1602 RPG

ACT I, In which the stage is set...

The fire roared in the Queen’s parlor, Elizabeth herself sitting on the edge of its flickering orange glow. She let out a faint cough and wiped her lip, signaling to the guard with a wave of her withering hand. He bowed to her and turned to the door, opening it. Two more guards marched in, between them a tall, slender man with hair of frayed straw, adorned in rags, old boots and a red vest. Beneath his matted blonde locks, one could see the scar that rose up his cheek and came to a point just below his right eye. The three guards stopped several paces behind, and the peasant stepped before the Queen, who looked to the fire rather than him.

“Your majesty,” he said, bowing, but not kneeling, “I am Patricio Ramos, and—“

With a wave of her hand the Queen had his silence. “I know who you are, Spaniard. I am, after all, the one who sent for you. My agents told me of your presence within our borders, and I knew that I had to meet you.”

“And what the Queen of England desires, she gets, yes?”

“The matters I wish to discuss with you are more pressing than a mere Queen’s avarice, dear Patrick.” She said, “I fear that our world may be ending, Spaniard, and all the armies of England and Spain and France would be powerless to stop it.”

“Of what do you speak, your majesty?” he asked.

The Queen coughed again and sighed, at long last explaining, “From across Europe, I hear these claims, and within my own country, I have witnessed enough that I know them to be true. The ground shakes violently, and even cracks at times. The ocean recedes dramatically, and the next morning, it rises higher than it ever has. The skies are haunted by furious storms, and mariners lose their way on the sea, as they swear that the stars rearrange with each night.”

“So, what would a simple Spaniard have that could make any difference?” Patricio inquired.

“Ah, but you are no simple Spaniard.” Elizabeth answered at a raspy hush, “Your skill is renowned, a marksmen of truest form. And that very talent may give you great aid in pursuit of a certain… artifact.”

“An artifact?”

“Yes, an old treasure of the Knights Templar, as it were… in legend, at least. My advisers have looked over the records, and the tales told of it lead us to believe that it could very well be the source of these disturbances.”

“And, pray, what are the tales?”

“No matter.” Said the Queen, “It is coveted by every emperor and every order across the world. Some believe that it is a weapon, others that it is a device of the Holy Father, but they all want it, and they are willing to start a war over it. I task you with retrieving it first.”

“And what do YOU think it to be, your majesty?”

The Queen furrowed her brow beneath her crown, breathing slow, heavy sighs as a woman weary of life would, “I think it… to be the last hope of my kingdom, of my people, perhaps of every last man on this Earth. As vague as it is, we must not chance letting it fall into the hands of anyone else, or it could spell catastrophe just as easily as salvation.”

Patricio stepped forward, taken aback by what he had been told, "Your majesty, I am honored by the consideration, but this task seems more suited for--"

He was cut short by a sharp statement from Queen Elizabeth, “You regret the deeds you have committed in the service of Spain, is that correct, Patrick?”

Her eyes were no less piercing for their age, and under their potent gaze, Patricio shamefully replied, “Yes, your majesty.”

“And what might those deeds have been?”

Patricio turned from the Queen, a catch in his throat as he spoke, “I stood by as countless souls were burned at the stake. I myself set the torch to them more than once. When we were rounding up the Jews, a… a young woman, a mother, fled for the hills, her child in her arms. I… I took my bow and… shot her. I shot her down, an arrow through the neck bringing her to the ground. When I and another of my party went to retrieve her, we found that the baby had been crushed beneath her lifeless frame. We dragged them both to the fire we had built on the edge of the village, and I cast them in. I watched them burn… I watched them all burn…”

“Well, young Patrick," said the Queen, "Under my employ, you may do far more than avenge your wrongs. You may very well save all of God’s creation… from absolute oblivion.”

"Than I will accept." said Patricio, determined to rise up from the snare he now wallowed in, beset on all sides by his memories.

The Queen coughed once again, more violent than before, and wiped the blood from her lip. “Than... than you shall be equipped for the journey. You shall be traveling with Artair Edan Sinclair, my senior most adviser on these affairs. He is a master of the sciences. both nature and physic. And he partakes a bit in the dark and the supernatural, I wager, but his knowledge will aid you in your journey, as it has in these dwindling years of my life.” Suddenly, the doors behind them opened and in stepped a tall man. His blonde hair was groomed and neat, as a man of status would keep it. He was dressed in fine blue and grey clothes, threaded with gold. Leather and chain mail padded his frame, and a cape cascaded over his shoulder. Everything about his dress insisted a privileged noble, yet the worn brown gloves, the scars that decorated his neck and the edges of his face, and the sword at his waist with the gold painting scraped from the hilt, made it more than clear that he was a fighter. The Queen gestured to him, and he gave a polite bow, “Also accompanying you shall be Sir Mason Hansford, my top agent on secret dealings, both within our borders and beyond. Not a leaf falls in all of Europe that he does not know about.”

