Open Chronicles Conquest of Paradise

[Amalric Urahil]

“Yes, but they’ve like as not seen our ship. Eh? One moment, Kishou. Sister,” dark eyes searched her own, “burn it. We have the fort. If anything comes we will hold for reinforcements.”

The Don turned and took the book from Kishou, stroking his mustache furiously as he flipped through the pages. He handed the diary back.

“Delusional nonsense. Disease probably addled his mind.” He raises his voice, “Finish searching, gather any supplies they left behind, burn any bodies, then we will pitch our tents and camp here for the night.”

 

[Ferran el Machir]

Landfall.

Ferran hadn't kissed it but he had knelt to grasp the sand in his hands and say the ritual prayer of thanks. They'd not had to pay a heavier price. Every sane sailor gave thanks after landfall, no matter how much they loved voyaging.

It wasn't his first time landing on an uncharted shore, nor would it be his last. He'd led landing parties up the Baal-Asha and on hostile coasts but this time seemed different. The jungle was forbidding, the silence broken only by the occasional birdcall or animal sound.

He kicked in a door, the rotten wood was barely on its hinges, and stepped inside a building. He had his cutlass drawn but there seemed to be little need for it. Silent as the grave. He sniffed but got nothing but the scent of rot. The rainy season ate through timber with ease.

Little of value. It didn't even have a body.

 

[Amorea Delarosa]

Sister Amorea did not seem convinced and certainly the expression returned to Diego just within the shade of her cowl said as much. Whatever was here might have been aware of their presence by sight of ship alone, but there was no evidence yet to suggest their current location had been given away. The element of secrecy, of surprise, would be gone with the first plume of smoke. The unknown fate of this camp should have cause him more alarm, made him wary.

But he was full of piss and vinegar to prove himself worthy of the job assigned him. His hubris would be their downfall if he wasn't careful.

The Priestess turned in simmering silence, lifted a gloved hand and directed her palm towards the target building.

"Padra-fuego..." words uttered beneath her breath cast a spark within that same palm that ignited into a swelling orb of flames, "limpiar." It shot from her hand in a spray of molten fire causing her horse to scream and rear. The heat scorched through the outer wall of the building, flames catching on the old wood tinder with a feverish speed.

Amore wrangled with her steed for several moments, turning it in circles until came to heel before steering it over towards Kishou. The same hand that had dealt the inferno now reached out towards him, though not in a manner meant to threaten, and gently gestured to the journal, "May I see that?"

 

[childish brandino]

Disappointment washed over Kishou as the journal was so dismissively placed back into his hand. Butragueño was clearly a sensible man before the last pages. Something caused the soldier to lose his bearing. To the foreigner, the journal had meaning.

His thoughts were interrupted as the priestess lifted a hand into the air and recited an incantation in a language that Kishou had no understanding of.

Then, suddenly and brilliantly, the priestess unleashed an impressive and frightening display of magic. Kishou shielded his eyes from the sudden outburst of brightness. In mere moments, the structure was thoroughly cleansed of whatever resided there. He lowered his hand from in front of his eyes, only to see the priestess struggling atop her horse.

Then, a warm hand extended down towards the foreigner.

“May I see that?” She spoke to him.

Her words washed over him with warmth not dissimilar to that of the sun. Perhaps, instead it was his own imagination being influenced by the impressive display just moments ago.

He extended a hand, placing the opposite end of the journal into her grasp, yet he did not let go as he felt her pull.

“There is something to learn from this,” He said, quietly enough for only her to hear, “I fear that we already face some of the dangers written on those pages.”

After some silence between them, he let go of the journal. Diego was quick to dismiss the journal. He hoped that the priestess treated the matter differently.

 

[Hilteliren]

From within Muirin's pocket a snarl sounded. Small but fierce.

 

[Amalric Urahil]

"Gratitude, Sister Delarosa," Diego smiled winsomely, then swaggered off toward a nearby group of soldiers as the barracks burned.

"Get those tents up men. Vasco, let's have a watch posted on the walls. Doubled facing the jungle, eh? Don't want anything coming out of the trees and surprising us in the night."

