The New Yorker — Roleplayer Guild

Credits: the always lovely Lillian Thorne, and hunqwert on deviantart

“It was the dead of night. It was the time in the night when innocent babes began their impetuous cries for their mother’s teat. It was the time of night when scoundrels were being thrown from taverns, when vermin cut purses, and when savages slit throats. It was the time of night when, after the candles were out, and the moon’s light had no hole to peak through, your hand would disappear before your very face. It was the absolute dead of night. 
First, there were only cries. It began tersely and without much-ado, in a small farmhouse down the road from the town. Soon all the cries were gone and everyone could pretend like they never heard it. Until there was another cry, one of warning. And it was full of fear and a childlike sense of helplessness. A young boy, hardly dressed, fell into a mud puddle as he threw himself from the dark backdrop of the world outside the castle walls, and into the town center. I saw him because I was hooked into a stockade, my head to be the Count's by sunrise. 
The boy bawled for a while as he cradled himself in the empty market square, huddled against a brick well. In moments his cries would be only wishful memories for me and everyone else who lived through the coming assault. There was a single high-pitched scream which fell from the mountain near the town and washed over it like a tsunami of fear. I shuddered in my stockade home. That was the last warning anyone had of the terror to come, not that it was ever meant to be one. 
I heard it’s wings expand over the church behind me, like scaled masts, and then it’s telling inhale. I couldn’t hear it’s exhale, as the ground before me, along with the boy, was drenched in a liquid fire. Stalls caught flame along with an inn which sat beside the market square. The heat over my head was like nothing I’d ever felt before in my life. The guard which was posted to watch me began running for the castle, just to the north of the church. That was when the beast behind me, now done with it’s initial blast of flames, settled itself among the ancient stonework of the church. I got to work on freeing myself with the utmost haste. I could hear the magnificent lungs of the beast suck in, and let out air with a fearsome growl. It’s claws worked to allow it a comfortable perch on the church roof. My lockpick, which I’d taken incredible pains to hide, worked, and I was free. I stumbled forward to the half-emblazed market square and turned, my curiosity winning against my better senses. 
It was the dead of night, as I say, and the moon was half away. I could only see the slightest of details, but I could say a few important notes. There were spines all about his body, along his limbs and back, and his scales were impossibly reflective, so much so that I could not describe it with such innocuous vernacular. The beast dwarfed the cathedral by half it’s height, and it crushed the holy roof under it’s weight. And I, nearly spellstopped, managed to dive into the stone well behind me as the creature began it’s fiery judgment all over again. I hid in the murky oubliette for the rest of the night as the demon above laid waste to the town I’d known since childhood. I could sometimes see the leathery flying form if it’d glide just overhead. 
Despite the terrified screams and frightened sobs above I might have been able to convince myself that there was some kind of a festival going on.”
	-Translated from an account given by Peter Bolivar, 1666

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 turned toward the crowd, eyed it’s members; soldiers, mercenaries, sailors, 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.” 

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 another, 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. 

"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 descendant 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.

There was a somber, yet lively, spirit which coursed through the crowd of sailors, explorers, adventurers, and hooligans. Most of the sailors weren’t dancing because of the work they’d just been put through, but they were drinking, as anyone could expect them to do. Emilio eyed the group carefully, seeing who was taking advantage of his gifts, who looked uncomfortable, and who was watching, like himself. 

The words Cesar Luna spoke earlier in the deep purple light cast in dusk echoed now in Emilio’s mind. A saboteur was among them, and it was Emilio’s job to fish them out. There was no telling what an agent of Luna might do. A man like that, with ambition and ruthlessness like that, was a bad actor in any situation. However, he is also a coward, and a bit of a fool. Anything that was done in his name would be duplicitous, and rambunctious, but ultimately scatter-shot. Emilio was certain he would be able to undermine any level of interference the minor noble hoped to achieve. In his ever vast ruminations Emilio almost missed the beginnings of a concert. 

A dark complected girl began singing and dancing and clattering a song Emilio knew well. He hummed along with the growing chorus and ate his pear in a contented humor. The singing stopped briefly, but was filled in later by a fiddle and a flute. Two sailors had been begrudgingly convinced in bringing out their instruments. Now that they played a delightful ditty, which clung to the night air like cloth to a babe, they seemed rather happy with themselves. The girl who started the whole engagement merely walked off, however, settled into a crowd of onlookers. A small circle had formed around the fire, where the playing was happening, and several men and women began dancing. The shadows played through the cracks of the human bulwark, and were cast across the dark, damp wood of the deck. 