“I am the same way, your majesty, if in a more literal sense.” Said Patricio.

"There are three horses in the stable for you. Now, rest, Spaniard. You ride at dawn." the Queen announced, signaling for them both to leave. Patricio and Sir Hansford bid Elizabeth ado and exited the parlor, leaving the Queen with her thoughts. A drop of rain struck the glass at the far end of the room, and before the Queen of England could even acknowledge it, a thousand more pelted the window, and the crack of thunder filled the air. She sunk in her seat, and her heart plummeted deeper with each roaring bolt that tore the sky. The darkest days were ahead of them still.

Lands End the year of our lord 1602

Excerpt from the private letters of lady Laura Scarlet to her brother Ser Connr Scarlet

To My Dearest brother Connr

Why Has thou forsaken me & thy God. Can I not compel Ye enough with mere words to return safely from such a ungodly place my good brother. Still more importantly that my prayers go with Ye, if not in your soldierly actions on the battle field. I'm so afraid , for thine soul I love Ye & would not see Ye burn in hell from crimes of murder upon this world regardless of wars so called morality.

Has not the most Gracious lord in heaven forbidden the act of murder through his good servant Moses. Regardless of what that foul odious man the Bishop of Canterbury speaks in support of the Protestant Queen. I so wish Ye did not have to go to fight in this silly war, I fear so much! for all men are but the children of women somewhere. All I can only see is the tears in the eyes of mothers cradling dead children & wistful dreams of happier days.

Why must the lord mock us so with this cacophony of death, tis such a cruel fate for man. Please forgive my melancholy this place sours my mood much. I hast not slept a time sweetly in days. Heaven help me connr Ragecraft the castles ancient stones groan in their sleep like a restless dog. Oh dear connr please forgive my feminine foolishness, i have much to weary my brow with these dreary rainy days responsibility, the Pastor Greveey hath been stirring up the peasants again with fanciful delusions about RageCraft Castle being a living beast of the Devil such fancy of his i find most vexing.

I think he means to burn RageCraft Castle & our good name to the ground. He is quite mad in his illiterate ramblings, as if the man could grasp the simplest rudimentary musing from the book of genesis. He misquotes the good book daily, so much that I somethings think that he may be drunk.

I am sorry My brother i should not burden Ye with such banalities i know where ever you are right now that you are doing the Queens justice for god & country. I just wish Ye were here

Thine loving sister lady Laura Scarlet of RageCraft

Ignorance. The fuel of all malicious intent.

Bwana sweeps through tall reeds of wheat, running effortlessly through the heart of his peoples land. The sun is huge in the clear blue sky. the animals graze, hunt, and run for their survival. Bwana understands all too well, for he lived like this everyday. The men of white have only doubled their efforts since the tragedy that set him on his path. Taking more women, and even more men and children. It was clear they saw the people of Asani as mere cattle and livestock, a tool to be traded or used later. He knew Asanis' intentions were pure and of wisdom, but he tried to find peace where none resided. More drastic measures needed to be employed, as they were when the jungle lion entered the village. They must be given a message so none of its like will dare pass through again.

The air is humid but brisk as he sits atop a large boulder underneath a tree.

A Cheetah growls at him for coming into its' territory. He can only respect it's wishes, if he couldn't, how could expect it of any other men? He throws the Cheetah a dead gazelle he had hauled out of the field for tonights meals as a trade for time on it's property, it gives him an icy stare, than almost what some could confuse as a nod, before engorging itself on the hours dead animal.

He stares out onto the beach as the same group of men who were meant to bring peace attempted to leave with over forty men, some missing a hand or a foot, no doubt the debt for an attempt to see their families again. a man whips at their backs as they shuffle up a ramp into the center of the vessel, "YAH! YAH!" He screams, as though he were corralling wild bison.