He clapped his hands together. "Spritely, spritely!"

 

[Amorea Delarosa]

For his efforts, Kishou received a nod of understanding from the Priestess. She would give the journal its due consideration.

"Domador Carrera," the Priestess called out as she turned her horse away and back towards where the men were grouping, "the stables?"
The Horse Master paused between orders of the other men moving supplies, "Empty, Sister, and sound. Shall I take him for you?"
"Si," Amore dismounted in one fluid motion, handing the stallion off.
"Sister ... the men want to know if you will lead them in prayer before the meal?"
"Of course," her answer was gentle, "Did anyone uncover the Solar altar?"
"To the north of the barracks, but Sister? It has been defaced."
"Does the Sun still rise in the east and set in the west, Domador?"
"Surely it does, every day."
"Then our father remains present."
"And when it's dark, Sister?"
Amorea smiled as she turned to make way for the altar, "That is why I am here."


The Sun Altar - Following Evening Prayer

Domador Carrera had not been wrong, the Sun Altar had seen a fair amount of violent abuse. Something of great stature and exceptionally strong claws had managed to cleave great gouges into the metal, and yet it still gleamed in the golden rays of the setting sun. The Altar was as tall as the Priestess who stood before it while she waited for the men to assemble, though she had made no efforts to repair the damages done. To Amore, the fact that it still stood and still shone with a regal splendor was proof enough the resilience of their Sunfather.

For many Cortosi, faith held a strong place in their home, heart, and life - but in times of uncertainty such as now, even the less faithful could take comfort in the warmth of prayer. They knelt on the ground before the Sun Altar, silent under the quiet sermon of the Solar Priestess as she walked between them. They murmured in unison the answers of their faith when questioned and accepted the mark of the Father's Ashes drawn onto their foreheads by her thumb.

By the time prayer ended, most men took their leave to sup while a few remained behind to further their own prayer. Amore's tent had been set up not far from the Altar, a fire gently crackling as the sun slowly disappeared from the sky. It was there, upon a woven rug of red, black, and golden threads that she sat in silent contemplation of the book resting on the rug before her.

 

[childish brandino]

Kishou, of course, helped pitch tents. He enjoyed simple work that required diligence, so there was no issue to him in aiding set up a temporary camp within the fort. That, and he knew that lazing about would only invite boredom.

The sun fell from the sky, leaving the heavens above them dyed with beautiful, vibrant colors. Many gathered under the Sun Altar, or so it was called. Kishou watched the ritual from a distance. Arms folded, he leaned back against a barrel some distance away from the altar. He could not hear what was being said, but he closely observed for some time.

It didn’t take long for his patience to run out. He left, unstrapping his breastplate as he walked away from the group prayer. The skirt of plates that dangled from the armor rattled with each step. He stored it away at his tent, which he shared with a few others. He then cleaned himself as thoroughly as he could from the basin outside of his tent. His upper garment hung from his waist, exposing an impressive physique and twelve healing lashes on his back.

By the time he concluded, a soldier approached him. Kishou watched as he approached, pulling his garment back over his shoulders.

“Kishou,” The Cortosi addressed him, “Sister Delarosa requests your presence- at your convenience.”

As the soldier spoke to him, the foreigner looped his arms through the long, loose sleeves. He nodded, “Where is she?”

The soldier gestured in the direction of the altar, “You will not miss it.”

With thanks, Kishou began to make his way through camp. His hair was let down. As he walked, silky black hair swayed with each step. He greeted a few soldiers as he passed.

After a short walk, he arrived at the priestess’ tent. He did not have his swords, and his upper garment was loosely worn. He looked down on her as he approached, but kept a respectful distance. The foreigner stood on the other side of the open flame. He couldn’t help but think that the priestess influenced the way the flame danced in its pit. Kishou remained silent for a moment, appreciating the woman in front of him. His eyes then found the journal placed on the rug, and his mood soured as he recalled its contents.

“You called for me?”

 

[Ferran el Machir]

Ferran didn't like it.

