[Royal Guard] Cabalo Island: Part I - Ghost Country

[Karras / Stu]

DISCLAIMER: This slightly edited RP Log contains frequent course language, low-level violence, adult themes, and a Game Master who seems to have extreme difficulty keeping past and present tense seperate from one another.




<Karras[GM]> Dusk was beginning to settle upon the Southern Sea, a golden disc that suspended over the rolling waves, it's lower rim beginning to slip below the shifting waters in the distance.  The winds had changed, south by southwest, blowing a cooler air across the waters to luff sails and pitch the seas.  To the northwest, about 100 leagues, lay the great Isles of Myst, their Mysthaven stronghold a distant and passing memory to the norther reaches of the Southern Islands.   Further still, due north to 500 leagues, lay Elvendeep, its neighbouring countries of Arangoth and Griffon's Aerie on both sides. To the north, swell could be seen in the far reaches of the horizon, where the rolling mass of saltwater shifted into solid rock, forming the outer reaches of Cabalo's southern reefs.  Foam and froth bubbled through blowholes, crashed upon the harder walls of stone and coral, and rolled about to rest upon the banks of the island's narrow cove to the
 north.  The island's coast was treacherous, perhaps even more so than Arangoth's Reef of Tears, the perfect place for a group of aspiring privateers or freebooters to offload treasures and booty, given their admission  and membership to the Pirate Guilds, of course. 
 
<Karras[GM]> Cabalo was mostly one large, rock-walled island, roughly similar in size to the Isle of Summer's Winter, but much more inhabitable save for a few patches of thick, tropical vegetation, surrounded by craggy cliff faces on its southern coastline.  Surrounding it was another series of small, barren islands and large rocks, many of which had names equivalent to forgotten and long-past pirates of legend,or accursed areas of witchery and the dark arts, where even the most hardened salts dared not tread. One of the islands, known to many of Cabalo's seafaring inhabitants, had mostly been untouched and avoided.  Many legends alluding to its history and origin remained shrouded in controversy.  Some spoke of a hideous nest of the undead, ghouls and demons of men at sea, cursed and trapped within its boundaries, their only life twinging on the transient level which had dwindled to nothing but wanton death and hatred upon the living.   Some spoke that
 it also had a ghost ship, one that travelled to sink the unsuspecting seafarer who may be foolish enough to wander too close to its shores.
 
<Karras[GM]> Another legend spoke of the island itself being the forebringer of a demon plague, originally a typical apocalyptic scenario that was known to Cabalo's original inhabitants and instilled fearsomely upon the first sailors to set foot there.   Fire and brimstone, the island would summon forth the great death, some acid spitting, blood dripping behemoth that would swallow the entire known world in a single, greedy gulp.   Of course, in these days, the popular explanation of this long exaggerated and ever-changing legend was it was simply created to prevent children of Cabalo's aboriginal populace from misbehaving and straying too far from their home and family. One legend, which stands as the most popular, was that this feared and avoided island was the forerunner and staging ground of an ancient war between two long-past empires.  One side of these two was deeply into the dark arts, and had used the island as a common area for them to perfect
 their ancient black magics.  The legends spoke of a beast, one that had wreaked havoc upon their sworn enemies, but then had fallen amok to the whims of its conjurers, turning on them as well and engulfing the entire battle into seaborne wasteland. Some still spoke that the beast had not been killed, rather, would lay to rest until some cataclysmic event would call upon its return, or perhaps as the soothsayers, oracles and seers predict, will be summoned once more to strike fear into the hearts of seamen. 
 
<Elias`Murchadha> Or maybe it was a load of shit. Brown haired Elias stared out of the pair of his sharp green eyes at his working men working the carrack ashore. Sails down, colors down, the only sign of the Mad Nedixe's intentions were its bristling gunwales. He rolled his neck and yanked up the sleeves of his gray coat. It was time to preserve their effort.
 