Bwana had seen enough. He hops into the air and runs, arms flung behind him, at the entourage of prisoners. His fingers ignite in a blue fire, his eyes also. At an incredible speed, only a blur to the prisoners, he slides his finger down the chains, leaving each crisped at the links and brittle. What these men did not know, is the Children of Asani, though meek and humble, were revered through out Africa as the greatest huntsman. To give them a reason to hunt you, would be to invite death willingly.

He stops in the front of the line near the entryway to the boat, eye to eye with the cattle driver who's eyes swelled with fear and shock as two white hot fingers pierce his chest cavity "My people..." he digs in deeper with a sharp thrust, "Are not your dogs" The man drops as he pulls out of his chest. The people all look to him, knowing him well for his near royal status in the tribe. He swings his wooden staff and points to the land, "Go! Take your children, your brothers, and families. Go back to the tribe with this knowledge of our enemies, and prepare yourselves...for this will NOT be their last attempt on your lives! " with that they all follow suit as they disappear into the mash of baje and green color that is the home land.

They watch in amusement as the revenge they wanted so badly was rewarded, with the ignition of each vessel in a blinding blue light. Tonight they would celebrate, tonight they would dance infront of the fire and howl to the gods in gratitude, for tomorrow... was yet to be written.

From Sir Mason Hansford to Her Majesty Elizabeth. By the Grace of God, Greetings, Madam.

Since last we spoke, my party and I have traveled far, and on the setting of our second day since departure, we take our rest at an inn not far South of Nottingham. As this letter reaches you, however, I suspect we shall be passing Leeds. Artair is not one I would choose to travel with, as soldiers are far simpler company. However, he has not caused any trouble or hindrance, nor has the Spaniard. I can only pray that word of our secret, and more importantly, its location, have not spread deeply enough to inspire others to take up pursuit. Word from my agents stationed throughout the country tells me otherwise. Already, the Russians whisper of it, and I fret that France is not far behind.

In these tumultuous days, I can say only this in certainty, the world as we know it is fleeting. No one more than I is upset by this, but such a line of work as mine brings me to the edge of man's knowledge daily, and I am confident that, if we survive this storm, which escalates mercilessly towards Armageddon, a new world will be born from the wake. I merely hope that the Queen and God's chosen people of England will rise to meet it.

With pride and honor, I sign myself,

Sir Mason Hansford

A rough hand slapped down on Mason's shoulder, and he turned to see a lumbering, drunken soldier. Beer dampened his beard, and a belch escaped his maw, followed by a chuckle as he leered down at Mason. "A ways off tha road, are ye, lass?" he slurred in a deep Welsh accent, "Oh, wait! 'M sorry, yer a man! I thought ye a woman, th' way ye dress. What brings ye to such a place then, fancy man?"

"Travelling." Mason answered simply.

"And surely, such a fancy man 's yourself... hic!... could spare a tired soldier a slice of his riches." He sneered, allowing toxic breath to seep from between his yellow teeth. The boar held out one calloused hand, meanwhile planting his ale and his closed fist on the table beside Mason, closing him in.

Meanwhile, at a booth in the busy inn directly across from where Sir Hansford sat, Patricio rested, hunched over the table and sipping his drink. The candle light cast over the faces of both he and the honorable Mister Sinclair. In a rush, Patricio turned and saw only a young balladeer approaching, lute at the ready. "A song for ye travelers three?" he asked.

Patricio brushed under his eyes, gently grazing the scar as he answered, "I suppose I could do with a song." He fished a coin from his pocket, "Tell me, do you know the ballad of Trinity?" He flicked the coin to the young bard, who caught it.

"Aye, sir, I do!" the boy replied, and with a vibrant strum of his lute, he began,

"The maelstrom's winds

Cast down their ship,

And alive were only the stranded three,

A knight, a lord, and a lady.

They looked on the shores,

So strange, so new,

And from failure's pangs, a dream was born.

T'was upon the mountains,

The three did roar!

This shall be our Utopia!

This shall be our--"

The song was cut short as Sir Mason's head collided with the nose of the stubborn soldier, and he was sent staggering back against the wall. He immediately recovered and charged at the now standing Mason, but was struck on the helm by a pebble. He turned to the fool who dared throw it, but was met only by the angered face of Patricio Ramos, and shortly thereafter, his fist.

