Aha, glad to see my invisible audience has returned
Well mates, I bring to you my last chapter of the year - how fitting it takes place at that time, as well. Either way, to ring in the new year, here is my next chapter:
The Demon of Port Royal
The death of the former Lord Ambrose Royles was clear in Port Royal just a day after the murder transpired. All of the ports citizens rightfully knew it was Delmaria who did it, so much so even the Royal Navy knew. Yet the soldiers themselves were too afraid to arrest the pirate, knowing that doing so would result in a public uproar, much more so than what was going on at that time. Celebration had broken out in the streets, much like that of when Don Victorio succumbed to the same fate. Any and all institutions Delpadros tried to enact were pulled to pieces and burned to the ground, from his government banking system, down to a banister of codes that was posted at the front of the port. The textbooks that he had set in at the schools of the port, which denounced piracy and portrayed famous pirates as ruthless, evil mongrels, were taken and used to create a large bonfire at the foot of a statue of the fallen Lord, located right on the hill that lead to the mansion. The statue was also burned.
Delmaria walked around the island in the early morning, the riots calmed and the air stilled, much like he did on Padres. He had gotten in to a routine of taking walks around the port he was at dawn, to help collect himself and his thoughts. He ran his hands along the dirt, the ash, the soot, and the rubble that littered the cobblestone streets of Port Royal. What was once a proud base of military power was now restored to a free, progressive city-state; or at least it was getting there. Darkskull made his way over to the Commerce Quarters, by the small spice market by the Rowdy Rooster, and looked out on the small stone bridge that carried over the small canal, to the lower areas of the port. He stared out as the red-and-orange sun peaked over the horizon. The blood of tyranny was on his hands, and its disgusting taste would plague his thoughts, regardless of whether he who was slain was kin or not.
The day in the port was filled with repair, reveling, reconstructing, and preparation. That year's annual supply of firecrackers from the Far East had finally made its way to the port, with only that day to spare. It was common worry that Delpadros would have confiscated them and brought an end to the long-standing tradition, but that was long gone. The entire town had gone in to ready mode - the firework ships were sailing in to position, the decorations were being hung, the stores, taverns and restaurants were being stockade with food and supplies of all sorts. It was a wonderful time in Port Royal once more.
Away from most of the chaos and chatter, Delmaria had assembled his crew to meet up in the Rowdy Rooster, where they would discuss the further whereabouts of the next objective on the map. Entering the tavern, Delmaria was bombarded with a flurry of "thank you” and cheers, all from one person - Nelson.
"God bless you Delmaria Darkskull!" the bartender screamed as he gave his old friend a joyful handshake. "I can't imagine what would be going on now in this tavern should that old dog collected those outrageous alcohol taxes! Prohibition - PHAT!"
"Consider it public service. A pitcher, please, and make it extra strong. I need a wake-me-up."
The crew straggled in at about nine in the morning, still half-asleep. Lawrence often took to the job of waking them up in the morning, so he assumed they got up when their hangovers started to wear off. Nonetheless, the sight of rum seemed to perk them up, and they snapped in to business as they looked over the map in the near-empty tavern.
"Alright mates. So here we are, in the center of the Caribbean, looking for.. Whatever the hell that is." Delmaria pointed to Port Royal, where there sat a whirling gust of wind, which winded in and out between a few tall trees, leaves and branches flying with it. It was outlined in a dark aura, with the vague peering of two small, dark eyes staring through an open gap between the trees.
"I'm going to need a few more drinks if I want to understand any of that." Firesteel joked, to which they all chuckled.
