Open Chronicles Conquest of Paradise

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Ferran el Machir

An honest man.
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Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.



THE ASHERAH OCEAN
SANTA ROSARIA


A month or more at sea.

More than a week with no sight of land.

The last day in unseasonable calms and cloying mist.

Ferran stood in the bow near the leadsman. The sailor swung the sounding line again and cast it out into the water with a splash. The leadsman leaned over the gunwale to watch it, checking the intervals with a practiced eye. "By the mark eight" he called out and Ferran cursed, moving aside. Eight fathoms, probably another damnable reef. He strode back up the maindeck, ignoring the hostile stares from sailors and soldiers alike. He swung himself up onto the shrouds, climbing with practiced skill. The gentle roll of the ship was soothing. Ferran paused halfway up, the mist even obscuring the deck below. He hawked and spat before resuming his climb.

Nearly a thousand miles to round the southernmost point of the Allir Reach. A lengthy tack northeast, only putting in to rewater and victual. And finally the westward reach towards Nagai. Ferran had gambled, he'd sailed well south, more than a hundred miles offshore. Escaping the rip currents and changing gusts to take advantage of the stronger ocean winds. A coasthugger would never have made it this far. Only a madman would have risked staying in close to the Iuk-'U Delta, running aground, and getting murdered by its inhabitants.

The lookout seemed half grateful, half apprehensive to have the pilot join. "Anything Alonzo?" he asked, more out of habit than anything else. The sailor shook his head quickly, "Nothing but mist, it comes and goes". Ferran's shoulders slumped and he began downclimbing. The officers were always first to go when a ship's company took matters into their own hands.

Alonzo resumed his lonely vigil, resting his head on his hands. Too long staring in the same place and you began to see things. The mists, the clouds, the waves, they could all take on shapes. Like that one, it looked just like a...

He shot to his feet, gawking at a stone structure in the distance, a serpent carved prominently on its peak. A roar escaped him. Shouts came from the deck below. "Lookout! Report!" was the thundering roar from someone with authority in their voice. Alonzo opened his mouth and stopped. The mist had closed in again. His heart sank. He'd been sure, it had seemed so real. He braced himself for an inevitable punishment but then it slowly began to clear. This time it was unmistakable. Greenery, the stone structure sticking out of it, half hidden amongst the jungle.

Ferran was halfway down when the leadsman called again, a trace of excitement in his voice, "By the mark six!". Then came the cry from above "Land ho! Five points starboard!". Ferran didn't wait, he jumped the last ten feet to the deck. He cupped his hands and roared at the sterncastle "Five points starboard!". The helmsman was already obeying, having anticipated the order.

Sailors and soldiers from below were scrambling up on deck, a nervous silence engulfing them. Ferran gripped a shroud, squinting forward into the whiteness. It began to fade, like smoke before a breeze. A sandy beach and beyond that, a wall of greenery. "Land ho!" came the elated cry from Alonzo. Cheers rose from the ships, the companies screaming themselves hoarse in triumph. Ferran dropped his head and said a silent prayer of thanks.

"Drop anchor!"
 
The doors to the captain's cabin flung open, and out marched the Captain-General of the expedition. He looked worse for wear. Gaunt. Eyes sunk. Like he had spent the better part of the night indulging someone else's torturous speech.

The likely culprits followed just behind him - Brother Francisco in his usual church regalia, looking every bit the rat-faced villain responsible for the flogging of several popular men. Then there was Brother Roque, a tower of a man and a member of one of the more obscure martial brotherhoods the Radiant Church employed. His visage was obscured, as always, behind a red-painted great-helm. It looked quite taciturn on his behalf.

Hernan did not cheer, and neither did his miserable followers. Piety, and close proximity to those who had it, often sucked the joy out of people. "Roque, fetch my brother. And his foreign friend."

Roque shifted into something approximating a shallow bow. chainmail clattering, and he saw himself off. Hernan gave his beard a thoughtful stroke as he surveyed the chattering deckhands, and returned to his quarters.

This is where the hard part started.
 
Restless dreams fled as a rough, gloved hand shook Diego awake. He stirred in his hammock, felt a twinge of pain flare in his back, and let out a groan.