The soldier's brethren quickly rose to meet Patricio and Mason. "Now then, Patrick..." said Sir Hansdord, "Now is the time to show just what those Spaniards taught you." They readied themselves, and the drunken soldiers clashed with them. Sir Mason resisted drawing his sword, so as to not escalate things, and merely clobbered his enemies as they came. Patricio kicked one in the knee and at once elbowed him in the throat. Another came up behind him and locked a heavy arm around his neck. As his friend approached to beat Patricio, he swung his leg upward and shattered his jaw, but another was quick to follow and punched him in the stomach to great effect.

The Spanish fugitive struggled to break free, but only found himself flung against the table, knocking over his own beer. "Artair..." he groaned painfully through the man's crushing grasp, "A little help... would be appreciated!" He drove his elbow into the soldier's gut, but it did hardly any good, and Mason was occupied with the others left standing. Aside from their brawl, the inn had fallen silent, every soul within simply sitting in fascination. A light rain began to fall outside, staining the dark English countryside.

The night air is humid but refreshing in the chilled fields outside of the Tribe. Bwana lays in the sand looking up at the starry night sky that seemed like heaven trying to break through to earth. A cacophony of sounds can be heard, the animals and insects restless from the activity these past few months. From some several feet behind him, Bwana can hear the sound of barefoot on earth, and knew it was one of his people, for no man not of his land would treat it with such respect.

"Bwana." the tall bald man says, to which Bwana replies "Fustafa. Is everything alright? They haven't returned already have they?" He asks with a look of worry and anger on his face, clearly lit by the shining moon.

"No, no, nothing so urgent. King Asani wishes for an audience with you, he says he must discuss some things." There was no doubt in Bwanas' mind it was about his actions earlier on in the day. Asani was a pacifist in the truest sense, only succeeded by his ability to lead, the latter always outweighing the first. But in the end, he was always troubled by the spilling of blood, no matter the situation or whose.

Bwana stands, dusting off his back and knees. He picks his staff up from the ground and slips it into makeshift satchel on his back. The trip would take less than a few seconds, but out of respect, Bwana strolls along side his brother. Fustafa keeps looking out of his eye corner at Bwana, making him seem troubled by a thought on his mind. Finally he breaks the silence as he turns to Nguvu saying, "Bwana...my wife was in that group...thank you" He hugs him tightly then continues walking

15 minutes later

The two walk into a large circular hut, obviously standing higher and wider than the others. They enter to the sound of celebration. As he takes a few more steps in a child shouts in excitement "It's him! It's brother Bwana!" He screams pointing and smiling at Bwana. The room is filled with a unanimous chant of His name. Bwana can't help but to feel insecure at the praise, the thought of doing what he did for it was an embarrassment in his mind. His hand raises and they all grow silent, expecting a speech.

"Please, enjoy this night for yourselves. My only required reward for this night...is to see you all cherish this night as though it were your last!" The silence is broken by an uproar of cheer, followed by drumming and strumming of instruments.

The King sits in the back, the only one with a look of concern on his face in a sea of euphoria. Bwana bows to his king, showing the respect neccessary " My king, you wished to speak with me?" He asks still bowed.

One Year Earlier 1601

Correspondence between Lady Laura Scarlet & Her majesty Queen Elisabeth of Great Britain & Ireland

I apologies to be writing such a black tale, your highness. Your Majesty I regret to inform that thine most loyal & trusted servant my father is dead. I know it may not come as a surprise. As father has been very ill for such a lengthy time. This Wickedly untimely death,Has Of course has forever upset my broken heart , but I stand strong for England in mine fathers stead. England shall not fall as long as a Scarlet bleeds over Ragecraft.

I remember fondly thine wise words of warning in preparation for this moment, so very true, tis just something’s in life ye don’t get used too. Deaths beyond hearth & home, far far away be easier on the heart, Alas it’s the dying of one’s beloved family be the bitterest of reproachful attacks upon the peace of mind no heavenly prayer can give succor. No sweet relief saying it twas not me & mine, a silly vain practice I never mastered such banalities of cynicism, I confess i would make a terrible soldier my Queen.

I apologies for mine ramblings Ragcraft Castle ancestral home to our family, for over two thousand years killed may father, but first it drove him mad. I do indeed know how this must sound to one so, educated by the most learned of institutions, but alas I must confess some trepidation in what I must next reveal to my dear Elisabeth, your most gracious Majesty, my beloved God Mother.

Ragcraft has awoken I believe the time of prophecy is at hand. I do indeed know father & your great self did set plans in motion for such an eventuality. Plans that he left in mine brothers care to complete. Alas my brother Connr, Now the Lord Scarlet, has fled his responsibilities & title in search of fleeting glory on the battle fields.