Emilio watched the shadows flit across the floor as the sailor sat closest to him lost the hand, slammed his fist against the table. A bottle of rum nearly fell off the edge, but Emilio managed to catch it by the neck as it approached the floor. He set the pear on the table and stabbed it with the knife. Uncorking the bottle with his teeth, Emilio chugged a mouthful of the liquid. “Calm down, sailor,” he mumbled as he placed the bottle back where it stood. The man groaned in agreement and chugged from the bottle himself as another hand was dealt. Emilio retrieved his pear and began cutting another piece.

He returned to watching the shadows play over the bow of the deck as he chewed on his fruit. His vision shook and his mind twitched when he noticed a swift shadow glide across to the port side of the ship. It quickly launched itself over the banister and into the ocean. It was difficult to remain focused on it in the dark, with his mind unable to truly distinguish what the fleeting figure was. After it went over the side Emilio looked at the rest of the crew realizing no one had seen it, and rightly so since the thing moved so fast. Emilio jogged across the deck and approached the port bow, leaning over the edge. All he could see were the white lined waves of blue crashing under the strength of the ship. He cut another piece of pear as his disappointment set in, and he began to doubt himself. He looked over the vast sum of water, toward the outlined mountains cast before the beaming moon; it’s reflected tail skimming across the tumultuous surface of the sea. Emilio felt like that light now; being caught between one world and the next, phasing in and out breathlessly. The melancholy could have brought him to tears if there were time. Emilio turned back to the ship and sighed into the cluttered air. The sounds of the crowd came in and out like waves do, crashing against his ear one minute, receding the next. The Dread Captain got a chuckle out of that; “an ocean within an ocean”. Across the silent darkness, however, toward the helm of the ship, Emilio could make out something else; something calm, something contented.

Leonard Comstock was on the deck with a fellow Englishman, drinking the night away. Night went from dark to black as the two Brits spoke in the waning torch light. Most people had retired below deck, and Epu was going around shutting off lamps. Yet the quiet chattering of dry lips still seeped through the airiness of the crashing waves. A strained giggle came from the lone table as the boat rocked further out to sea and was followed by the completion of a story. 

“... And so she starts to ride off on my horse, turns to me mid-canter, crushed under her dead nag, and shouts into the air, ‘you’ve got to be faster next time, Leo.’” Leonard said with an abundance of character, breaking down into a hearty laughter. Tears come to the rim of his eyes and fall into his mane, trailing dirt behind them. “Ah, she was a good, lass.” he chokingly reminisced. “Anyway, that’s how I figured out about it. My mum left a letter at an inn I used to peruse in Milan saying little Prissy was dead of the plague. Just like that, and everything becomes so clear. Or, at least you think it is, then moments like this can destroy your preconceptions of the world. I used to think things made sense, everyone got what they deserved. But if that were true I wouldn’t be on this boat right now, and neither would you.” The Oxford cadence was returning to him now even as he wanted to stop speaking. But he knew that being friendly and honest was the only way to get the same from this man.  

Leonard clasped his new friends shoulder and bellowed a healthy “ho, ho, hoooo!” He finished the rest of his palo and set it on the table. “Now you’re the sort of man I needed to know on a trip like this.” Epu made his way over silently, bent into Leonard’s ear during the break in conversation to remind him of the patrol; not that he particularly needed a reminder. “Yes, yes,” he said to Epu. “Come, walk with me. I’ll take you to your bed.” Leonard said as he stood the man up by the shoulders along with him. “By the way, ol’ chum, what shall I call you? My father said you should never end a night of drinking with a man without knowing his name.”

 “Alastair, Alastair Kenelm,” he announced as clearly as he could “And yourself?” 

“Leonard Comstock,” Leo responded with a cheeky smile, “and it is a…”

Leonard wasn’t sure whether he should stop talking or not. He felt the dreariness of the palo hitting him as he stood. Just as he and Alastair reached the stairway down into the ship there was a sudden crashing far off toward the stern, but even farther off. It broke through the hilly surface of the water with ease, rising high into the air and arching toward the center of the boat. It would have been impossible to see against the backdrop the sky were it not for the crimson light emitting from it. The light shined from the reflected surfaces of the human-sized shape as it flew overhead. Leonard sobered up rather quickly and yelled for Alistair to go down the stairs. Just as he did the thing made ship-fall. It crushed the floorboards as it unnaturally slowed it’s fall to the center of the deck. One of the splintered boards spun toward Leonard and hit him across the back as he rushed down the stairway, forcing him to lose his footing and slide down a couple of steps. 