“Don’t you know it’s bad luck to wake the dead?”

“The Captain-General requires your presence.” The voice sounded muffled and reverberating, like it came from a man with a pot over his mouth.

Or a helmet.

“Oh it’s you, Brother Roque. I could recognize your particular cheer anywhere, eh? Even in this black hellhole.”

Gingerly, Diego swung down from his hammock. He never got used to the cold, damp air and perpetual darkness. To say nothing of the smell and the incessant swaying of the ship. But say one thing for soldiers, say they can sleep anywhere.

“Vasco, Pedro, up.”

Up the steps, they climbed, all wincing as scabs threatened to split beneath their bandaged backs. The darkness of the hold gave way to misty light and Diego blinked several times before his eyes adjusted.

“Ah, Captain-General, Don Machir, ... Francisco. Is that land? Finally. By god, my balls chafe.”

He grinned wolfishly.
 
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“The Captain-General demands your presence,” A cold voice interrupted Kishou’s thoughts.

The foreigner sat at the bow, a spot he often occupied when there was no work for him to do. He awkwardly rose to his feet, trying to avoid any unnecessary irritation on his back. He wordlessly followed Brother Roque. As they walked across the deck, many of the men greeted Kishou. While initially he was not welcomed, his diligence and high work ethic earned him the respect of most of the crew despite his obvious inexperience at sea. Even more so following the flogging. While still far from being a decent sailor, he would often take on the more menial tasks.

It took no time at all for Kishou to arrive. He did not see Hernan or Brother Francisco often. Truth be told, he’d rather never see Brother Francisco.

Kishou bowed to Hernan, “Hernan-dono.”

He rose, and smiled to Diego, Pedro, and Vasco. “Good to see you, my friends.”

He did not waste his breath on any formalities towards Brother Francisco.
 
The presence of the clerics seemed to sap the joy from those nearest them. Ferran turned to the gunwale so he wouldn't show his expression of disgust. Spitting over the side, he forced a smile and nodded his head out of politeness. "We've made landfall" he announced, biting back a sharp comment at the lack of interest.

The Captain-General didn't linger long before heading back to his cabin. Ferran's eyes were hard as they followed him. Gods you're a cold one. The sort to use men like chess pieces. He nodded as the other Alcantara and his foreign friend followed after him. What were they plotting now?

He gave a crewman a wink and came off the sterncastle to enjoy the atmosphere. Hands clattered off his back, sailors hugging each other in delight with little regard for rank. He was itching to get ashore but for now, he just savoured the moment. He stared at the land, wondering what surprises the jungle would hold. Disease, beasts, poison, death, madness. But for now they could gaze upon it and admire its beauty in the sun. Its look of promise.

He tapped the bosun's shoulder and jerked his head aft. "Himself is in there with the others. Get the boats ready just in case. Sure as sure, there'll be someone going ashore".
 
When Diego, Kishou, and the lot of their middling friends entered the cabin, the first thing the would see was the map of Nagai. A large thing, spread out over a suitably large table. Hernan stood at the head, and was maneuvering three little figurines - wooden ships - into their approximate position along the coast.

The treasure fleet.

Aside from that, there was a small, weedy man sat on a chair in the corner of the cabin. Francisco had a hand on his shoulder. Anyone who didn't know Francisco would have assumed it was to comfort or steady the nervous fellow. Too bad that everyone present knew Francisco all too well.

Roque stood by the door. Like he thought any of them were going to make a break for it. Hernan included.

"It is land indeed," Hernan said. "But you will not be going ashore there."

He reached forward with the cane, tapped the small island that hugged the northern coast of Nagai.

"Diego, when we were little. Do you recall hearing those stories about the Fernández Expedition?"

The stories were, more often than not, of the horror variety.
 
"The Lost Expedition? Of course, how could I forget. The nursemaid used to terrify us with stories of giant storks stalking the marshes, Wendigos with claws as long as a man's arm, rainbow-feathered dragons, tiny frog men, and other things in the jungle. Darker things that drove men mad. Can't have those stories if the lost expedition was entirely lost, obviously, eh? But the survivors... they say they were mad men. Most killed themselves. Clawed out their own eyes. Hung themselves and the like."