I fear his lack of resolve was mostly due to ever increasing evil of Ragecraft. He did not could not understand . I know to much, have seen to much but alas I have not done enough. I failed ye your highness I failed mine own father his house & name, most of all I failed our lord & savior, I failed God.

I could not discern the meaning from fathers last & latest note on the complexities of his great works. His excited feverish words made no sense to me, so I was hoping that her majesty could once again cast wide her net & snare for me a most knowledgeable trout, perhaps one that understands & speaks madness.

I enclose a copy of my fathers last written work for illustrious perusal my most beloved Queen, my the lord bless you & keep ye safe.

Your loyal servant

Lady Laura Scarlet

Piece of the Strange poem left by the late Lord Scarlet. The last untranslatable code

Rage Craft, Rage Craft, throne built, upon fires breath

House of flights fancy, climbs ever higher carrying death

Groaning moaning, she’s drinks the blood of, witch’s dying

Black Magic, blood furnaces, bodies piling up, children crying

Tis the engine of chaos, made to kill the world, before birth

In bold white strokes, her number is a curse, of mans worth

Iron crafted, in Rage, A arrow of the a frightful tomorrow

She fell from the sky, will do so again to reign a throne of sorrow

God save the Queen LS

Patricio at once took the first of his enemies to regain coherence by the collar and booted him out the door. The rest voluntarily fled, encouraged by the sudden pounding of Mason's fist on the table behind them. They both stretched out aching joints and massaged bruises, and the inn became alive again as everyone returned to their own business.

The Spaniard dropped back into the booth across from Artair. "Many thanks, Mister Sinclair." he said, bracing his eye, which had been struck in the fight, "You are a learned man indeed. None in my circle of folk could ever possess such ingenuity as to accost a barbarian with their, em, shoes." He looked up to Artair and at once exclaimed, "Well, that explains it, the man's stone drunk!"

"I'll help our swashbuckling cobbler to his room." Said Patricio, rising up once again. Sir Hansford straightened his cape. "Very well," he answered, withdrawing the folded parchment from within his coat, "Before our departure, I ordered one of my men to meet us not far from here. I must go to him and give him this letter to the Queen." He walked toward the door, stepping over the abandoned helm of one of the soldiers. "Rest well, you two!" he ordered, "Daybreak does not wait on a drunkard's remorse, and neither shall I." With that, he opened the door and set off down the path into the woods to meet with his subordinate.

Meanwhile, Patricio offered Artair his hand. "Come on, then." he said, "We need you with your wits about you for the ride tomorrow. All the world may need your wits."

The church bells tolled, ringing in the new day in the little town. The grass was damp from the night's rain, but it seemed as though these ugly storms that had polluted the sky as of late had, for a time, relented, and allowed the grace of God to shine through.

Within the church, only one man occupied the rows of empty pews. Patricio sat, heaped over and bowed in troublesome thought. His concentration was not broken as he heard the Bishop approach down the aisle.

"What troubles you, my son?" asked the Bishop. Patricio put his hands over his mouth and sighed deeply as he replied, "For a long time, I have traveled to escape perdition, to free myself of those who would wish to hold me enslaved to evil forever. Now, I travel a new path, with the weight of the world upon my shoulders, and yet, my past persists in weakening me. I fear only that I am not fit for this task."

"When the weight of the world is upon you, know that God shall be with you to share the burden." the Bishop answered.

"God..." Patricio murmured, as if the word stung his lip, “I have done unspeakable things in the name of God. The Lord may be a healer for you, but he is not so for me, and I walk with him no longer.”

The Bishop's patient eyes grew angry, and with a swipe of his hand, he hissed sharply, “Then, you are damned to hell!”

Patricio kept his eyes on the cold stone floor, so akin to the damp cobbled stone of the dungeon, in which he had been imprisoned for years. “I already was.”

Patricio left the church and returned up the hill to the inn, venturing into the stable to mount his horse and ride off with the others.

They rode at a steady pace through rolling fields for some time. Noon broke, and as they rose up a rather large hillside, beset to the left by a cliff, and to the right by a sheer rock wall, Patricio looked ahead to Sir Hansford. The Queen's agent rode upright, with a nobility and pride, one hand on the reigns, the other on the hilt of his sword.

"I say, Sir Mason!" Patricio called out, "Perhaps, on this, our third day travelling northward, you might enlighten us.... for where do we ride?"