It’s black-steel booted feet regained balance on the destroyed wood, the whole of it’s unusually tall metal body dripping with sea water. It dried it’s lance by spinning it then slicing outward. Leonard peaked from the stairwell, breath as hard as could be, and saw the strange thing only yards away, mere feet from the Captain's quarters. The lights inside the quarters were on, which concerned Leonard, but not as much as the disembodied ebony-plated suit which stood so clearly before him. Black smoke emanated from it’s hinges with sparks of red intermingled there. Leonard’s eyes grew wide and scanned the wooden step in front of him for answers. When it yielded none Leonard turned to Alistair at the bottom of the stairs.

Catching his breath, he looked on the verge of lost; “we’ll need guns”, was all he could say.

Shadows lurk in the dark and creaky corners, of that one could always be sure. Emilio was sure of that as he set his matted head to rest on the skinny down pillow. He hadn’t felt this sort of comfort in months. The cushioned mattress sung out to his muscles and eased them into submission. Each stitching in the undoubtedly high thread count of his sheets wrapped him up in serenity. He felt comforted, like he was shielded in his mother’s arms once again. Emilio thought he could smell her perfume as the last of his waking consciousness drifted off into the ever expanding dreamscape. 

In fact, it wasn’t his mother’s perfume. 

Emilio was able to grab the butt of his pistol as the edge of the crescent shaped knife shaved his neck. It drew blood, and the point curved over his throat poked at the dimple of his adam’s apple. 

“If you scream, Signor Cicatrise, I’ll be forced to make you a new mouth.” Said a silky voice in a hard Spanish. 

Emilio’s eyes opened steadily, found the dark voice which spoke to him. It was a woman, clad in black leather, with draping dark hair tied mostly in a bun. Her lips were a crimson red and dark makeup shadowed her eyelids. If she were beautiful it was hard to tell through the smoky darkness of the room. Emilio already had his pistol readied against her abdomen. 

“I won’t need to scream.” He responded easily. 

Epu was at the bow with the navigator, a smart young man named Pablo, when he heard the metallic thrusting of energy from down the ship. He headed to the bannister overlooking the main deck, half expecting to see Leonard and his new friend splayed on the floor covered in screws, and bolts, and whatever else they had piled in one of the barrels. Instead Epu witnessed something he’d never seen before. Among the broken crates, and barrels, and the battered floorboards was a nearly familiar shape. An ebony suit of armor, coupled with a huge riding lance, crunched it’s way out of the crater it’d made for itself. A hellish thunderstorm played on it’s armor as crackles of red sparked among the dense black fog which surrounded it. Pablo came up beside Epu at the bannister, was overwhelmed by fear and could only utter a deep gasp. 

“Go warn the Captain.” Epu said in a flawed Portuguese as he unlatched the throwing axes he had hanging from his body. Pablo scampered down the steps but stopped at the corner as the armored figure approached his position. Epu took a deep breath and scaled the bannister. 

“Over here, trespasser,” he said in Spanish, “You’ll be playing with me.”

As soon as his words breached the night air the figure turned to him, lifted the abnormally long lance toward Epu’s position. It crashed through the bannister as Epu avoided the blow, jumping into a roll which set him behind the massive figure. The axe that he threw as he landed lodged itself in one of the ebony plated figure’s knee joints. Instinctively Epu dodged toward the stern of the vessel, trying to draw the aggressor his way. By doing so he avoided a heavy strike which pulled up some more boards. Epu tried lodging another axe in the figure’s shoulder but only managed to make the axe ricochet off of the finely angled armor. The figure struggled to move with the axe in it’s knee, but pressed it’s attack anyway. Epu crossed the deck and doubled back toward the bow, jumping over a table, and grabbing a carbine housed there as he did. He turned as quickly as he could, aimed the sights, pulled back the hammer. The smoky figure smashed through crates on it’s rampage toward the American, it’s faceless visage intent on his position. Epu pulled the trigger:

Click

It wasn’t loaded. Epu prepared for an overhead strike, one which he was sure he couldn’t block, as he saw a truly familiar figure come up the steps from below. 