Diego reached a hand and scratched at his lower back.

" I tried to visit one they had in prison at Torleon, but all he did was blabber on about the Eyes, the Eyes, over and over again."
 
Hernan sighed heavily and shook his head. When you describe such things out loud, they tend to sound worse than they actually are. Hopefully the foreigner hadn't been unnerved. "Men with wild imaginations. I'm sure the prisoner you visited had more problems than just whatever he'd seen in Nagai."

Some people had come back perfectly fine - the weedy man that Brother Francisco was currently holding steady, for instance. Regularly fine. The poor wretch practically flinched every time the boat rocked too hard to one side.

"They landed on a small island, close to the coast of mainland Nagai. That friendly fellow over there, Panza, - " And here, Hernan indicated the flinching man, " - claimed to have seen the settlement recently. Sailed close to them on a trading trip to the Iuk-'u. Didn't you?"

The nervous fellow made no response, save to dart his eyes around the room, looking for escape. He found only Brother Roque.

Hernan continued. "The settlement still stands. Apparently. All the little buildings, the palisade. Smoke from fireplaces. Ringing church bells. Not the charred ruin we heard about. His crew said the same thing, even after, ah."

Hernan looked to Brother Francisco, then back to Diego.

"Questioning."
 
A rap came at the door.

Ferran entered after a moment's pause for politeness's sake. His eyes took in the map, the gathered officers, and the ominous figures of the Brothers. He looked at Hernan and nodded his head. "Beg your pardon Captain-General but we've prepared the boats for a landing".

The unfinished map. His own rutters had variations on Nagai, no two accounts seemed to agree, and the interior was generally blank. His eyes flickered back up and he cleared his throat. "Ship's company is ready, our sister vessels are signalling the same. If your right honourable officers-" his voice carefully hid his true opinion "-order the soldiers to be prepare, we can have a contingent ashore before watch's end".
 
Kishou knew nothing of such tales, nor has he experienced anything supernatural capable of leaving him traumatized. As far as he was concerned man was the most vile, terrifying thing that he has experienced. Diego's obscure description of the horrific stories did little to unsettle the foreigner.

He momentarily wondered about Panza, then dismissed the insignificant man from his mind.

When Ferran arrived, the words he spoke were more to Kishou's understanding. Prepared for landing, setting feet on solid ground before watch's end? This was something that excited the swordsman. He gazed at Hernan with an intense expression that masked his child-like excitement. He would await the Captain-General's orders.
 
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Mess Hall

"Nae, nae aam nae sayin' ye can ootrin a naga!" Thrukk said, jabbing an indignant finger at the mercenary who had contradicted him. As an ex-pit fighter Thrukk liked to speak as if he was the world's expert on fighting any kind of person or monster. He spoke like that with - or in the complete absence of - real experience. He also did not like to be interrupted.

"It is like a bull," Thrukk continued. "Ye are nae gonnae rin faster but ye need tae be quick oan yer feit. Move aroond them an' tire them out. Th' biggest bastard snakes make me look wee."

"So use crossbows then?"

Thrukk recoiled, almost in horror. He had to take a big swig of his drink before replying to that. He was always hungry and always thirsty. During the trip he had lost a great deal of weight. Eventually he had decided this was no bad thing. He had revelled in food, wine and women over the last few years and it had shown. Now he was back down closer to his former fighting weight. A lean tower of muscle with an unpredictable attitude.

"Ah mean yeah ye could, but whaur would be th' fin in that?" he asked incredulously.
 
Some time later........

“PREPARE THE BOATS!”

The cry went up from the deck of El Sol, the second of the Cortosi galleons, which had separated from the rest and now anchored near an island a short distance from the coast of Nagai.

Through a spyglass, the beach could be clearly seen, as could the fortifications further inland of Fort Redondo, or the Silent Fort as the men had taken to calling it. Nothing stirred on the beach.

Diego snapped the spyglass shut and clambered into one of the three shore boats along with many others. He wore full kit today, including his breastplate and helm of good Cortosi steel. A fourth boat carried several horses.