<Juba>  He was familiar with the island's fearsome reputation, yet he did not fear it. Then, he was unusually unsuperstitious for a sailor--was more realist than mystic. If the island was wicked, he thought, it was only for its dangerous reefs, ferocious surfs, and the awkwardness of the approach to its one inlet--the approach he was now involved in navigating. He had marked the carrack's cautious
entry and was careful to follow in its wake and, even though his own charge--Agony, a handy little Bahijan sloop of ten guns--drew much less water, he stood forward and kept his eyes to the water. There was no telling what manner of rocks or old wrecks were at the bottom.
 
<Karras[GM]> Wrecks a plenty, but much of this was from scuttled skeletons of captured prizes, merchantmen, fluyts and caravels sunk after their booty was taken, perhaps not enough crew to man them, or too damaged to send to another port.   The island itself, although rather formidable with it's jutting craggy outcroppings of rocks and noticeable deep shoals to the west, does have a rather safe passage in it's norther side, to which most would be approaching, a narrow cove that widens at it's shore reaches.  Plenty of places to weigh anchor, and the water is surprisingly deep, allowing ships to anchor at a convenient distance to shore.   There's the tell tale signs of others who might have been here before a while back, a few discarded bits from drunks, usual mess left by rum-swilling, novice privateers and freebooters that may have used the island for their own storage, and perhaps found it unsuitable, or been sent off from too much superstition
 alluding to the place.
 
<Juba>  He raised his hand to shade his eyes, squinted at the Mad Nedixe and shook his head. He wouldn't beach. There was no need. What little of the expedition's booty in his hold could be taken ashore in the jollyboat. Also, Agony had a fine, clean bottom yet, so there was no need to careen. "Down sails, out sweeps," he called out. And then, to his helmsman and first mate: "Ojo, put us under that cliff, two cables off, and then you may anchor, uh? Boat over the side." He had the big, powerful voice that was to be expected of such an impressive physical specimen: a huge black with a shaved head and silver teeth.
 
<Elias`Murchadha> "Ease her in, mister Ambrose." The 'mister' sounded ironic screaming from his mouth, raspy and chewed up by the wind. "Don't scratch her." He came up on the forecastle. "Half spoke. Hold.." The wind died as the walls rose around them. He turned around. "Boats out, boys." His voice dropped accordingly when there was no need to shout.  "Drop anchor," he added, shooting a glance to the right, to see the figure of the Bahijan negro. Juba, the decision maker.
 
<Karras[GM]> The wind was thankfully gentle, a breeze that was becoming more becalmed as the sun begins to settle itself in for another night.   A good time to drop anchor, and tuck for the night, and the island might give crew plenty of rec time - after everything's been cached away, of course.   The cove, being protected, would awash gentle lapping of foam upon the beach, in an almost gentle manner that seems tranquil, but in a rather surrealist fashion.  Perhaps it's the stillness of the place, and lack of wind within it's shored confines, which alludes so much superstition and apprehensiveness about the place.   Nonetheless, there it is, a staggered island of scrub, granite, and forest, with a noticeable peak to its southern reaches.
 
<Juba>  The Agony rowed to a likely anchorage, drew in her sweeps, and dropped her bower. Her boat was soon over the side and Juba could be seen (and heard) overseeing the transfer of booty--rolls of silk in sailcloth, casks of spices, and one chest of specie--into the boat, berating his crew with good-natured profanity while he hitched up his sarong and urinated forcefully into the bay.  He gave his massive penis a good shake, dropped his sarong, and turned to wash his hands in a bucket of seawater before donning a massive straw hat and strapping on his sword, which he carried in a leather baldric slung across his wide bare chest. "Come ashore if you like, though a watch must stay," he said to his crew as he went nimbly over the side and into the boat, followed by his his coxwain and a rower. His crew didn't share his cavalier attitude towards the island and, as such, they were none of them interested to go ashore. Nevermind. "Shove off," he said and,
 himself taking a pair of oars, stretched out and began to row ashore.
 
