his straight black hair in a Mohawk. His voice was rusted and hard, "Emilio Cicatrise," he said. Emilio met his former friends gaze, saw that he was accompanied by another familiar face, a full bearded Englishman by the name of Leonard Comstock. Emilio was struck with the painful memories of his exile from his own boat.
Emilio remembered himself being tied up, pushed onto the banister of the ship, made to balance. As he looked behind him he saw his crew staring in a certain sad disbelief. Almost no interest in stopping the madness. These two faces that he saw now were among them, just as submissive.
Emilio jumped from the platform suddenly, landing and rolling froward into the crowd. He drew his scimitar in one single motion and grabbed at Epunamun's collar. Both the Incan and the Englishman reacted calmly by holding off Emilio's potential sword strike.
"We left!" Epunamun yelled in Spanish, the preferred language between the friends.
"Emilio stop! We were utterly against the whole business, man!" Leonard chimed in. "Sure we were allowed to row the boat onto shore but we were exiled all the same. We wanted to find you, to join you again."
"We are loyal to you! Damn it, don't you know that?!" Epunamun yelled, releasing himself from Emilio's weakening grasp. The Dread Captain sheathed his sword as he ran the testimony and facts through his mind as well. Why else would they be here? Besides, he trusted these men. Something vile and dark erupted in him as he jumped over that banister. He was happy it was quelled by friendly hearts.
Emilio was silent for a second, but then nodded. "Of course," he said. Emilio shook his old friend's hands and then addressed the group. "Alright, nothing to see here" He said in Portuguese, "I don't know what the official name of this vessel is..."
Luna, who was leaned over the platform banister incredulously, piped up, "Padre Etemo". He was swiftly ignored.
"We can call it A cadela queimada" Emilio said with a smile. Some of the people in the crowd laughed. "Alright, let's get this boat in working order" Emilio said with a confident slickness. It was a little past noon, if they worked fast enough they could leave at sunset.
As the sun laid its head to rest, the ever-present moon had just begun pressing itself against the firmament. That canvased dome offered a kaleidoscope of colors as the flames of the sun seemed to stretch across the sky. The first of many tiny, twinkling orbs had appeared, and soon, the world would be awash in the thick darkness of night.
Emilio made Epu, the Incan hunter turned explorer, his weaponsmaster. He was to keep a careful eye on the gun room and the ring of keys he inherited. Epu was a master tracker and an expert in everything subterfuge; no one would get to the expensive, rare, weaponry they had aboard while Epu still drew breath, Emilio knew that. Comstock was a fierce swordsman with reputable experience. He was also a brilliant navyman and marine, Emilio knew that. In fact, the Dread pirate was, undoubtedly, happy to have such trusted men with him for this adventure. This was the sort of journey from which sprung life-changing events, and which carefully veiled unpredictable dilemmas. Having devoted friends, with seemingly inhuman skills, was an advantage not worth giving up in such situations. That perhaps was Emilio’s greatest strength, his uncanny ability to sniff out talented people, and use them to their greatest potential. No matter how selfish this skill was, it was invaluable in not only protecting himself, but everyone else on-board, as well. This was the very definition of a great leader.
The Burned Bitch was ready to set sail. All resources were as secure as could be, most positions were assigned, and everyone seemed comfortable with the newly sanded wood, and the gentle rocking of the sturdy vessel. Luna was standing aboard but close enough to the docking ramp to leave any moment. When he eyed Emilio he waved him over. The Dread captain gently pushed his way through the bustling crowd, which had grown since word of the departure had spread, and to the snobbish nobleman.
“Yes, Lordling Luna, what can I do for you before you prance off my ship?”
“I won’t indulge your disrespect, Cicatrise,” Luna responded coldly, and in a hushed tone; a pitch which seemed to mingle with the washing waves underfoot. “I trust you understand your mission. I trust you understand your culpability.”
“Trust me, Ceasar,” Emilio began, in a quiet voice which was too casual for Luna’s liking. “I am fully culpable, and utterly indulged by my crew. Your supervision is no longer required.”
“Yes,” Luna eyed the growing crowed with a complacent smugness, “even so, you’ll notice, sooner or later, that I have an agent implanted here. Don’t bother discarding her, she is a present from the papacy.” Those last words, which Luna spoke with such distain and venom that it was nearly palpable, struck Emilio dumb. He could not believe that scoundrels like Luna, even as dimly as he has thus displayed, were also involved in this mystical plot. How was this kept from the common folk? How far did it go?
Emilio gulped the lump which had formed in his throat and nodded, his exterior remaining composed. “Very well then, I’ll see to it that my mission is carried out. But rest assured, Luna, I will find your agent…”
Luna interrupted, “Of that I’m sure…”
Emilio, feeling disgraced, grabbed at Luna’s hip, drove his thumb into his skinny bone and pushed him against the railing. Luna gasped in pain, stared at Emilio wild eyed.
“And if she tries to sabotage me in any way, I will kill her. Whether she be mystical or otherwise. And if I learn it has anything to do with you, I will see to your disemboweling personally.” Emilio let loose of the frail nobleman’s frame, stepped back. A table was next to him, a crate had just been set upon it. It was filled with bottles of wine. Not the usual ceremonial drink for such an occasion but Emilio felt the rush of his own bravado, Luna would fear him. He grabbed one by the neck and walked closer to Luna and the railing. “You should tell the Alcalde that he may have me by the balls for now, but things change after an adventure like this. I may come back a changed man.” Emilio smashed the bottle about a foot from Luna’s face, against the rail behind him. His face was undamaged but glass got all over his clothes and it frightened him half to death. Emilio chuckled as he faced the crowd, whose attention he’d gained since smashing the bottle. “The Bitch is setting sail!” He yelled above the crowd. Some in the crowd gave hoot’s and hollers. Leonard Comstock had made himself the boatswain, with Emilio’s blessing, so he began giving orders. Raise the anchor, cast the sails, all hands on deck and all that. Once the anchor was aweigh and the wind lifted the boat into the ocean, Emilio truly felt the freedom he’d been hoping for. He looked back to see Luna’s thin frame set along the crowd behind him waving at the departing vessel. Emilio disregarded any thoughts he began having about the man, what was he really capable of?
The ship tore along the blue green water and cast along the stony pillars of the cliff to the east. Sintra palace shrunk in the distance as the strong winds carried them out of the small alcove, away from praia das maçãs, and finally into the Atlantic. The sky was turning a dark purple now so Emilio ordered a cabin boy to light some torches and lamps. Emilio had made sure that for the departure there would be fruit and bread along with some wine in order to raise moral; to allow people to eat, and drink, and be merry, for a while at least. Soon they’d have to start rationing more, but Emilio was lucky enough to convince the powers that be to give him extra supplies; particularly on account of him and his crew most likely risking their lives. Emilio went to fetch a tangerine along with a roll. He ripped the tangerine apart with a dagger he kept in his boot and began eating it. He watched some men play a card game, one with which he was not totally familiar, as the boat finally began the journey toward Morocco.
4x Like