On his signal the boats dropped and men hauled at their oars amidst the salty spray until their keels finally ground against sand. Diego vaulted over the rail and into the shallow water, drawing his rapier and holding his small round shield up.

Behind him, men streamed onto the beach. Crossbows were strung. Swords unsheathed. Axes hefted.

Yet from the jungle line, nothing came.
 
The foreigner followed close behind Diego. He felt at ease, for before they departed Alliria, Hernan so kindly sent Cortosi soldiers to retrieve his armor. The breastplate itself was smooth, and a skirt of plates protected his hips, groin, and posterior. It snugly fit him. He felt no discomfort in wearing the armor.

In his right hand, he wielded the longer of his two swords. As Diego came to a halt to scan the empty beach, Kishou's guard lowered. The group was anxiously silent as if they expected some unspeakable terror to emerge from the thick foliage. Perhaps he would be among them if he had any wild expectations. He watched Diego's back, then the trees in front of them.

After a moment, he turned and looked at the men behind them. He shrugged to a few that looked his way. Whatever their expectations were, the chance of meeting nothing was not among them.
 
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The last to join the landing crew was a woman cloaked in black, gold, and red baring the sigil of the Sun God himself and the gleaming emblem of the Solar Choir. Masked and silent as the sun was bright, she stepped onto the third boat and seated herself without a word to the paling faces of those making the trip with her.

The Priestess had been sent for the journey and played a crucial role in tending to those who had fallen sick on the ship, offering triage to the wounded and prayer to those who sought to keep their faith strong. She spoke not a word more than was necessary and never unless spoken to first. Sometimes not even then. Her presence was great reassurance to some, awe-inspiring to many, and terrifying to others. The Priests of the Solar Choir rarely left the church for any other reason than to enact the will of The Bright One, be it fury or faith.

Notably, no one sat near her in the shore boat.

Clear waters licked at leather boots as she followed the men up across wet sand. The silence of the beach that met them was jarring, even the sound of the waves lapping against the shore seemed to be deafened. It did not take heightened senses beyond the common man to know that something was amiss.

With her Sunstaff in her left hand the Priestess began the silent ritual of prayer, making the gesture of the Sunfather's faith before the several-hundred-year-old-words of the Gilded Scripts began to spill quietly from her lips. The air on the beachfront shifted into a forward breeze as she began to weave words of holy invocations, utterances of truth-seeing, and verses of divine protection.
 
Muirin was silently surprised to see a woman slink into the third landing vessel, taking her seat at the opposite end to himself. A night misspent gambling and drinking from what little reserves he'd snuck onto the expedition had left the scoundrel with an utterly unpleasant buzz that wavered in its potency from discomforting to skull splitting, and something about the priestess's presence irked Muirin in an unplaceable way. Perhaps the sun shone too brightly off of the gold of her attire, or maybe anyone who claimed to speak for the divines had a way of cutting under his skin.

Whatever the cause of his distress may have been, the scoundrel was quick to turn around and face the oncoming beach once their boat touched down to the waters below. With the woman's bright aura out of sight once more, his headache began to soothe itself despite the rocking of waves battering against the tiny vessel.

Well-worn boots splashed inelegantly up the shore, and Muirin was one of the notable few to keep his blade sheathed securely on one hip. His attire bore no outward signs of armoring, for even the tough material of his jacket would have trouble standing up to a blade of any repute. The trained eye, however, might tell that the scoundrel was far from defenseless. He gave his knuckles a quiet, subdued crack, and once more did an air of menace manifest and crackle from the air itself.

...

When nothing came charging from the woods, however, Muirin let his shoulders drop. An errant, silent wind blew the faint scent of rain off of the beach once more, and the landing crew was left in foreboding silence. Only the quiet mutterings of the holy woman crept across the shore, and the scoundrel felt something was about to go terribly, terribly wrong.
 
Only the quiet mutterings of the holy woman crept across the shore, and the scoundrel felt something was about to go terribly, terribly wrong

"Oh snaaaake people, snaaaake people, bite loch a snake, stand loch people..."