BLAAAAAAMMM

Went the blunderbuss as it sent shrapnel into the armor. Leonard dropped the big gun and pulled his pistol out, fired once at the back of the thing’s head. It turned with a violent reaction and came rampaging after Leonard, who’d already taken his cue to start running. 

“I’m not here to fight you, Dread Captain.” The woman said as she heard the commotion begin outside. Emilio thought better of looking to see what he could, as raising his head even a little would begin an enduring tracheotomy. 

“Then why is my first mate getting ready for a fight?” Emilio asked. 

“The same reason why I’m here and not stowed away in your galley. I was paid to do something to the Padre Etemo—lead you into an ambush—but you have a visitor. One which will sink your ship if I don’t help you.” The woman responded. 

“And why do you have a knife to my throat?” Emilio asked with an indefinable humor. His heart began to beat quickly as he ran through all the options. 

“I need to make sure you won’t just kill me. And I need to make sure you’d hear me out.”

“And is that all I needed to hear?”

“Not quite, but suffice it to say for now that you’re currently harboring a rogue Harbinger. One which won’t hesitate to kill everyone on this vessel and more to get to you.” Their eyes met then, as she told him the truth. He could sense her sincerity, her fear. It radiated from her well-manicured fingers, through the knife, and into Emilio’s jaw. 

“You’re Luna’s agent, aren’t you?” Emilio asked as he felt the tension on the knife ease up.

“Please, I serve no man.” She said with a huff as she retraced the dagger and tucked it in one of the many holsters clasped to her body. “Especially not a rat-man, like him.” She’d made her way over to the door and peaked through the windows. 

Emilio made a quizzical face as he rose from the bed. This woman was not normal, of that he could be sure. “I promised Luna I’d kill anyone he sent who got in my way.” He said as he stood, weighing the pistol in his hand then holstering it in the sash tied across his waist. 

“If it makes you feel any better, think of me as another one of your passengers.”

Emilio chuckled in response, “It doesn’t. Passengers of mine don’t usually set the ship up for an ambush.  Speaking of which…”

“Not now! If I must prove my usefulness to you, I will; but until then, you’ll just have to trust me.” She rebutted with a pertinent impatience. 

“I don’t trust easily.” Emilio said grabbing his scimitar from the long dinner table near his bed. There was a hard knocking on the door, a rushed adolescent voice pouring Portuguese words over the other side of the wooden entry way.  More rushed knocking. 

“I know. But I’m the only way you’ll make it to Morocco safely now, like it or not. And if we spend any more time arguing everyone on this boat will die, except the Harbinger.” Emilio stayed quiet for some moments, interspersed and interrupted by scattershot knocks at the door and muffled groanings from beyond the wall. A shot went off, then another; Emilio recoiling with each. 

“Fine. Let the boy in.” the Dread Pirate relented, pointing toward the kid behind the door. Pablo spilled in like a flood, the door slamming behind him. 

“A monster! Sir, it’s a monster.” Was all the boy could breathe as he leant against the dinner table on the precipice of hyperventilating. Emilio patted the boy on the shoulder as he walked toward the entrance, eyes focusing on the piercingly dark eyes of the mysterious woman who held on steadily to the door. Time seemed to slow for him then as he picked up the blunderbuss he’d brought up from the gunnery. Holding his scimitar under his shoulder Emilio readied the firearm and pointed it toward the closed door, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He nodded toward the woman, which seemed to bring time back to normal. 

“I’ll need you to distract him.” The woman said in a cracking whisper, her fear getting the better of her ability to speak confidently. 

“We’ll do one better than that.” Emilio responded with a sly smile. The door opened and fresh rain sprinkled through the space as a new wind swept across the deck. Emilio stepped out onto what looked like a warzone. Epu had upturned a table and was taking pot shots toward the stern with several other men next to him. From above Emilio could hear grunts and brisk movements. Crashing wood broke through the relative silence and brought with it a hail of zinging gunfire. The moon’s light surprised the Dread Captain as it nearly blinded him. 

“Ha! I got you now” Leonard said in a tired English from above. Emilio glanced up in time to see his Boatswain making the same jump Epu and Emilio himself had made this very same day (over the bannister and onto the main deck), but this time followed by a trail of fire and kinetic force. A huge explosion rocked the room behind Emilio and he stumbled forward with the woman behind him. The roof of the room collapsed and brought the Harbinger down with it, all atop poor Pablo unfortunately. Emilio felt the boy’s death like a palpitation; it rattled him as he dove atop Leo. 