<Elias`Murchadha> "All right, you shitheads. The hard part is over, now comes the fun part," he said, coming to the side, amidships. A barely-audible groan escaped the lips of some of fortune's gentlemen. "There will be rum when you finish." The process begun. He walked along his men, either swatting one on the shoulder to straighten the load or kicking one in the back of the foot to walk faster. "Stay ashore when you're done." He stepped into a boat with two dusky skinned men who rowed him to shore.
 
<Karras[GM]> The beach was devoid of footsteps, tides washing away whatever traces of other seafarers had left upon the old sands.   To the north, the scrub thickened into a denser array of foliage, but it appeared there a narrow trail that winds its way, perhaps an early path left before by other similar venturing freebooters and corsairs.  The trees do not sway, still and lifeless, the sun's golden rays beaming widening paths of light through the thickening canopy that stretches into a steep rocky ascent up the granite, moss-lined slope, reaching up to a plateau at its most top, thin conifers and palms reaching out their roots upon the rock's sharp edge.   The waters were clear, signs of stone and coral, but nothing that would pose a threat to the ships or their smaller boats.
 
<Juba>  Within a matter of minutes, Juba was wading a shore with his coxwain and rower, the three of them walking the boat ashore. That done, Juba made his way over to Captain Nobody, which was what the big black had taken to calling Airelan, perhaps insultingly; he found the use of aliases distasteful. He waved to him from a distance and, drawing closer, bid him good day, then turned to wait on Elias.
 
<Elias`Murchadha> Plank hit sand. Elias stood, winding and unwinding a small silver chain around his finger. It was fastened to the midpoint of a gnarled crescent, a tiny graven image of the Tuilseach. His face was smooth for a pirate's, less scruffy than a great deal of his men, but the look in his eyes suggested a man who often wanted to kill somebody. He stepped out smoothly and walked towards Juba. "Can't say I docked on this one before." He had a slight accent of injecting the "h" sound where it did not belong.
 
<Karras[GM]> Dusk is beginning to settle upon the latent day, light slowly beginning to ebb away as the sun crept closer and closer to being swallowed by the ocean waters to the west.   Shadows began to loom between the trees and from the hulls of the ships, as the first signs of twilight and evening's stars showing themselves in the cooling atmosphere. The trail of sorts, is crude, but it would appear man made to some degree, more a case of feet treading through the less thicker and impassable areas of the island's deeper foliage and palms.  Evening calls begin to cry from the trees, various nocturnal wildlife making their awakening calls, whilst the daylight creatures make their final calls before slumber.   Soon, it will be dark.
 
<Juba> "Nor have I," he said, greeting Elias with a friendly wave before turning his gaze inland. "Never had reason." He shrugged his massive shoulders. "Where there are rocks like these, there are caves." They would divide the specie up among themselves, but the more cumbersome goods would necessarily need to be stored until such a time as they could be marketed. And a gave was an excellent place to cache. He glanced between Elias and the path in a questioning manner, then glanced towards the sky.
 
<Karras[GM]> Caves a plenty, remnants of perhaps the older aboriginal folk that perhaps lived here, or their design might provoke those knowledgeable enough on such things that they have been a result of just as much manpower as by natural erosion and reformation of the geological crusts.  Nonetheless, the path is much the only sign of passage, as crude as it is, thick with barriers of fern, pine and conifer, scrub easily made way with a few heavy-laiden back blades and some good old fashioned labour from one's subordinates.   A darkened nighthawk chatters a worried 'klick-klick' into the night, sitting a branch over a pine rooted in stone above the beach, eyes watching the curious bipeds warily.
 
* Elias`Murchadha wound the chain around his wrist and glanced up the path, hand coming to rest on the handle of his sword. "Adrovi, Nithrid." A lanky Seccan and a squat, bewhiskered, bulbous-eyed Oneidh merman stepped forward. "Up the path a piece." He looked back at Juba, nodded, and started walking, drawing his sword midway to chop at an overhanging branch cluster.
 