Several soldiers turned very slowly towards the ogre as he gave a few verses of his 'song'. He slapped his warhammer against his hand as he strode up the beach, occasionally looking towards the treeline.

"Made it up myself!" he declared proudly to the incredulous stares. "Don't look sae disappointed lads. Might still be some fightin' tae be foond!"
 
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“Whose giant is this?” Diego demanded, “Eusebius? Simocatta?”

The Allirian brothers, slings and shot in hand, shook their heads silently.

“Uh, Diego?”


“Yes, Pedro?”

“I may have hired him at the uh, well, it doesn’t matter.” The tall, thin Cortosi let out a nerve-filled chuckle, glancing between Diego and the treeline.

“Oh, so we’ve you to thank for this lovely addition. Wonderful. Why couldn’t you bring me more slingers, like Vasco, eh? Why singing giants? Why?” Diego shook his head, then, louder, “Soldados, form up. Crossbows at the front. Rodeleros to the side. Just because there’s nothing screaming from the trees doesn’t mean there’s nothing there, eh?”

A young man led a dappled gray warhorse of fifteen hands to Diego.

“Acero, don Alcantara.”

Diego sheathed his rapier, took the reins, and swung up into the saddle. He patted the neck of Acero, then urged the horse on.

The wooden gate and palisades of Fort Redondo rose up only a short distance from the beach. It had several watchtowers, but all unmanned to Diego’s eyes.

They advanced some distance, until they came just out of bowshot of the gates.

Vasco and Pedro came alongside Diego, each mounted.

“Abandoned?” asked Vasco.

“Mayhap.”

Turning in the saddle, Diego looked at those who he had brought ashore. The professional Cortosi soldiers had arranged themselves into a tight formation, bristling with rapiers, halberds, and pikes. Scattered around them were various castoffs they’d picked on since they’d left the homeland, including that giant of a man with the singing voice of a lowing ox and another man beside him who looked as though he had just crawled out of an Elbion tavern and onto the beach.

Diego glanced between them and the fort’s gates. “You and you.” He pointed. “It is time to earn your salt, as El Machir would say, no? See if you can open the gates.”
 
Muirin kept his arms crossed tightly over his chest, breathing in deeply through his nose and blowing it out through clenched teeth. It was a method taught to him by an old quartermaster to keep oneself from delving too quickly into the red mist of a fight, though the tension of the scoundrel's jaw did little to assuage the budding stress in his chest. When Diego gave him a point and an order, Muirin responded with a simple blow of breath out of his nose and a sideways glance towards the giant.

"... Ye', Oi'd fink we can manage tha'." Without any further sense of protest, the scoundrel dropped his arms to his sides and struck up a casual gait towards the sealed gate. As he walked, Muirin gave Thrukk a friendly smile that sent odd wrinkles up his scarred face. "Well, Oi quite loiked your lit'l ditty," he said, perhaps a touch louder than he'd intended. The scoundrel's rough voice carried rather easily over the silent beach.

As the debonair duo made their approach to the gate accompanied by the scoundrel's quiet humming rendition of the Thrukk's beautiful lyrics, no sounds came from within the fort. Muirin placed a hand against its wooden gate and gave a short shove, pushing the heavy door open a few inches before it stopped rather abruptly. Through the crack in its center, a heavy log-like crossbar was plain to see. The scoundrel gave a momentary hum of thought; Crossbars were tough to break but easy to replace. A clever contraption.

Muirin took two strides back before sprinting shoulder-first into the gate, causing it to shudder far more than any man his size should've have shook it. The sound of splintering wood issued forth from behind the gate as its locking bar began to crack, yet the entryway still refused to open. The scoundrel stepped back once more, gesturing to the warhammer his newest friend carried.

"Aw'roight, big guy-- Y'wanna finish tha job?" An encouraging grin played across Muirin's features. The day may prove fun, after all.
 
"Ye cannae hae a battle without a sang," Thrukk declared as he eyed the gate. Everyone always took everything so seriously. When you were at the bottom of the world - as he had been when he had been fighting in the pits - you were given a good view of everything above.

There was so much effort put into formality and speaking carefully. The truth was always tiptoed around those who had much to lose. People needed to enjoy themselves more.