“What say we get a drink first, boss.” Leonard coughed as he tried to rise. He was caught by a drilling pain in his knee and ankle, so he toppled behind a post with a laughing groan. “Ah, I’m getting too old for this shite.”

Among the fiery wreckage of blood, and flesh, and wood, and metal still hummed a dark soul. It's effervescent nature pulling the burnt and distorted metal hunks back toward itself; in doing so it reformed the armor and clattered from the wreckage searching for it's lance, which remained lodged somewhere in the navigation room above. Emilio stood with the help of the mysterious woman, who held his scimitar in her other hand. He carefully aimed a shot and blasted the facade of his quarters, breaking out the tiny stain glass windows and parts of the wall. The figure seemed mostly unfazed. Emilio handed the firearm to Leonard behind him and took the scimitar from the woman. 

"If there's something you're meant to be doing, I'd start doing it now." he said as he worked the kinks from his shoulders and back. The Harbinger came forth slowly-- missing one hand, legs slightly uneven--, it clasped at the charred frame as it passed through the doorway. The woman went up the stairway to the right, toward the poop deck. 

A metallic grinding sound came from the Harbinger's core. Seeming to find a rhythm it began forming proper human sounds. "--Peeerrissh. You all shall perish!" It finally said in a dark, echoing tone. Leonard came to the top of the steps with a tired albeit straight-backed gait. The sabre held in his hand glistened a macabre pink as the Harbinger swung at Emilio; the light emanating from its very essence played on the folded metal through the thick rainfall.
 
“Shall I step in, Captain?” Leonard screamed through the wailing wind and sweeping of the masts.
 
Emilio wiped his curly hair from his face and back peddled further toward the stern. “I was just getting started!” He responded, a despondent smile growing on his face. The smile contorts into a grimace as he ducked from a claw strike, followed by a riposte to avoid an incoming punch to his abdomen. A flourish and a spin removed him from range of the Harbinger, a further short jump into a roll separated him even more and matched him up with Leonard.
 
“I could wait.” Leonard said, leaning on the banister.
 
Emilio chuckled as he readied his scimitar. With that the Captain glanced toward the poop deck and noticed a bright yellow hue coming from the figure of the woman. She seemed to have her arms outstretched. “We need more time,” Emilio yelled out soberly. At that Leonard propped up from his leaning position and fell in line, with his sabre brandished forth. As if on invisible cue the duo sprinted forth as the Harbinger bellowed a harsh metallic screech, one which sent waves through their bodies. They powered through the horrible, nearly kinetic, noise and slashed at the body as they passed, making sure to dodge any of the clumsy oncoming blows.
 
Having come out unscathed Emilio felt a blush of confidence; that very quickly turned to pain. A blunt concussive force radiated through Emilio’s body as the Harbinger released a blindingly fast kick to the abdomen. The Captain was knocked back several feet and crashed like a doll into the short wooden wall.
 
“Damn you!” Leonard screamed at the Harbinger as he brought a sabre strike down on the thing’s arm. The Harbinger grabbed the sabre mid-strike and shook it loose from Leonard’s hands. And faster than any man can react the sharp-knuckled fists came down on Leonard’s face. As easily as that his body crumpled to the sea sodden deck.

There was a rumbling. It broke through the rain and the fear, and concentrated minds fully on it. As the brilliant bolt of light shone from the hands of the woman on the stern she let out an inaudible shriek. As the light came into contact with the Harbinger, the metal suit was enveloped. 

Red splattered against the inside of the bubble of yellow light and pounded to release itself. A low humming came from somewhere in the bubble as it slowly ascended above the broken roof of the navigation room. Suddenly the bubble expanded to double it’s size, nearly enveloping the people below. Just as suddenly, however, the bubble collapsed in on itself and imploded; leaving nothing behind but sparks of red and yellow. The ship shook a bit with the explosion and slowly rocked back into the metronome of the sea. The lance hidden under rubble disappeared and more of the debris collapsed into the captain’s quarters. Emilio sat up from the floor where he laid, his hand nursing the ribs which had been struck by the metal construct. He brushed his curly hair moist with perspiration back, and stared at the space where the Harbinger once stood in great shock. “My bed…” he said exasperated as he frowned at the captains quarters. As Emilio stood Epu rushed out, grabbing his captain gently by the arm, “are you alright. I watched you get hit by that thing. It seemed like a force of nature.”