“We ride for Scotland, dear Ramos," answered Mason, "To Slaines Castle over Cruden Bay. In rumor, that is where our fabled treasure is hidden. The artifact was given to Caine of the Celts, a Templar assassin, for him to protect. It fell into his care some three hundred years ago, when the Order began to crumble. He and a cadre of followers fled Jerusalem to Scotland in order to guard the treasure from the Romans. It is believed that his descendants dwell within the castle walls to this day, and that they would fight to the death to defend it."

"Very well, then..." Patrico muttered, looking out across the horizon, a hawk soaring in the distance, "To Scotland."

Córdoba, Spain

In the pristine walls of the Alcázar of Córdoba, the Inquisitors gathered. From the courtyard echoed the voices of tortured souls, drowning out the cries of their brethren in the cellars, and the dull moans of the heathens chained in the towers. Grand Inquisitor overlooked the torture of the nonbelievers from his balcony above. Dressed in red robes and adorned in rosaries, he watched in quiet dignity as the Lord's work was done. A subordinate entered the chamber behind him, passing his guards and joining him on the balcony.

"Grand Inquisitor..." he said humbly.

"What is it, Marcos?" asked the Inquisitor.

"We have received news from England. Elizabeth has dispatched three agents to Scotland to retrieve an old treasure of the Templars. We believe that she is preparing for war, and that this grand weapon may seal the fate of God's country if we do not act quickly. What dost thou make of it?"

"A weapon? Did mine ears deceive me?"

"No, sir! The artifact is fabled a weapon from the Heavens! Whoever controls it may very well control the world. And one of the agents the Queen has sent forth... is the traitor Patricio."

"I see..." the Inquisitor pondered, eventually stating, "Surely, such a device would aid in our divine quest to purge sin from these lands. Perhaps, it would even exterminate the heretics once and for all. Send word to the Pope of our excursion. We shall send for the artifact and snatch it from under old Elizabeth's nose! And as for Patricio, have them bring me his head."

"At once, Grand Inquisitor!" Marcos answered, bowing before racing off to his duties.

The Inquisitor stood, alone, watching as clouds swept across the sky, almost in a heartbeat, and a cold rain fell upon the earth. He smelled the rain in the air, and it was foul. A crack of thunder shook him to his core, followed by another and another in a seemingly endless tide. Basking in the rainfall of the coming apocalypse, the Grand Inquisitor looked towards Heaven, and raised his hands, crying aloud, "Who will not fear you, Lord, and bring glory to your name? For you alone are holy! All nations will come and worship before you, for your righteous acts have been revealed!"

1902

It haunted her heels, like a savage tiger, driven mad with hunger immortal cunning & hateful symmetry. Hunting her in the forest of the night, wishing her only harm. To sinks it's tooth & claw into all that she was.

Branch's whipped against her exposed arms as she ran, in nothing more then her night gown, bleeding with every hit. Every sharp stone a dagger piercing her feet. Breathless she ran her legs numb like her skin, the freezing cold a mere after thought, to the image of it's monstrous muzzle deep in her flesh, flashed across her eyes with every frantic beat of her heart she increased her speed.

"ROOOOAAAAAAAARRRAGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!" To hear the beast roar some where close behind her, was to hear what drove mankind from the dark places & into the light. She tripped on an unseen log, hitting the ground hard, knocking the wind out of her lungs. The fall sent her slipping over the edge of the bank & into a shallow stream. She landed on her back water worn stones tore painfully into her back, the blood mingling with the water. She try to scramble across the stream on all fours, biting on to scream desperately holding back the instinct to cry out less it draw the beast forth.

It was then that she heard a loud splash in the water directly behind her & felt the warm misty breath of death on her neck.

The young warrior rises and walks behind his king as the two head for his living quarters. Asani sits upon his throne and begins a direct questioning of the events from earlier today

"I heard of your recent attacks on the white people. Too be honest, i agree that these people need to be repelled, but i want you to fight for what's right. Not for the fact that they have wronged. Everyday i see your hatred of them increase, your lust for revenge starting to cloud your mind. All i want you too know, is that you shouldn't fight these people based soley on your revenge and your hate, but instead because of the love of your people." He says with more concern than conviction in his eyes.

“My King forgive me, but you too must remember, these men did what was wrong. monsterous acts that can not be forgiven. It is the love that fuels the hate, I can not have one and not the other… Not until I have my family back. But I thanks you, your concern is appreciated.” He says with t little kindess he had left in him.