"Nae problem," Thrukk said of the gate. He took five quick steps and kicked the gate at the height of the crossbar. With his whole weight behind the kick there was a great crack. The gate stayed in place, rattling on its hinges.

"Any folk in?" Thrukk called out.
 
Diego and his noble warriors were not the only to receive a steed. From the small collective of equines strode a horse of golden gleam so brilliant as to make the sun weep in envy. Beset by the heraldry and colors of the Choir, he was presented to the Priestess by the ship's Horsemaster.

"A gift for you, Lady Delarosa, one of the King's finest stallions of war, called Cortez. But I must warn, he is quite spirited and not for a faint and gentle rider."

Amorea approached the horse, sizing up the bravado ever apparent in the sheen of its coat, split across a stout build that might have been carved by the Bright One himself, "He will do."

Handing off her Sunstaff to the Horsemaster she took the reins from his hand and silently swung onto the saddle as Cortez paced off. After a moment of the stallion fussing she reigned it around behind Alcantara's line of men and picked up her staff along the way.

"He looks well with you, my Lady," remarked the Horsemaster.

"The fire of the Sunfather is mine to wield," she returned, "in all its many forms." She pressed Cortez into a controlled canter, bringing him along the back of the formed ranks. From here out her mission was not to lead the charge, but to ensure the charge maintained its proper course.
 
As Diego sent the two men- if one could even call the large one a man- to the fort, Kishou sheathed his sword. He watched as the Priestess took her place behind the Cortosi's formation. The sudden sound of shoulder-to-wood and audible the cracking of the aforementioned wood drew the foreigner's attention back to the fort. The shorter man had stepped back and made a gesture to the larger fellow. He entertained himself with the thought of the large one using the smaller one as a battering ram. He let a heavy breath out of his nose as a low chuckle sounded from deep in his throat.

The giant of a man did no such thing, instead delivering a frighteningly strong kick against the gate. He folded his arms and smiled.

"Singing aside," He looked up at Diego, "That giant's strength is a spectacle."

The two up by the fort made a good team, Kishou thought. The roughest of the bunch. Unceremonious individuals. He could see why they would cause Diego stress. He was surely used to leading a group of disciplined, orderly men. Even Kishou, being completely foreign to what the fidalgo was used to, would certainly throw off the balance of things at time.

He let out a sigh and likened himself to the two up by the fort. They were in a wild and untamed place. The foreigner knew that, at some point, order and discipline will be cast aside and those wild, unruly men will be unleashed without hesitation and to great effect.

As the giant of a man called out, Kishou expectantly waited for whatever would happen next.
 
“Extra grog for them tonight, eh?” Diego replied to his friend with the funny sword, then he urged his mount forward and the dappled gray trotted past Muirin and Thrukk.

“Excellent work, you two. Excellent. You’ve courage.” Then he was through the open gate, alone, and into the dirt square of Fort Redondo.

The fidalgo’s eyes flicked from the walls, to the barracks, to the bridge that led up a small hill to the wood blockhouse that served as a keep to this motte and bailey.

Empty.

No arrows came whizzing from the shadows. No bolts twanged down from the loopholes in the blockhouse. Nothing but eerie silence.

Not even a bird.

Diego shifted uneasily on his saddle, then motioned to the others.

“Enter all!” He ordered “It seems empty. Let’s search the houses, perhaps there’s some sign of what happened to the last expedition.”

There were only a handful of houses: the barracks, the stables, a shop to keep up weapons and build tools, a granary for food supplies, and the blockhouse, of course.

Diego dismounted and, warily, entered the barracks. Eusebius and Simocatta came on his heels. The Allirian brothers helped as he searched under bunks and inside chests covered in the dust of absence. Abruptly, Eusebius froze beside a cot.

“Capitan?”

“Yes?”

He knelt down beside something. “You should come see.”

Diego moved to stand behind Eusebius as the other knelt and examined a sight that made acidic bile rise up in Diego’s throat. There was corpse beside the cot, laying slightly propped up against the wall. The corpse was gray and white, dessicated with age, many months old, but covered in strange protuberant growths that webbed out from the body like the strands of cobwebs.