It wasn't that he hadn't camped before. He'd been on enough campaigns, both with and against fellow Cortosi. Reprisals north into Amol-Kalit and the constant bickering infighting between the various city-states and petty principalities that the coast seemed to breed.

His issue was that they didn't know what they were blundering into. The fort here hadn't saved its previous inhabitants, so why bother spending the night ashore? They were safer on the ships. They had no idea what this isles held beyond the ravings of madmen and half forgotten legends.

The officers had set picquets and sentries, even attended to doubling them on the jungle side, but he still didn't feel right. He found himself up by the walls, studying the greenery, staring int he dark as if his eyes could pierce through it.

 

[Amorea Delarosa]

The Priestess' eyes were shut as he arrived, the silence of meditation heavy in the immediate area. Cowl pulled from her head, the woman's scarlet hair rested in a long braid over one shoulder, gleaming in the light of the dancing flames.

"Yes," she replied quietly, "please join me, Forastero."

Quiet and the crackling of the flames persisted for several moments, the gold threads of her Solar Choir robes shimmering in their dance. Amorea's gloved hands rested upon her thighs and she waited for any verbal or sound cue from the man before she spoke again.

"How is it you have come to join the Cortosi company?"

 

[childish brandino]

He rubbed the back of his neck and sat across from her, fire between the two. He remained quiet for a moment, looking at her for a moment, then down to the fire.

Then, she spoke, asked how he found himself in their company. The question took him by surprise.

"Well," He started, his first word dragging somewhat, "I was taken in when the ships were docked at Alliria. Diego and I.. We met, and I treated him to drinks."

He paused, reluctant to admit to her about the brawl that broke out. Many of the sailors and soldiers had asked, some even exaggerated the retelling of it, but Kishou wasn't particularly proud of cutting those men down.

"That same night there was a fight. It's embarrassing to admit, but Anirian men were killed."

He fell into silence, and after a moment looked up from the fire with a small, pleasant smile. "I am here as a result of one night of foolishness."

 

[Amorea Delarosa]

A smile tugged at the Priestess' lips, eyes opening to peer at the man across the fire - dancing flames reflected amidst sapphire blues.

"That is an odd sort of fate indeed," she brushed stray strands of red from her eyes and took a moment to make a silent gesture of faith. What powers of the divine that fueled her own magics could not be picked up and set down like a discarded journal on a whim. One didn't just stop a session of meditation mid-routine; a cool down period was necessary - one Kishou had walked in on - with a formal amen at the end for good measure.

Now that that had been handled, she turned her attention from matters of provenance to matters of substance: the outlander and the journal.

"Yours is a people of honor and tradition," she began, pulling her right glove off one finger at a time, "a fascinating culture." Left hand then tugged at the sleeve of her robes on her right arm, exposing a fair-skinned wrist and forearm that she then leaned directly into the flames of the fire and without so much as a batted eye withdrew a black metal kettle from the center, "I understand you take tea over important matters?"

 

[childish brandino]

The swordsman closely watched the priestess, first as she brushed hair away from her eyes then as she concluded a prayer of sorts, or so it seemed to the foreigner.

"Hm," He responded with an affirmatory grunt and a subtle nod, "Quite odd."

He felt disquieted by the woman in front of him for a variety of reasons. Disregarding her impressive power, she possessed qualities he found even more dangerous. The devotee had elegant features, with an aura of confidence that seemed to charm him with every spoken word.

Kishou knew only the sword, dedicating his whole life to cutting down men better than himself. Emotional intelligence was something that he pushed aside, never caring to nurture, as he had never maintained long-term relationships with others. This woman that, with mere words, was able to so easily stir emotions within him was enough to prompt apprehension from the foreigner.

He carefully watched as she exposed her delicate hand and arm, then tensed up as she reached into the open flame. She then spoke of his heritage. Apprehension was substituted for curiosity. It was the first time in over a decade of travelling the continents that somebody had shown even a minuscule amount of knowledge regarding his homeland.

"How do you know that?" He spoke, almost frantically. He quickly composed himself, correcting his posture. Any unease was gone. With a few mere words, she had dispelled any suspicion. As he spoke, he was enthused. "Your understanding is correct. Have you met one of my countrymen in the past?"