“And he hit like a thunder strike, too,” Emilio joked as he tried to limp toward the main deck. 

“I’m not kidding.” Epu said quietly, yanking Emilio back. “You should have died.” He whispered. 

Emilio could only glare at his friend. He couldn’t lie to him, but he didn’t have to tell him the truth either. “You should know more than anyone that I am quite difficult to kill.”

The two shared a moment of truth together, one of those moments which seeps into the fabric of time like cheap wine; it will always be there, but no one ever wants to talk about it. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Epu asked.

“Yes, I’m fine. What happened to Leonard?” Emilio asked as he took a look at his broken ship. 

“He’s battered and bleeding, has a broken jaw. Phillipe might be able to help him.” Epu responded cooly. At that moment the woman draped in black sauntered down the steps from the poop deck. She walked toward the little group with a smile. 

“Well done, Cicatrise. You managed to keep most of your crew members alive.” She said placing her hand on her hip. “I thought maybe you’d find some way to fuck it up.”

“Take a good look around. Some would say I have.” Emilio responded. Epu wanted to leave but could tell Emilio wanted him close by. “The deck is partly blown to hell. The navigation room is unusable.” He whispered these next words, “and according to you there’s a marauding ship somewhere between here and Morocco. How do you expect I feel?”

“You’re a talented man,” she responded cooly, “I’m sure the Dread Pirate Cicatrise isn’t afraid of some second rate brigandines.”

Emilio scoffed, “you don’t know shit, lady. This ship can’t handle a fight. Do you understand? The sailors need clear flooring to move and efficient organization. My boatswain has a fucking dislocated jaw and the main deck is battered to shit!”

“Who is this woman? Why do you need to explain things to her?” Epu asked.

“I just saved all of your lives, and it looks like I may need to do so again. So I’d watch your words, American.” She responded bitingly. Epu chuckled at her haughty ignorance and walked away. “I’m sure you can handle some holes in the ship and your communications, you’ve proven yourself to be resourceful."

“You know a fair bit about us, but I don’t even know your name.” Emilio said, frustrated, as he slicked his hair back again in the dwindling rain. 

“Alana, does that make it easier?” she said with a smile. 

“Not particularly, but it’s nice to know. We’ll have to speak about what you did to the Harbinger later.” Emilio said. 

“No, we don’t have to, but I imagine that you’ll want to anyway. I’m sure everything will be clear to you in time.”

“In time I’ll be dead, and it’ll be all your fault.” Emilio said facetiously. 

“Really? Hmm, you seem to be quite susceptible to life. And if memory serves, I can’t even get a scratch to stick on you.” Alana rebutted as she brought her hand to his neck, the same place she’d let her knife cut him before. There was nothing, no pain, no blood, no cut. “Spiritum Aeternum, Cicatrise. Your spirit is your body, and your spirit is eternal.” She said as she brought her hand to his chest. 

Waves of fear and excitement and anxiety wracked Emilio’s entire body as those words were said to him again. His confusion turned into some degree of understanding, and he was resigned to annoyance instead. 

“How long do we have?” he asked. 

“Maybe a day. Perhaps less. I’ll have a better answer in a few hours.” Alana said as she walked back to the stairs to take a seat. The rain had begun to die down, Epu was guiding the sailors into position. 

“It could happen in a few hours.” Emilio opined.

“Yes,” Alana admitted, “it could.” With no more than a second glace Emilio headed toward the gun deck to check on Leonard. On the way he asked a boy to gather others to fetch Pablo’s corpse from under the wreckage in his quarters.

In only a couple of hours most of the wreckage and debris had been removed from the ship, and some of the gaping holes had been covered with plied boards. It wasn’t perfect, but the Burned Bitch was in mostly working order. The entirety of the boat seemed alive in the twilight hours, even if that activity was muddled by dread and distaste. As the ball of energy and fire rose into the sky Emilio came back up from the gun deck, bags drooping under his eyes. The sun seemed to shock him as it illuminated the effects of the botched first night. He sat at one of the only undamaged tables and contemplated the business at hand; the herald of which was making her way over to the table. Alana leaned against the banister and glowed in the sunlight. Now that he could see her clearly in the light, Emilio noticed an eminent darkness about Alana. Her makeup was dark, but her pale skin seemed to accentuate the even darker tones around her. She had soft and round features which were framed by sharp bangs. She wore slick black leather armor from neck to toe, most of which was covered with pockets and belts. Her hands and parts of her arms were covered by a dark blue velvet, and the entire suit seemed to have an unearthly sheen. 