<Juba> "Jimce!" he called to his coxswain, another Bahijan black, and jerked his head in the direction of the path before falling into step behind Elias. "Would you perhaps like to buy my share of the goods?" he asked, electing to leave his own sword sheathed for the moment. "I can only market in Drache. I understand you can market in Garusk and Marland, uh? Maybe get a better price." His accent was slave quarters Bahijan, with pronounced Os and a song-like cadence.
 
<Karras[GM]> The path descended upwards, and it was obvious from the lower-ground viewpoint that the traversing will become more difficult and steep as it winds its way to the base of the rocky edged plateau, beach sand solidifying into harder rock and thinly-laid topsoil underneath the massive salt table beneath.  There's not much signs left of whoever dug or cut this trail, save for the signs of a broken and stained tossed bottle of rum in a latent area of cleared scrub.   The path winds itself north east, following onto a more sharp trail of rocks and sharp ferns.   The nighthawk watches again, then takes to flight when the bipeds draw too close, soaring off towards the plateau summit.   As the landing parties draw further into the island, the rushing sound of the waves against the shore slowly fades into the ominous sounds of nocturnal wildlife.
 
<Elias`Murchadha> "Garusk's stifled," he said with his semi-lyrical way of modifying consonants as he stretched unpleasantly. "Too much regulation. Dragonfuckers engaging the routes with Alesia," he said, using his term for Pentlanders whom he loved so very very much. "Marland though." 
 
<Juba> "I have already spoken with my crew. They would be willing to take--oh--slightly less than Drache market value for the goods, were you to pay in coin, here and now," he said, taking the steepening pass in stride, seemingly unbothered by the rocks despite the fact that he was barefoot. "Cho!" he exclaimed, pointing at the spent bottle. "Our rock has seen visitors more recently than told."  This with a knowing smile. Doubtless the island had been a fine place to cache loot and some enterprising fellow had cultivated its fearsome reputation to keep others away.
 
<Elias`Murchadha> He had mixed feelings. On the one hand, he wanted no one to be around so he could stash his goods without fuss. On the other hand, he wanted to kill people and take their loot. "Let's see if they left us more than a bottle," he said, straightening up from his leaned over scrutiny of the refuse.
 
<Karras[GM]> The path widened a little as the ascent lessened, curving off to the base of rocks that stretched up to the steep plateau's climb, it's solid walls almost similar to a gorge in steepness.  The rocks lowered in number here, smoothing into a harder darkened surface of root,  leaf and scrub.   Here, the path split - one winding to what appears to be a rough climb up around the first base of the plateau, the other turning to the left and winding into a small circular clearing, surrounded mostly by trees and ferns spread asunder.  Ahead still lay small climb up, with a lookout that spread to a narrow cliff, almost bight-like with it's steep drop to wave-crashed rocks below.
 
<Juba> "Yah, let's," he said to Elias, then glanced over his shoulders to check on his own men a few yards back. He spoke a few phrases of imperative, profanity-laced Bahijan and gestured to the rising path, presumably indicating that that was where they were going. If he came it a little more loud and hectoring than usual, it was only because the other two blacks looked uneasy and tentative.  Whereupon he followed the path on the left and advanced towards the clearing, swinging his sword low and left to right as he did so, his eyes to the ground, looking for other traces of the island's past visitors.
 
<Elias`Murchadha> He associated with this Juba because in a way, he understood him. The negroes of Bahija were essentially a slave race, and while most of them were dumb as a sack of rocks, there were pearls among the swine. And once a pearl that is able to think starts thinking about freedom, there's no telling what it will do. The Fiann expatriate put a pipe in his mouth and ran his hand over his short-cropped dark beard. "Gentlemen, you are authorized to stab the fucking shit out of the first thing that looks like an enemy you see." He gestured to his men and followed.
 