 

[Amorea Delarosa]

"A Tea Master," she answered over a slight smile, white caps of her teeth showing, "he spoke very little with his words but at length with his craft."

The cups she filled were of dark earthenware adorned by simple lines of gold encircling their middle. She poured two, and offered one through the flames to the man, bending the flare of the fire in an open circle around it so as to avoid burning him.

"Offered me mountain mint leaf, to cool the heat of my blood. The intended effect was perhaps not as strong as he had hoped."

Once he'd taken the proffered cup she settled back into her own, taking it up in her hands and allowing the steam to lift in a wisp just under her chin, "This journal is troubling - the man who wrote it was of high honors and sound mind. The quiet we have arrived to I feel is unnatural and temporary."

 

[childish brandino]

The foreigner watched her fair lips as she spoke, then his eyes rose to meet hers as she smiled. A smile of his own flashed back at the priestess. Of all the aspects of his culture to leave his homeland's borders, he was glad that it had been tea.

"I envy those with a propensity for more sophisticated provinces," He humbly admitted.

As the cup was offered to him, he grasped it with both hands, with his left supporting it from below and his right hand curling around it. As the cup swapped hands, he lowered his head in a subtle, respectful bow to show his thanks. Kishou brought the cup close to him and held it close to his chest as if he were protecting something important.

After hearing her concern regarding the journal, he nodded in agreement.

"The rotten corpses written in the journal- there was one in the barracks Diego had you burn."

 

[Amalric Urahil]

Camp was quickly established and night had fallen. The soldiers not in watch took themselves to bed, or sat around campfires playing games and amusing themselves as was their wont.

Suddenly, there came a shriek cut short from one of the tents. The flap burst open and there stood Eusebius, a knife in hand, drenched in blood. Strange tumorous growths sprouted along his nostrils and neck. They were ridged and yellow, almost like gills.

“I CAN SEE,” he shrieked. “I CAN SEE.”

Soldiers scrambled away from him. Simocatta stood up from his fire, terror in his eyes as he watched his brother.

“I can see THEM.”

Then he drove the knife into his own eye socket.

 

[Ferran el Machir]

Ferran reeled from the parapet as the scream split the air. There were shouts and oaths, shadowy figures rushing back from a fire. "Stay on watch" he barked at the sentry before throwing himself down the steps, taking them three at a time.

His hand was on his hilt but he didn't draw it. Like most of them he seemed to be paralyzed by the sight in front of him.

 

[Thrukk Guldarp]

The poor young soldier beside Thrukk was not having a good night. The tent was supposedly for four. It turned out it took one Thrukk, his warhammer, his two scimitars, his gear and left a sliver of space for one young cortosi to be kept awake by thunderous snores.

It would take a brave man, or perhaps a man with a very long pike, to try and wake him to stop the noise.

The snoring stopped abruptly when the shouting started.

"Och, time to earn mah keep! Get oot mah way!"

 

[Muirin]

Another night spent in a damned fort. There were few things Muirin despised; wizards, cilantro, and mantises to name a few. But what he hated more than anything-- What he loathed more than death, soberness, or haughty noble piss-brats, were walls. To some, a great big palisade brought a sense of security and peace, but the fortifications surrounding the night's camp only served to make the scoundrel feel like an animal that had been cornered and trapped.

When something clawed and bit at him from within his jacket partway through a bout of gambling, Muirin almost saw it as a blessed excuse to take a walk. Almost. He rose from his seat and gave the Cortosi soldier at his side a quick pat on the back, one hand on his pocket. "Oi'll be back n'a minute. Need t'piss."

The scoundrel walked a good distance away, pushing his way past the outermost gate and skulking close to the wall. He pulled the small totem from his pocket, fixing it with a steady gaze. "An' what the hell d'you want?" A series of cries and screams issued forth from within camp, and at that moment, Muirin favored his chances beyond the wall rather than dealing with whatever was back the way he came.