Yet Grace, who seemed almost like she was scared, grabbed at the map and brought it right to her. She stared down at it for a minute, worried, wide-eyed, as the rest of the crew watched her. She pushed the map away slowly, and leaned back in her chair, almost dazed. She turned to Delmaria, her face blank, and asked, "Captain, have you ever heard the story of the Ligahoo?" When they shook their head no, she sighed, and began:
"Hundreds of years ago, before these lands were colonized; the indigenous tribes of the islands spoke of a haunting, ancient legend. It told the story of a man known as the Ligahoo, who made a pact with the devil in exchange for eternal life. He got his wish, yes - but in return, the Devil cursed him, transforming him in to a hideous, God-awful looking monster, taking human form only during the day. At night, he takes his forsaken form, and wanders aimlessly, killing and sucking the blood of anything that crosses it's path.
"The legend says that the thing which keeps the Ligahoo in that form is some sort of satanic charm that was lodged in his heart. The only way to defeat him, is to beat him to death.... with a stick."
Delmaria dropped his jaw at her. "A stick. Really?" He looked like he was about to break out in laughter.
Grace was still dead serious. "Yes. A stick anointed with holy waters and oils."
"And you're saying that if we want to continue our little journey, we need to kill this thing?"
"Pretty much."
1
The crew trucked through the dark, deep jungles of Port Royal that evening, just as dusk fell on to them. They took the entire day to stock up on anything they might need - bullets, gunpowder, throwing knives, voodoo trinkets, tonics, and tools, and all other noteworthy necessities. They took off from the usual paths that led in to the less dense areas of the forage, and instead cut out of the King's Run right as they hit the tree line. The vines, leaves, and roots that the jungles were infested with kept sticking out at them, but they cut them down with ease, clearing a small path in the tightly packed wilderness.
The lights of the day faded to black as they continued deeper and deeper, climbing up and down hills both little and small that they encountered in their path. The plants near and far rustled in an ominous tone as they continued, feeling as though they were being watched, as the heavy humid air dropped to a cool, comfortable atmosphere. Grace led the group, a torch held up to light their path, brave, stern, and determined.
"How much more walking, Grace?" Delmaria asked, who a few steps behind her was.
"We won't find it, Captain. It'll find us." Grace assured.
It was about five more minutes, until they noticed a change in their surroundings. Not much a physical change, but more of a mental perception - the world around them had turned from eerie and mysterious, to dark, yet home-like. The trees slowly began to space out as they progressed, until the group found themselves walking through in a pack instead of a line. They came to a sudden halt when a tremendous gust of wind came whirling through the jungle, nearly pushing them off their feet. The crew tensed and shut their eyes, hoping it would be over before they were tossed backwards. When it finally calmed, they were greeted by an unusual sight.
Before them stood a short, African man, about three and a half, maybe four feet in high, stout a plump. His was heavily wrinkled, showing signs of great age. Instead of clothing, he was completely covered in hair - only his face and hands were bare from it - with cloven feet, like the hooves of a horse. From his face hung a long beard, made of not hair, but leaves, along with two little horns poking out from his head. His face was laughing and his eyes joyful, accompanied with a large, happy smile. He carried with him a long, wooden branch, taller than him, which he used as a walking stick.
Grace instantly did a little bow and secretly beckoned the rest of the crew to do so, which they did. She rose with a smile and greeted, "Bon jour, vieux Papa."
"Ah, and a good day to you as well, travelers." He smiled. He spoke in an old, yet smooth tone, with absolutely no hint of any kind of accent. "What brings you to my forest?"
"We have come searching for the Ligahoo, sir." Delmaria spoke from behind Grace, with utter politeness.
"Please, call me Bois. Papa Bois." The old man insisted. When a period of silence pursued, Delmaria came to realization, and continued.
"My apologies. We have come in search of the Ligahoo, Papa Bois."
"And what would you want with a creature so vile and evil? Surely you must have a good reason, seeing as how your artillery suggests you have come to slay the beast." Papa Bois said with questioning of reason.
"The Ligahoo has had enough time for terrorizing your forests, Papa. We do not wish for this to continue." Grace poked in. She knew she was lying, but it had to have been done. She knew Papa Bois was against killing for the sake of killing.