Asani started to smile, "that was the bad news for today, there is good news as well.”

"Tomorrow, the day our war starts, i want you to lead a group of warriors. It will be a special group, made for attacking at the core of their front, you can organize who's part of it yourself. I believe only you and your leadership skills will be able to secretly get the group to the ships where they are residing. I also think your the only person who can attack at the heart of a problem, and come back unscathed. I hope you accept the preposition." As Asani waited for the expected reply, Bwana contemplated if he was truly ready for such an immense task. But he settled his inner argument and gave his king a swift nod saying, “If it is what I necessary and what you will, I will kead the men.”

"Good. Now go off and celebrate with the people, tell them i need my rest. After all, i'm starting to grow old." The king said comically shooing him away with his hand.

Bwana steps into the night and enjoys it’s chaotic perfection. He decides against his kings wishes of joing the festivities, to contemplate tomorrows battle strategy on the community hut roof. He stays up all night drawing plots in the sand, placing stones to figure out what points of entry would be most effective and what exits would be safest.

The heavy footfalls, the rattling of armor on a tired frame, echoed throughout the cold forest in the wee hours of dawn. His frantic breathing unleashed plumes of fog in his wake. The English guardsman raced at breakneck speed, never minding the blood that stained his breastplate and the sleeve of his tunic. He simply kept running. It's only shot discharged, he dropped his blunderbuss on the ground, abandoning it. He carried only his rapier, and ran over log and stone until the bolt of a crossbow caught him in the shoulder, and he toppled to the ground, his helmet rolling down the pass. His landing only drove the projectile further into his body, and he screamed in agony.

At last, the soldier opened his eye and saw the silhouette of a grim specter looming overhead. The figure folded his arms behind his back and leaned in. "You are quite resilient, friend." he chuckled fiendishly, "My associates and I appreciate the donation, we were in need of another horse."

"KOFF! Spanish... rat..." the soldier replied, spitting blood on the man's boots, "The Queen will raise yer heads on pikes for this!"

"Wrong answer, friend." the man replied, grabbing him by the collar of his breastplate and threw him onto a flat boulder nearby. With the hiss of scraping metal, the man drew a rusty saber and put the point to the soldier's throat. "You spoke with Sir Mason Hansford of the Queen's guard in the woodlands beyond Nottingham the night before last. Correct?" Although his tone remained calm, his words were emphasized by the pressure of the sword against his captive's throat. "You are in Sir Mason's secret employ, so enlighten me, dear friend, where are they heading?"

"I will never tell you, filth!" the soldier growled.

The shadowy man twisted his sword delicately atop the soldier's throat. "He and his company travel North, but our superiors demand that we know... for where do they ride?" The bleeding agent gave no response, and the malevolent soul who held the sword at his throat sighed, "Very well." He reared back his blade for a lethal stab, but the soldier raised a trembling hand and cried, "Wait! S-Scotland... they... they ride for Scotland. Slaines Castle... Cruden Bay."

The man's face went lax and he lowered his sword. "Thank you, dear friend. You have aided the Inquisition in delivering the ultimate treasure into the hands of our Lord. You will have a place among the heavenly host. Rest well." With that, he raised his sword once again and slashed down, the sound of metal clashing against rock reverberating through the misty morning air. Twigs cracked as the soldiers head rolled along the ground, eyes frozen in terror.

The man drew a handkerchief from his sleeve and commenced to wipe blood from his blade. He kicked the headless body off the stone and looked around to the other three of his party, wielding a hatchet, a pistol and a crossbow respectfully. "You heard the man." he said, "To Scotland."

ACT II, In which the stars are rearranged...

The bark of an oak had been whittled away into the form of a hoop with a small dot at its core. Breaking the calm morning sounds was the twang of a taught bowstring and the immediate crack of splitting wood as an arrow struck the center of this target in the tree. Patricio stood in a clearing, their horses tied to a tree some distance behind him. He plucked another of the arrows laid out before him from the ground and shot at another tree with a similar target engraved in it.

He drew yet another arrow, pulling the string and taking a deep, contented breath, filling his nostrils with the sweet morning air of the English countryside. "I can hear you, you know." he said. Sir Mason took another bite of his apple. "Usually, I have to pay two shillings to see shooting of that magnitude." he said.

"Archery is my specialty." Patricio replied, loosing the arrow, "And I have used it to cause so much harm. I sharpen my skills in the hope that they might be called upon for this noble cause we now pursue."