“I’m almost done with the calculations, it shouldn’t be much longer before I have the information you need. I should say that I’ve been impressed by your crew. Not just your mates either.” She said in a slight sweetness. 

“You’d be surprised what true sailors could do to keep a ship running.” Emilio responded from between his hands. 

“Oh? It’s not all that different from what a man might do to save his own life. There is nothing surprising about situations like that in this world, and certainly nothing surprising about what one will do to release oneself from those situations. In fact, I think you might be surprised by how little surprises me.”

Emilio tried to wade through the cloudiness of his mind for something sharp, but gave up, “Of that I have no doubt. Surprise seems to be under your employ.”

“Perhaps you should take a page from my book then. For example, no one is expecting you to tell the truth.” Alana said with a devious smirk. 

Emilio peered into her eyes, the rich amber hue calling out to him. He seemed to have a realization and went to fetch Epu. 

The Incan warrior was busy detailing some boys on needed resources from the stores when Emilio interrupted him. “I need all non-vital personnel above deck.” He whispered to his confidant before walking away.
 
As Epu handled the arrangements of the meeting Emilio went to his cleaned out quarters. Some loose debris still littered the ground. Near the entrance was a white fabric draped over a frail body. Emilio dropped to the ground next to it. He’d asked for it to be left in the room in order to maintain some semblance of order among the crew, he wished now that he hadn’t. He brought his head down to the corpses chest, heard the silent echoing chant of the dead. Something uncurled in Emilio’s chest and he felt an onslaught of emotions lapping over the edge of the bulwark of his confidence. Like a tipping cup, there was nothing at first. It was only until the first tear fell that it all came out at once. He wept over Pablo’s body as his mother would, and he felt a certain reassurance in that. Someone would need to weep for this boy, and Emilio could only hope someone would do the same for him when his eternal soul was returned to the earth at last. 

With Alana’s help Emilio was able to avoid the marauding ship off of the coast of Africa. It was an uneventful few days more as the ship made it’s wounded way to the port of Mogador. As the ship was anchored in place Emillio looked out over the famed Berber marketplace in it’s lively spirits. He hadn’t been here since he was a teenager. The Alaouite dynasty may have changed much in the city, but it could not change the energy and personality of the Mogador marketplace. Emilio knew his men would have a good time at this port as he made his way further into Morocco by way of Marrakech into the Sahara. He would take Epu, that’s for sure. Leonard would have to stay behind to watch the ship. If he could find any more brave, ill-fated souls to follow him into the abyss then he would recruit them for the journey, but he didn’t feel any ease in bringing these people toward their certain doom. The facts remained as they did, however; this world would continuously be plagued by the Dragon if Emilio didn’t try to destroy it, and he would need help in order to do it. Whether his spirit was eternal or no, Emilio knew that the Vatican’s magic had had an effect on his body, and he would use that magic to his advantage in spite of his ignorance and the unforeseen consequences.

This is a story of magical elements in a real world. A story of mystics, madmen, oracles, monsters, and Wizards; of racism and slavery, politics and war, corruption and creation, faith and logic. But it is set in the real world, it is surrounded by real events, and real people, and real-istic heroes. It begins in the town of Sintra, overlooked by the beautiful Sintra Mountains in Portugal, circa 1666. You are a person who lived in this small, partly coastal city on the day after the horrific events took place for one reason or another. From barmaid to banker, and explorer to saint, all who survived did so by seeking refuge in the mostly intact castle or barely intact monastery. 

Those in power, who can culminate, fabricate, and discard with history in the most lethal of whims, seek a way to rid the world of the Dragon, and plunder any treasure that may accompany the beast into his dreams. It is to the courts dismay that on the docket to be killed the very next day is a man purporting to be the “Dread Captain Scar”, a mythical pirate and monster-killer. They free him, ask that he form a team of Monster Hunters, and with the blessings of the church, go into Morocco, where the Dragon’s lair is said to be, and end the creature’s ungodly life. You are among the potential hunters. You may be strong or weak, smart or dull, Christian or Muslim or Pagan or Heathen; a rogue, an explorer, a monk, a historian, a scholar, or a prostitute. Whatever your skill set or affiliation, you will be chosen to attend this journey, chosen to undertake this most righteous of paths... this is righteous, isn’t it?

