Dinh AaronMk — Roleplayer Guild

Deseret

Salt Lake City

A light smattering of rain fell against the windows, unpreturbed by the change of weather a middle-aged man leaned back in his chair, one legged cross along the knee as he gentle thumbed through a book wresting on the ankle of his foot. Dressed in a black cotton suit and with a thick bushy beard he looked like the subject of a painting in his quiet reading room.

There was a dull rolling of thunder from outside, and the soft gray storm clouds briefly flashed pearl white.

To compare the skyline of the city through the window the man sat before to the skyline of the city centuries ago would only inspire a certain confusion in the observer. Centuries ago the ancient skyscrapers and high rises that dominated the city's center had been torn down bit by bit. Their materials reused elsewhere for safer structures. To also change the image of the city, earthquakes had remodeled the city and many of the larger buildings had collapses or sunk into the clay.

But of all the ruin and reuse, the heart of the city remained. A great care was put into it, and Temple Square was pridefully maintained as it appeared centuries ago. It had in fact expanded over the course of time. Its ancient church, Tabernacle, and assembly hall stood strong, maintained, and continually renovated despite the opportunities for ruin cast against them; their strength God's blessing. The far less ancient libraries and museums and outlaying structures of the old Church themselves remained, no less important than the whole.

“Mr. Monmont, sir?” a voice spoke up from the far-side of the room. Stirring, Monmont looked up at the man.

“You didn't knock.” he said in a airy cracked voice.

“I didn't want to disturb you.” the man at the door said apologetically, “I'm sorry.” He was a short man with a round urbane face. His short black hair combed back along his head.

Monmont brushed him off. “All is forgiven.” he said, shutting the book and putting it on an end table next to him. He looked up at the visitor with murky green eyes and studied him, “So why are you here?” he asked.

“The latest eastern missionary expedition.” the scribe reported, “But all accounts we should have received an update on their location six months ago. But we haven't gotten any work back from their journey into Missouri. But no riders have returned any letters for them yet.

“I realize I have told you this before, and you urged patience. But speaking with others and we believe something must have gone wrong.”

Thomas Monmont's expression didn't sour or liven at the news. He gave the matter some thought, ringing his hand through his black graying beard. “The quest for the Garden of Eden is a difficult one, that is for sure.” he grumbled, his demeanor changing for the dark.

The scribe nodded affirmatively, numbly chewing on his lip. Leaning forward the church's president achingly got to his feet and approached the window, looking out into the rain on the scattered orchards and parks of Salt Lake City. Its walls the indomitable mountain ranges beyond the city's boundaries. It was only around the temple complex a wall had been raised, but it was ancient and small, built for a time of chaos and despair and not of prosperity and progress. Like time itself, it had erased many of the old roads of the old city.

“Enrique Young's second oldest was on that voyage.” the scribe said.

“I know.” the president said with curt flatness.

“He's not going to let this go by unanswered, unlike the other lost missions. He's already been pressing the Church for answers and progress. We can only deflect him so long, he's already suspicious. He's already contacted his stake president to call a council to press the Church. He'll likely press it at the next council. This could get very severe.”

“I realize that.” the president acknowledged, “I don't know about our resources though. Can we devote another expedition so soon to find the last?” he turned to address his scribe. His manner had fully darkened.

Enrique Young wouldn't fully challenge the church, but it would be a challenge to him. If proceedings went ahead, he imagined the quorum Young would call would discuss the possibility of dismissal for him as head of the church.

“I believe so, our funds are still in order, even after organizing this passed expedition.”

“Operating so soon to seek them out though might be too immediate a sign of failure.” Monmont interjected, “It can't be official.”

“Understood...” the scribe faltered and Monmont didn't fill the dead space. In the moment, he had an idea. “I might know some people from Dublán that would be available for Church service.”

“You would?” President Thomas asked, surprised at this revelation.

The scribe nodded, “Not a prominent bunch, but I met the patriarch of the family during a trip through the region one year. They were pretty important before the Browns took over, or so I was told. They're on amiable terms with him, but try and find their own opportunities; I guess. Never the less, I believe we can get the discretion we require from them while we try and delay action by Master Young.”

“If you have confidence in them, then I do too.” Thomas Monmont said, “Broach contact.”

“As you will.”

Baja State

Off the coast of San Diego

Drums and water. Thrashing into the foamy gray sea two ships danced across the dark blue mat of the Pacific ocean. From the one oarsmen on the deck of a high sailing shipped thrashed at the ocean's surface with oars as they turned against the wind. The sails had been turned up, and the bow of the ship aimed out to sea as in the distance a much smaller vessel skirted across the waves, its own oars beating the throbbing waters of the Pacific. Towards the east the sight of land was a foggy green pencil line against the backdrop of a perfect clear sapphire blue sky.