<Karras[GM]> The last remnants of the sun's setting light were sneaking through the forest wall, leaving behind trails of amber and gold wherever the branches would be spread enough to allow the beams passage.   Twilight brought many things, among them, the more eerie sounds attributed to approaching night.   Soon, the men may need torches, depending on how generous the moon would be, and the weather.  Up ahead, the path widens a little, with a slight decline through some forest towards the beach, and with the towering rocks on the right ascending to the jutting plateau above.   Around an approaching curve in the path, up ahead, one might noticed a difference in the terrain.  Noticeably, not any landscape or mass, but a figure.  About a furlong ahead stands what appears to be, at a first glance, a weathered and tattered individual, male, not particularly tall.  There's a noticeable hunch in his posture.   He does not turn to look or address the islands
 latest arrivals, instead, the individual is statuesque, staring out towards where the forest's treeline meets the oceanic horizon.
 
<Juba>  Nobody would've called the big Bahijan black smart, for he often acted unwisely--even barbarically. In most cases, he acted unwisely because he had little control over his passions, which was perhaps a reaction to his captive upbringing. As such, he was unpredictable and this unpredictability, working in conjunction with a sort of low, animal cunning, a strong arm, and more luck than he deserved, had seen to his survival--and made him a leader of men. "Aya," he said, his voice quiet, but audible to those behind him and, if the word was unclear, his gesture wasn't: he raised his free hand, palm open--an indication to halt. He squinted at the distant figure, took a few steps closer and paused. Then, in a loud voice, addressing the figure: "What man is that, uh?"
 
<Elias`Murchadha> The moment Elias saw the man, he pressed the tip of his calloused thumb against the smoldering mass of tobacco inside his pipe. His breath quickened a little for a few cycles and then it was out and he tucked the pipe back into his clothing, getting a bit lower and gesturing the others to do the same. "You want yours to sneak up on him or should mine?"
 
<Karras[GM]> The call from Juba seems to go ignored, the individual standing his ground, still staring with stolid fixation to the horizon.   Further scrutiny would reveal more features of the individual at large, although the minuscule ones might be less noticeable at such a distance.    He's heavily tanned, calloused and tarred palms, and a slender physique that bears a sleeveless tunic, corded and torn on one side.  Much of his attire shows some signs of wear, but nothing that looks like one who'd been on the island for a long time.  He still appears shaved, and in reasonable health, presenting much the likeness of a typical seaman.  As Juba's call goes unanswered, the man stands where he his, and the sounds of apprehensive, incomprehensible murmurs and mutterings can be heard resounding from where he stands, aloof and still at a distance from the newcomers.
 
<Juba>  A quick glance over his shoulder at Elias and Nathan, jerking his head to one side, indicating that they should move towards the eerie figure's flank. Whether the other two captains shared his ideas was anyone's guess. As for his own two men, they stood still as statues, eyes wide--scared useless. "Ahoy!" Juba called in a still louder voice and, mastering his fear, advanced steadily towards the silent figure. "What man is that, uh? You deaf? What man!" He had his sword--a sort of heavy, elongated machete--held in both hands, raised as though ready to deliver a strike. The distance continues to close. "Speak!"
 
<Elias`Murchadha> Well, he was making himself useful. The negro exposed their positions so the Fiann bounded through the trees up the path, followed by the lanky Seccan. The Oneidh merman on his temporary legs took a roundabout route to ambush any reinforcements. He came out from the side, simple cutlass in hand, marlinspike concealed in his other hand, at the figure to try and hold him at swordpoint.
 
<Karras[GM]> Elias would find, upon his arrival to the man's proximity, that he reacted in no way particular of one who might suddenly react to having a sword pointed at them.   Instead, he remains fixated upon the ocean ahead, eyes open, mouth slightly agape.  His mumblings are incoherent, a mishmash of syllables that speak gibberish, signs of perhaps paranoia, fear, or insanity of some kind.  At this close range, Elias might also notice some other strange things about this individual and the ground that he stands upon.   On first observances, there doesn't seem to be any track marks or signs of him coming or going from anywhere in particular.   No broken foliage, no footprints.   Another noticeable observance, or perhaps sensation, is the the cold, gut-kicking ice-cold air that seems to emanate from him like an aura, the sixth-sense feeling that raises a man's hairs upon the back of his neck, and sends an odd sensation of a multitude of senses through
 the body.  This of course, would depend on the individual.   A third observance, and perhaps the most startling although inconspicuous, is that the man casts no shadow upon the ground or rockface behind him.  Despite all this, he appears remarkably solid.
 