“Are those… mushrooms?” Diego rasped.

Eusebius leaned closer and prodded at one of the discolored growths. It shrank from his touch and released a puff of white powder into the air. Eusebius coughed and swatted at the air.

“Fungus spores,” he muttered, irritated, when he got his sudden sneezing fit under control.

“Back away from it,” Diego ordered. “Everyone out.”

Diego slapped a diary he’d taken from the chest into Kishou’s hands. “Read this for me, would you? Let me know if it says anything important. Where’s the priestess?”

He strode out of the barracks. “Sister Delarosa? There you are.” He approached her on her golden horse. “There’s a body inside the barracks. It may be diseased. There’s nothing in there of worth but some old linens and cots. Best we burn it and sleep in tents for now. If you would do the honors?”
 
Kishou had been half-heartedly searching the barracks when Diego slapped the old diary into his hands. There was a layer of grime on the soft leather cover. He rubbed his thumb against it, and by removing a layer of filth exposed the imprint of a name stamped onto the diary.

Capitan Emilio Butragueño

"But, Diego," His tone was one of exaggerated concern, "I cannot read."

Diego's expression was enough to force a small chuckle from Kishou. He waved his free hand in the air as if waving the poor joke away. "I jest. I will see what I can find."

Thus, Diego and the rest exited the barracks. Kishou was the last to leave after one last scan of the interior. A small cloud of spores lingered in the air- it was enough to convince Kishou to hastily follow his companions.

As he exited, he saw Diego speaking with the priestess. He passed by Muirin and shook the old diary in the air, drawing attention to it.

"It seems you break down gates, and I read old books. I envy your position," He smiled and continued to walk past the swashbuckler.

He found an old crate nearby and sat. The foreigner decided that would be a good spot to peruse the contents while the barracks were burned, and while the other soldiers settled in.

There was often a pleasant, musky smell that libraries had. It was a result of the old books which were housed on the shelves. No such pleasant smell came from this book. It was filthy, through and through. He quickly flipped through all of the worn pages. He could tell that some pages were ripped out, some were spotty. As he reached the back of the diary, they became messy. At a glance, he saw how the writing became sloppy. Blood stained many of the later pages.

With a sigh, he flipped to the front. He noticed immediately that the first entry was dated over a year ago.

370
Twelfth Day of the Third Pnerian Cycle

Coronel Alonso ordered me to take some soldados to scout deeper inland. Comandante Asensi and his unit has been missing for a week. None have been found. Morale is high, yet there are concerned whispers among the soldados about his disappearance. Some claim creatures of the night took them. In our meeting today, Colonel Alonso forbade such speak and ordered me and the other oficials to punish those that continue to spread the rumors...
Kishou flipped a page, glanced over it, and flipped another.
370
Fourteenth Day of the Third Pnerian Cycle
After departing yesterday, we covered a considerable distance. Picking up Comandante Asensi's trail was easy, but we have found nothing that gives any indication of the unit's fate. Today was uneventful.