"Come now, you've hit a few bullseyes, but I protest, are you truly so sharp a marksman that the Queen would choose you above all others?"

"See for yourself, Sir Hansford." Patricio said, gesturing to the knight. "I shall take that apple if you are finished with it." Mason nodded and cast his apple up into the air. Patricio took sight of it and let slip his arrow. It flew through the air and met the apple, splitting it apart. The archer bowed and was met with applause from Mason.

"Practice is over, good Patricio. Dawn has broken, and so we are already behind. If the Lord is in our favor, we shall be at the castle walls by sundown. Find Artair, wherever he has wandered off to, and tell him to mount before I have his Welsh hide!" Sir Hansford walked back to the horses and tended his own. Meanwhile, Patricio bounded off into the woods to find their companion, Sinclair.

"Artair?" he called out, "Artair, where have you gone?"

Over the hills of England...

The four men of shadow gathered on green pastures. Their leader cast his rusted saber into the ground and pointed to each of his comrades as he spoke with the inflection of a Spaniard, "I have told the Inquisitors of the artifact's location. I will go to retrieve it. You shall accompany me, Ferdinand." He gestured to the one carrying a collection of pistols. He pointed to the others, the large, broad shouldered giant with twin hatchets at his belt, and the stout man who leaned on his crossbow, "Artas, Miguel, another group of Englishmen, led by a man of the Church. They are not far behind. Kill them." His subordinates nodded and the groups of two went their opposing ways, each ready to do battle and claim blood in the name of their Lord and savior. Dark days drew ever closer towards merciless black, and agents from all corners of the world raced for the enigmatic treasure of the Templars. If extreme care was not taken, war would be the only outcome, and the dueling nations would be powerless to prevent the darkness from taking its final hold.

Patricio awaited a response, quickly turning as he heard twigs shattering beneath mighty hooves. As he peered up, the visage of Artair glared down at him, surrounded in a halo by the light piercing the canopy.

"You must forgive me, my boy. I'm afraid I had to leave before dawn to settle a nearby matter. But, do not worry, I've returned and am more than ready to ride for Scotland." said the Welshman.

"All is well, Artair." said Patricio, shielding his eyes from the light. Sinclair trotted off to meet with Sir Mason, and Patricio was not far behind, only stopping as he passed through the clearing again to take up his bow and pluck his arrows from the trees. As he ran back into camp, he leaped spryly over a log and tied on his belt, placing the arrows into their quiver. With his things in order, the Spaniard mounted is horse and rode off after the others.

Barnsdale Forest

Miguel sat perched atop a strong limb, veiled in the leaves of the tree. He stared down the length of his crossbow, ready to fire on his target, the leader of the Queen's second party, the man of the church. With a patient eye, he waited for the opportune moment and loosed his bolt, aimed straight at the man's throat. He immediately began the task of setting another bolt, and to enact the second part of their plan, a log careened out of the darkness, aimed like a spear at the head of another traveler, and immediately in its wake, Artas the giant came bursting from the brush, swinging his hatchets with both mastery and savagery. This was far from an attack, this was a slaughter.

Scotland

Upon his throne sat the noble King James of Scotland. His short, black hair glistened in the dull fire's light, a golden crown rested atop his brow, a symbol of his dominion. He drank of his chalice and contently wiped his lip. "Tell me, now..." he said to his adviser, "What news hath arisen regarding this coveted treasure of the Templars?"

"According to the scribes of England, your majesty, the artifact is hidden within our own borders." answered the adviser.

"Hmm... the treasure is in Scotland, eh?" the King mused, "Well, this gives us an interesting stake in this endeavor."

"Sir?"

"This artifact is fabled a weapon, yes? And even if it is not a weapon, it still is a device of the Lord, buried in the dark by paranoid zealots. The power bestowed upon its wielder could very well bring the heretic kings and barbaric tribes of the world to their knees. I have waited years for the Queen to shuffle off this mortal coil and allow me to assume my rightful place as King. No child has been born of her, no heir apparent to her throne above I. In the hold of the Scottish crown, I wager this treasure shall usher in an age of divinity and righteousness, with me at its helm. Imagine it."

"So, what are we to do, my King?" asked the adviser.

"We claim the artifact." answered King James plainly, "We shall hold it here and wait to see if dear Elizabeth passes with dignity. If not, she will have to be... coerced."