<Juba>  No sooner had Elias darted out towards the man than Juba was forward, moving with a speed one wouldn't have thought possible of so large a man. Possessed with none of Elias' self-restraint, he closed with the man. "Speak!" he repeated and, not waiting for an answer, swung the flat of his big blade hard for the man's right leg. He was frightened and his blood was up--his heart thumping in his ears. As such, he marked none of the the details--the absence of shadow or tracks, the cold. Faced with fight or flight, the Bahijan black invariably favored fight.
 
<Karras[GM]> He doesn't appear solid for too long, however, as Juba would find his blade would be momentarily disrupted in it's path for his leg by a light opposing force, before it would pass straight through the man, who for all intents and purposes, doesn't appear to be a man anymore, given the result of his strike.   The feeling of the blade and the thrusting hand would suddenly be affected with an ice-chill, perhaps the equivalent of one sticking their hands into the southern poles more iced waters, should have any of the seamen actually been that far south.   With the swing of the blade, there's a noticeable displacement of the man's from, and within a mere breath of time, his form simply dissolves into nothing, leaving no trace behind but the path upon which the men stood.  The cold air does linger, however.
 
<Elias`Murchadha> His jaw twisted slightly in a lopsided 'what the hell just happened' kind of expression and he backed off by a few steps, almost into the Seccan who stood there flapping his eyelids. He glanced in the direction of the ghost's gaze, then very low and slow, spoke to the others. "We can't dock here. This is ghost country."
 
<Juba>  His blade missed its mark, though it shouldn't have, and he had seen the sickening movement the eerie man had given--had felt a cold so harsh it burned. "Ayo!" he cried, shocked. He involuntarily dropped his sword and leaped back from the evil figure, automatically drawing the knife sheathed at the small of his back. Not that it would do him any good. He heard Elias' voice, but the words took awhile to get through. And once they had, he said nothing for the space of several moments. Then, to Elias: "Hold fast. We live and he not hurt us, uh?" He sounded uncertain, but the fear in his voice was tempered. "Maybe he--uh, uh--scarecrow, illusion."
 
<Elias`Murchadha> "Who would put an illhusion up? None of our khind carry witches on bhoard," he said with a heightened accent, coming to grips with what had just happened. Superstition was in his eyes although the Seccan, more acquainted with such fare expressed that he agreed with Juba. Not aloud though, he knew better. "What's.. the plan, then?"
 
<Karras[GM]> The stillness of the twilight ebbs, but the nightcalls of unperturbed animals around show no signs of any ambushes or evil creatures lurking in the darkness.  The crash of waves upon the cliffs continues to murmur away in the distance, deep-rumbling thuds as surf crashes against salt and stone.   The path does in fact lead onward, to a deeper clearing and the lookout to the southwest.
 
<Juba>  He shook his head as Elias spoke, grimaced in a manner that seemed to say "I don't know!" "What is your flag, uh?" Which was the best he could think of just then, his arm still burning with cold. He meant that the illusion--if that was what it was--was only meant to intimidate. "Any man may hire a witch," he added with a shrug. As for a plan: "Look, listen, hold fast." He punctuated his words by gripping his crotch through his sarong.
 
<Elias`Murchadha> "I'm holding," he said, seemingly amused by the crotch grab and amusement always brought out the courage in him. "But the more of these blighters we see, the more I'm gonna reconsider this island. Right?" And he took out his pipe again, lighting it. The Oneidh joined them shortly with a shrug as if to say 'all clear, cap'n."
 
<Juba> "Yes, right," he replied, looking back down the path to find his own men gone. He snorted, sneered, and spat on the ground. Then, since he seemed to have talked Elias into staying (at least for now) and it was up to him to make the next move, he picked up his sword and drawing a deep breath, followed the path to the next clearing. As before, he swept the underbrush with his blade and was careful of wear he stepped.





END OF PART I
 


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