What the unwary voyagers of this expedition don’t know, and what they could never know, is that they are about to enter a world of fantasy. A world only ever spoken of in fairytales. The world that they knew to exist will have its ramparts blasted open, and the light of the truth may blind whoever dares step through the crumbled wreckage of the lies which kept them hostage there. Though you were brought aboard the recently furbished ship of Emilio Cicatrise as a means of providing more man-power or seeking the truth of the night before, you set sail for your final destiny all the same. Just as Emilio ventures forth to seek his truer nature in the heart of Morocco, so too do you. 

This is a revision of an RP I ran several months ago. There are some events which have occurred since the mythic night in Sintra in which the Dragon attacked. There’s a hider above which closely outlines these events, no need to fully read it now. I wanted to provide an example of how fleshed out this world is. There will be a beastiary when the RP launches which will detail all the creatures we have and will discover during the course of the RP. We will start the RP with our party getting off of Emilio’s vessel, the ‘Padre Etemo’, at the port of Mogador a fairly populous city on the coast of Morocco. The quest for the Dragon begins then, as the travelers seek the key to their fate. From there they trek into the berating heat of the Sahara as they ignorantly follow destiny’s path. 

Name:
Age:
Gender:
Birthplace:
Religious Affiliation:
Secular Affiliation:
Level of education:
Social status:
Occupation:
Appearance:
Personality:
Skill set:
Languages:
Bio: 
Notes:

This RP is set in the real-world Iberian Penensula and the surrounding areas during the 17th century; September, 1666 to be more exact. So, it's important you understand what's been happening in the region, not only over the past few decades but, over the past few centuries. Since this is set in Sintra,Portugal it is important to note that this country was at war with Spain at this point. In 1640 the Monarchy which ruled over both Portugal and Spain was opposed by Portuguese nobility, now known as the Braganzas. At this point they have all but won their independence and, either way, had begun installing leaders of the House Braganza to official Monarchy positions since the war began. 

As you've probably noticed, this RP mentions traveling to Morocco. This used to be the home of the Berbers who ruled most of northern Africa and the Iberian Peninsula under Islamic control until the Reconquista in the 15th century. During the events of this RP the nation is being wrested from that dynasty and is quickly being unified and strengthened by the Alaouite dynasty. 

Of course, it is important to note the differences in the world as well. The telescope was just discovered a few decades before the story begins, and it became an invaluable tool in civilized nations. Among that discovery were other things becoming hugely popular from the century before, including microscopes, pencils, and thermometers and barometers. Not to mention, the genius of Leonardo DaVinci was spreading like wildfire and artistic expression began to flourish. Science was just beginning it's uphill effort toward free inquiry, but Religious zealotry and persecution were still in full force. 

NOTE: In case you were wondering, the then Pope was Alexander VII.

-No Godmodding: Fairly simple, don't take control of another person’s character without permission, and do not make your character know or do something that would otherwise be impossible. This rule is especially important in this RP because I will be revealing very important details about the primary villain’s actions and it is up to you not to meta-game. 

-Be respectful: Whether it is me, your co-writers, or a guest coming to check out the thread, I'd like a high level of respect and decorum. 

-Be responsive: I don't expect everyone to post every day, I won't be able to certainly, but I do expect a certain level of communication. If I call out for you in the OOC, and definitely if I PM you, I expect a response in a timely manner. I'm not fussy about this sort of thing but I figure it's best to set a standard for it. 

-Have fun: It's very important that you and everyone else involved is having a good time creating, and reacting to these interwoven stories. It's a collaborative writing experience just as it is a collaborative entertainment experience. You need to care for your co-writers entertainment just as much as you care for your own. 

I expect Advanced level writing obviously, but I am very lax in terms of posting consistency and things like that. Needless to say, you should have a very basic idea of the timeline we are working with. It’s all set on earth so normal history applies. Most important, however, is that you remain vocal. I’d prefer it if people didn’t just disappear without saying a word.
The New Yorker Member

Treading the Rhetorical Minefield

Status

Bio

Most Recent Posts