Atop the forecastle of the larger ship a towering officer say atop a pony and gazed out over the heads of his officer and helmsmen as petty officers on the main deck bellowed threw their backs into the oars as they barked orders and violent encouragement from bitter salty mouths.

From his vantage atop the out of place horse, the captain of the ship watched as the ship not further than a quarter mile away jetted across the surf. Dark skinned men of the sea frantically evading the colossal galley that was frantically seeking to cut them off. The hurried thunder of a war drum echoed from the smaller ship, and the white captain could see the dark figure of the caramel skined man at the large red drum at the center of his boat.

To compare the two ships would not seem to invoke any sort of threat posed from the smaller one now leading the Mormons out to sea. For starters, at nearly a deck and a half or two decks above water the galley Santo Tijuana was by far the more imposing war vessel than the small vessel it pursued. But yet under the chaotic rolled rigging and sharply angled masts that cluttered the ships interior were the fruits of plunder taken from inland, dragged aboard, and now setting out to sea. Being a large glorified canoe large enough for its crew to move and patrol short-distances across it main hull and across rope hammocks to the smaller outriggers to the side where men with bows and pilfered fire-arms sat on their haunches watching the pursuing Mormons with anticipation.

The entire sea-pirate's ship had such a low profile it could hide itself in the near horizon. Painted in soft colors it had lost the darkness of aged wood. It was far from being a cheaply cobbled together drift-wood craft of primitives, but had become designed for a purpose. It could move without fear of toppling, and with clouds over the distant ocean there was a fear that they were heading them into a maelstrom the comparatively narrow galley couldn't survive.

But the captain on his horse was not perturbed and he held a steely gaze on the brigands even as they seemed to gain distance on them.

“Abuse those seas you bastards of men!” the captain bellowed out to the men on deck below, shifting in the saddle of his horse. The mount did not seem to mind he shifting of the sea below its hooves as the craft rocked over a wave, “Row by God, row like the breath of Satan himself his gnawing at your heels.”

His own sour banter did not seem to have any effect as they continued their case, angled to cut the pirates off before they could enter open sea. But as they held their course they changed theirs. Atop the masthead a man robed in the bright patterned colors of flowers and nothing else jeered and taunted the man with the corpse of an albatross. “Haole! Haole! Haole!” he taunted discouragingly from his high roost over his crew.

“Cursed vulture! Theft of virtue! I will hand you!” the captain called back. The captain was a tall man and even taller on his horse. There was no confusion between he and the colorful captain aboard the other that they were both the captains of their respective ships. What more was the Mormon captain's bright blue hat.

“Haole! Haole! Haole!” the sea cretin howled back hysterically. The other's vessel was beginning to veer off its original course and was traveling near parallel to each other.

“Come you abortions, you can throw your backs harder into it. Raise your guns and fire off the starboard side. Let thunder weaken them!” the captain sneered in the rage of Ahab.

The deck rolled in commotion as men at the oars scrambled for fire-arms and took aim to fire. At the moment their flints dropped to meet the pan of their muskets a great wave rolled under the galley and threw the deck. The horse knickered annoyed as it stepped awkwardly to maintain its balance and with a thunderous rumble from the deck the marines fired a single volley which was thrown upwards. The musket balls landed in the water far behind the pirate's raft as plumes of water splashed up like a school of flying fish had lit from that spot.

The other captain cackled, “Haole can't aim for shit!” he crooned.

Before it could begin the chase had ceased. As the storm clouds over the open sea grew so did the wind and the serene Pacific started to roll. Undaunted by the change in the water, the raiders continued on their way into the open sea seemingly unperturbed by the weather and darkening skies ahead of them. The taunting from it continued to the tune and tone of its drums, but it was much the same.

“Sir, we must turn back.” advised the captain's lieutenant. A portly man with a well tanned face, “The wind is picking up.”

“And before the battle could be fought, we are forced to abdicate from it.” grimaced the captain. His sharp angular face was coiled in disgust. The nostrils of his large rounded nose flared in anger. “Very well, take us back to Tijuana. I'm done here.” he growled, turning his sea horse around to face land. But as he turned to look back to home he cast a last long to his adversaries who were now a bright silhouette of color against a darkened sea. His blue eyes narrowed and he cursed.

The brigands from the sea had been raiding the western coasts since he was but a small boy. That was over thirty years ago. And he promised himself that one day he would be to them as Zachery Taylor had been to the Mexicans. But not by land, by sea. So far, his career had shown naught to that. But in swore again and again in the future he would find out where they were sailing from.
Dinh AaronMk Member

my beloved (french coded)

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