He skipped another page.
370
Sixteenth Day of the Third Pnerian Cycle
We found the remains of the Comandante and his men in the morning. They were not even far from the fort, which unsettled the soldados. What unsettled them further was the state of the remains. Some sort of ungodly rot had taken to the corpses. It took most of the day, but we recovered some of the more intact bodies- the Comandante's included. The priests are looking over the corpses as I write. It is worth noting that while moving the bodies, they emitted some kind of mist. It had unsettled the men at first, yet the panic subsided after nothing happened.
He flipped a page.
370
Seventeenth Day of the Third Pnerian Cycle
Dios mio, I made a mistake. The corpses carried disease! The soldados that handled the bodies all broke out with some ungodly affliction. Even some priests. It seems the mists that came from the bodies carry some sort of disease. Fortunately, we burned the bodies, now their souls may rest. However for us, the living, I fear we must endure a horrific hardship. The Coronel calls for me now.
The entries became increasingly disturbing. Apparently following the burning of the corpses, a scouting party outside the fort was attacked by some humanoid beings. There was one survivor out of four. He reported that the corpses were taken away by a large being that had characteristics similar to those of the burned corpses. Kishou flipped through more pages. His heart raced, and his breathing became heavy as he read a later entry.
370
Twentieth Day of the Third Pnerian Cycle
All types of creatures have attacked. We have fended every wave away from the fort. It is strange. We began to notice that the creatures seemed to move with some organization. Even the wildlife. As if they were being given orders. However, there was no clear leader. Just a mass of beings, attempting to-
Sunfather help us all! It was just reported to me that my soldados exited the physician's hut and began to attack the other men. They were put down killed. There is something frightening happening here. Morale is at an all-time low. The oficials can't contain the unrest.
Kishou looked up from the diary, and warily eyed Eusebius' back. His eyes snapped back down to the diary, and the page audibly crinkled as he hurriedly turned the page. This was the start of the mess. Pages were torn out, blood and other substances stained many pages. The last legible page of the diary was the most disturbing.
I see the Eyes. They watch everything. the eyes guide my actions. the spores. avoid the spores. The Coronel is dead. I am losing control. My will is being taken. The fortifications were not damaged, yet they saw a way in. We fought, but the formation was broken. THe survivors escaped. I am in my quarters. I hear them outside. There was speak of The Heart of The Eyes. What is it?

Some of the page was made illegible from a mucus-colored stain. Kishou made no sense of the rest.
destroy the Heart. Destroy the Heart of The Eyes. I must destroy the Heart of The eyes. The eyes! The eyes! The eyes! The eyes! Sunfather save me!

Kishou closed the diary with unsteady hands. He swallowed hard, watching Eusebius. "Diego!" he attempted to sound calm, "I found something."
 
Cortez high-stepped in through the gates with an uneasy jitter to his movements. Wall-eyed, the stallion took in the encampment with pinned ears and flared nostrils. More than once he attempted to move against Amorea's leg and hand, back out through the way they entered. The Priestess turned him about once, then twice, taking the time to survey the camp while the men did the same on foot.

Unsettled, she reined Cortez on through the buildings, studying what little was left to see. Curious there were no men left to speak of, yet there seemed to be no sign of struggle. Everything was gone; supplies, weapons, living wares. She rounded another building, what seemed to be the housing for the Priests. Not Solar Choir Priests, but those of the lower Church of the King. Healers and men of faith but still swayed by gold more than prayer. One of the soldados stepped out, startling at her horse and spooking Cortez.

"M'Lady ... apologies-" the man made the gesture of prayer.

"What have you found?" she inquired, reeling the snorting stallion back under control.

"Nothing yet, M'Lady, we will keep searching."

She watched him go, eyes narrowed in growing suspicion, and nudged her mount back around the barracks just as Diego made his exit.

“Sister Delarosa? There you are.” He approached her on her golden horse. “There’s a body inside the barracks. It may be diseased. There’s nothing in there of worth but some old linens and cots. Best we burn it and sleep in tents for now. If you would do the honors?”

"You would remove all doubt of our presence here with a fire that big," the Priestess returned, "it would be-"

But what it would be would have to wait as the foreigner called out for the Capitan.

"Diego! I've found something!"
 
“Excellent work, you two. Excellent. You’ve courage.”

"It was jist a duir," Thrukk chuckled to Muirin . It was supposed to be a private remark but his voice could carry. It could carry small mountains if he really worked his lungs.

"Doesnae tak' a brave man tae fight a duir."

“Enter all!” He ordered “It seems empty. Let’s search the houses, perhaps there’s some sign of what happened to the last expedition.”

"Odd 'at it was locked an' nae a body is here," Thrukk said to Muirin. If someone had abandoned a fortress it seemed strange to lock the gates form the inside before leaving.

"We shoods check th' walls," Thrukk suggested. If they were going to occupy the fort it would make sense to find out if it had been breached through the other side.

"It seems you break down gates, and I read old books. I envy your position,"

Thrukk nudged Muirin with his elbow gently. Gently enough not to break bones.

"Mebbe we shoods make a livin' fightin' duirs frae noo oan eh?" he laughed. Professional door wrangler. It would be an easier job than the men and monsters he had been forced to fight in the pits of Cerak at'thul for nearly a decade.