"So it be, then... I wish you good fortune. He wanders just over the next hill, behind me. Please, take this with you," the old man then proceeded to grab at his walking stick, and snap off a fragment about the size of a forearm, as though the huge, thick tree branch was a twig. He handed it softly to Grace, and nodded his head. "Good evening."
With the blink of an eye, he was off. The hermit ran right past them. Despite his age, he ran at the speed of fifteen deer put together, blazing in between the trees, and out of sight.
2
As they peaked over the small hill Papa Bois instructed them to go over, the crew found themselves looking in to a dark, bleak void. Below the steep decline was a swamp, where the King's River crossed in to the forest. The pungent smell of wet and aged plants gave away to the towering, dark trees that mixed in the water. The vegetation was thick and wet, dancing and whirling in both the air and in the murky dark waters as if they were performing a play. Eerie sounds creaked and chirped silently off in the distance, as they looked around to each other, wondering who would make the first descent.
Grace finally took a step forward and eased her way down the small, steep hill, in to the swamp. When she accustomed to it and beckoned in the rest of them, Delmaria followed. His body slicked along the wet grass as he slid down, finally landing his boots with a plop in the putrid waters. The swamp came up roughly right below his knees, making it somewhat difficult to shift through the thick substance. Still, as the crew lowered themselves in, he trudged forward, behind Grace.
The atmosphere in the swamp was that of death. Dark, hopeless, and lost. Each stride they took made the aura of evil that roared silently from this place stronger, boring in to their souls with a sharp undertone. They looked around cautiously, as one by one, they drew their weapon of choice. They all knew something was there, with them.
They all halted, as the demonic figure appeared before them. It was roughly thirty meters away, but the sight was still equally horrifying. Past them, was a man, nearly eight feet tall, covered in tattered and bloodied cloths, walking across from them. In place of his head, was a small, wooden coffin, of traditional shape and style, which he balanced atop his neck with his left hand. Atop the coffin were three small, lit candles. At his waist, a heavy, iron chain looped around him, and carried behind him the rest of the length. He dragged his feet, as he pushed through the waters. Finally, it stopped, and turned to them. It had no face - but it knew they were there.
The monster uncurled a loud, angry screech, enough to put a siren's call to shame. As the crew gripped at their eyes to try and block out the sharp, high-pitched noise, the Ligahoo fell forward, completely submerging himself in the water, ending the terrible sound. The crew instantly jumped up on to the roots of the swamp trees, trying desperately to keep from staying the water. When they all stilled, they watched as the flow slowly twisted through the waters in between them. They held their breath, hoping for the best. Only when it came apparent that it was heading for Delmaria, did Grace scream "DEL! CATCH!", throwing the wood branch through the air.
As the chilling monster jumped up through the surface, delivering it's unnerving cry, Darkskull caught the stick and swung it, knocking the Ligahoo right in it's short, stubby neck. It toppled down with the blow, but as it fell, it began to - shift. The outline and figure of the body began to rapidly condense and change, twisting and turning until it finished right as it went back down in to the waters. Yet it instantly popped up again, this time, in the form of a large, ragged wolf. It's sharp, bone-crunching teeth directed towards Corsaire, who was directly across from Delmaria. The privateer shot his pistol, but it did nothing to quake the monster. He jumped off his root, but the wolf cut him at the arm, spilling a squirt of blood in to the water.
As Corsaire yelled in pain, getting picked up in the water by Sierra, the Ligahoo hurried to the drops of blood in the water, lapping it up. Grace yelled from the other side of the encounter, "It feeds on blood! Del, get it!"
Delmaria jumped down from the root and dived at the wolf, striking its back with the stick. It yelped, jumping back and turning at Delmaria, as the pirate flurried left and right with a group of swings. Each of them just missed the Ligahoo, that dodged in and out by moving its head around, until it hit with a smack at the top of its head. As it snarled in anger and pain, Delmaria leaped forward and did it again, until the monster was knocked off its feet on the fifth side-swiping blow, and toppled back in to the water. The captain backed up, stick in hand, waiting for it to arise.