 

[Hilteliren]

As soon as the totem was pulled from his pocket it began to change. Beady eyes glowed, the small figurine slipped from his fingers like smoke and churned through the air as a black fog that smelled of ashes and fire. Before the scoundrel a large black panther took shape, amorphous as a roiling cloud.

It growled at him with a sound like thunder that seemed to beckon the man along as if reading his mind.

Beyond the walls.

 

[Muirin]

Face to face with a spectral panther remarkably similar to those that had haunted him in the past, Muirin cast one brief glance over his shoulder before nodding. The screams weren't going to resolve themselves, but the Cortosi had their own people to tend to that. The scoundrel, meanwhile, had a debt to pay.

"Aw'roight. Creepy, yeh, but awlroight." He gave the panther a short nod, carefully adjusting the heavy blade at his hip. When one goes busting ghosts, it's good to make sure your weapon's in the right place. The night was young, and the rest and recreation had only just begun when the totem began its clawing and nipping - Damn it all if Muirin wasn't just about as sober as ever. "Le's go, then."

 

[Amorea Delarosa]

"What a novel life he must lead," the Priestess replied with a faint hint of wonder, "to be a Master of Tea."

Her own tea still piping hot, Amore lifted it to gently blow away the steam at the surface. She took a small sip, far ahead of it being cool enough for the normal person; heat could not harm her. A moment to enjoy the scent before it lowered again to listen to the man's words, ones that brought about a faint line of concern to her brow.

"The body, did anyone touch it? I am concer-"

That's when the screaming started, immediately drawing her gaze in the direction from whence it came: the tents. No haste was made to move, but instead an effort was given to listen to what the screams were saying over the sound of the fire's crackle and the response of the other men in the encampment.

I can see them.

The Priestess' gaze shifted back to Kishou and then to the journal. She set her tea aside, wrapped the journal in leather and placed it within a pocket of her robes before standing and gathering her staff. Pausing only a moment to see if the Forastero would join her, she made way with purpose back through the camp towards the sound.

 

[childish brandino]

Kishou nursed the cup in his hands while he listened to her speak. The warmth that he felt on his palms through the ceramic cup was little compared to the warmth he felt well up inside himself as she spoke to him. He couldn't help but smile from her comment regarding the tea master.

Suddenly, a scream cut into the stillness of the night, and the priestess' question. The swordsman's head snapped towards the source, but he was careful to not spill a single drop of the tea that she had brewed for him. She rose, and he followed. He set the cup next to hers and gave his full cup a regretful, longing stare before quickly following the devotee.

A part of him was uneasy, given that he had left his swords in the tent. It was a rare and disconcerting feeling to approach potential danger unarmed.

"To answer your question before," He spoke as he took his place next to the priestess, "Eusebius, one of the large Allirians, was exposed to some sort of discharge from the body."

There was a slight pause, a moment of contemplative silence between the two. They both read the journal. They were aware of what that meant. What contents were written in the journal was not enough to prepare the foreigner for the horrific sight of the poor Allirian man.

 

[Amalric Urahil]

Diego stormed onto the scene, still buckling on his cuirass.

"By the Sister, what is going on out here?"

Dark eyes flashed from the crowd, to the body of Eusebius, to the grieving Simocatta.

"Shit. Pedro?"

"Don?"

"What-"

"THEY'RE COMING!" someone from the rampart screamed.

Diego turned. "What? Who? What?"

He vaulted up the stairs and into one of the wood towers of the palisade. In the distance, the jungle swayed as things came from the treeline. Twisted forms of creatures with strange growths, some humans, but many others were reptilian races that Diego did not recognize. Some seemed to be Naga.

"To the walls!" he roared, unsheathing his rapier.

 

[Ferran el Machir]

Somewhere, a quick witted drummer was beating the alarm, the frantic drumbeats matching the beating of Ferran's heart.

He raced back towards the ramparts, hearing the approaching sounds from the treeline. "Stand to!" he yelled, his voice carrying from years of practice shouting above the wind or across the deck.

He swore as he saw the horrors rushing towards them. Ferran forced the fear down, levelling the crossbow at the dark mass surging towards the wall, he couldn't miss. He could hear the twang of strings as other archers opened up.