The City of Gold

[nladisha]

Normally, James didn't give any credence to such things as curses and witchcraft. So when word spread about how the vial of ground maize powder attached to the old bound volume of parchment was a heathen curse, he merely scoffed. Besides, he said, Marcos de Niza was a priest, and a Spanish one at that, and everyone knows how vigorously the Spanish go after anyone who so much as thumbs thier noses against the teachings of the Popish Church. That was before the hurricane struck, washing 10 men overboard, and grounding the ship on a reef. It took three days to refloat the vessel and pilot it into the harbor. As soon as the ship was tied up, the first mate and well over half the crew simply walked off the. They refused to sail under a cursed captain. James was left with barely enough men to sail. Then the rumors started spreading. James was a damned captain, who had stumbled up some sort of Aztec curse while pillaging a Spanish vessel. The heathen gods were after him, already having dragged 10 men off to Hell. In a town where sailor's superstition mixed with African folklore, and where many wierd tales about the savage races of America were swapped over bottles of rum, the story was spreading like wildfire. James would be lucky if he got any men to join him. The remainder of his crew was just enough to keep the bilge pumps working to float the ship, and slowly patch up some of the leaks with pitch, though damage from the storm was left unrepaired - the town did not possess a dedicated shipwright, nor were there enough crewmen to make all the repairs necassary.

Today was another unsuccessful day. James had given up trying to gather a crew, and was focusing all his attention on getting his ship sea-worthy again. Though it seemed as he repaired the damage from the grounding, he was uncovering more and more flaws with the ship. Today, he found an old cannon ball wedged in the hull, just below the water line. It was acting as a plug, albeit a loose, leaky one; the only thing keeping the ship from flooding entirely. He'd had to move the ship to a stretch of beach used as a make-shift dry dock, and sent his one remaining carpenter - an apprentice, really - to see if he could find enough wood to repair the hole. That was going to cost a pretty penny. James was already dipping into his private horde of money, and this latest expense was really going to hurt him. With a resigned sigh, James shuffled into the tavern where he was renting a room, and bought a bottle of rum.

By now, most people knew him on sight, and let him pass. They were weary of him and that so-called curse of his. They cleared a path for him toward the corner booth, like the Red Sea did for Moses and the Israelites, then quickly closed back up again. James knew he should be with his ship, where he could at the very least find some free shelter for the night. But what the hell - he'd lost enough money already, and after all, what sort of pirate would be if he didn't blow it all on women and strong drink. So much for settling down to a nice life in America before I die, he thought. I was so close! If de Niza's account was correct, I could have not only had enough to by a plot of land, but to pay for my sister to come out here too. There really isn't much for in England either. He opened his bottle, and started to drink, hoping to get himself drunk enough so when he finally crawled upstairs to his rented room, he'd just collapse into a stupor. He didn't want to get restless and start thumbing through that accursed tome that told the tale of an impossibly wealthy city of gold and gave tantalizing hints as to how to find it.

 

[Osheaga]

• 
  
  The tavern was a typically little shanty, teeming with sailors and fisherman who were resting after a long day of work. Most of which already had their fill of food and drink, but the merchants - all starving bartenders - would have been daft to turn down profit. Rather then urge their drunken patrons to stagger on home, the merry-men refilled the steins and flagons with any manner of alcohol they could find that lined the musty shelves. That evening an unusual customer had appeared; uncloaked, but as ostentatious as her name. She was an exotic looking nomad, evidently from the desert or southern islands. The lyrical jingle of her satchel lit the merchants' eyes aflame - it would be a literal battle for her patronage as her mild wealth was more then apparent.
  
  "'Aye, lass. What can I get for 'ye?" inquired one of the bartenders lawlessly. He was a middle-aged man, beaten by the sea but still appeared to possess his once dashing good looks. He watched her, unabashed, as she toyed with the tattered countertop. She extended a finger - long and elegant - and began etching invisible markings into the wood. Before long what was once unseen became tangible; the markings became neat, limned by her uncalloused fingertips. "'Lass ... what is it ye be -"
  
  "Just water," the nomadic woman hummed mellifluously, "and two pomegranates." The bartender was thrown aback by the etchings on his counter. Was the woman a vandalist? That may have been the case but no simple woman could bore into wood with her bare hands. He hesitated. The nomadic grew impatient and purposely flaunted the few septims she had at her disposal which sparked the bartender's lethargic, unsure actions. "Here ye are lass, I'll be but a shout away if 'ye wan' anythin' else." She hadn't waited much longer to devour the palm-sized fruit in her hand. The juices spurted, cascading down her tattooed fingers and pooled at the conjuncture of her elbow where it fell in tiny dollops on the floor.
  
  Just as she lapped at the resin-laden stream on her elbow, two mysterious men skulked into the tavern. They were heavily tattooed, each bald and toting lanterns that appeared to emanate a blue light. The woman stiffened, but kept silent, flexing and collecting her staff which was propped at an angle against the bar. They circled the back, seemingly asking patrons about some unknown subject, but stopped when they took note of her presence. One of the men hollered loud enough for the entire hovel to hear, pointing and screeching some foreign language. They other brandished a shiv and lunged across the bar. In response, the woman flipped a nearby table, thwarting the attack. The language was unknown to all in the tavern but the locals knew cursing in any tongue when they heard it.
  
  While he attempted to withdraw the weapon, the nomad unfurled her hand and violently clutched the plain of his face. At first he struggled, confounded, but shortly after began screeching in agony. Transparent brumes of steam sputtered from his flesh; the skin cooked, bubbled until she released him. He staggered backward and held his severely burned visage while his comrade rushed to aid him.
  
  "Qu'un muahali," she uttered, twirling the staff to hold it in a defensive position.