It was when a giant splash came from behind him did Delmaria turned. Yet it was a late reaction, as the Ligahoo came at full speed and rammed Darkskull, pinned himself up against a tree. As Delmaria fought of the daze that covered his eyes to look, he saw before him a large, raging bull, with black horns that twisted in a demonic spiral, and then back out. It kicked up its feet, readying to charge. Darkskull clutched his hand, but the stick was gone - he had dropped it somewhere in the water. The bull then snorted, making its fatal charge.
Delmaria rolled out of the water, pain streaking through his body, as the bull rammed directly in to the tree. He watched as the might of the thrust went and threw down the tree, creaking and swooping until it hit the water with a tremendous force. The impact sent out a mass of waves, six, seven feet high, that knocked the crew and the Ligahoo backwards in to the further depths of the swamp. Delmaria spun through the water, trying to grab a hold of anything as the waters churned. He finally caught the root of a tree, and pulled himself up. His hair dripped in a stream, and his hat was floating in the water off to his side, right next to where Buck popped up through the surface.
He wiped the water from his eyes, to look around him. The massive bull was nowhere to be found. As the crew came towards him, drenched in water, Delmaria turned slightly to Grace. He panted as he quietly asked, "Grace... what exactly was the third form of this thing, again?"
Grace pushed herself on to the tree, exhausted, blowing her long, wet hair from her face. "A wolf, a bull, and... ah.." she paused, almost as if she had seen a ghost. "Water...."
In that instant, they looked as they saw a small ripple of water race through the swamp. It circled them four times, before speeding off between the trees, west of where they were. Dead ran up a few feet, in questioning. "It's heading up river, to where the King's Run is! There's a firework station there!"
The entire crew paused, before jolting like a bullet out of a gun up stream, after the Ligahoo.
3
The crew had finally gotten on to the soft, grassy earth, that ran along the now narrowing King's River. They were in a full sprint, hysterically trying after the demon. They could faintly here the sound of fireworks launching off in the distance, meaning they had little time to work with. Firesteel had managed to salvage the stick from the swamp before they had gotten out of it, running next to Delmaria at the head of the pack. The wind smacked against their moist clothing, as the river began to roar next to them.
Grace finally caught eye, and shouted, turning the crew's attention to a consistent, large wave that was running along the river up head. It was ten high off the surface, and gaining, nearing the waterfall that led in to the King's Run. The land began to rise, shifting from glass to hard rock, running up alongside the river. Before long they were twenty meters above the river, with the wave thirty meters high next to them - and the waterfall only fifty meters from them.
Finally, Delmaria made an abrupt, rash decision. In the blink of an eye, he tore off his long, heavy leather coat, along with his linen, pocketed night vest, and pulled the stick out of Jack's hands. He slanted off from the path, and kicked off the rock incline, hurtling towards the river.
Time almost slowed down in this moment. He felt himself lunging through the air, the sprays of water from the massive wave flying at him. He gripped the stick tight, preparing to make his mark. It was necessary for him to make his mark, as he roared a loud battle cry. He opened his eyes wide, and tensed, as he neared the Ligahoo, which prepared to make its assault over the edge of the waterfall, which would kill dozens, maybe hundreds of innocent lives of celebrators.
He came down on the wave, and chopped with the stick, cutting right in to its back. As he splashed in to the wave and went forward, through it, the stick followed him, ripping the wave in half. Although engulfed by water, he could hear the monster scream it's swan song, as it finally began to disappear. As the pirate saw the massive wave break over the waterfall, he shut his eyes, praying for the best. Instead of being carried forward, he felt himself falling - out of water, down towards the Earth. He looked down, and found himself smacking in to the small pond that sat below the tall waterfall.
As he floated to the surface, Delmaria swam over to the small rock walkway that blocked the little pond from the small waterfall below, and got up on it. He looked up, and watched as the rockets blazed through the air, cutting through the mist that was once the demon of Port Royal.
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Happy New Year, mates! Comments, reviews? All are welcome!