There was perhaps nothing more depressing than the sight of a dark room filled with humans, weeping in a frightened state of dismay and confusion. And, perhaps, there was nothing more inspiring than the tempted aggression born of that scarring, and dark depression. Those few, roughly two hundred, who made it from the black, roaring fear from above, and into safety, were surrounded by these sources of human experience. Some were in the warm cobblestone circular room attached to the Capuchos hermitage, which humbly housed the monks in the Sintra region. Cork lined bottoms of the narrow passageways which led into their snug tower, giving the hermitage it’s nickname the “Convent of Cork”. Others huddled over the open mote-gate and into the stony hugeness of the Sintra Palace. Three towers, proudly praising the various flags of the Lisbon region, met the Sintra Mountains halfway, their tops adorned with red-clay shingles. As roars came from overhead, fire spewing from the dark clouds, seemingly from god himself, the poor citizens of Sintra sought refuge in the beacons of safety among the suffocating ash, soot, and brimstone. As the night passed the people who survived were barricaded into a dark room and watched by guards. The terrifying night was simply waited out in the damp, humid rooms, as the people tried to create reasons for their plight. The monks said prayers that provided consolation for believers, and annoyance for unbelievers, not that the latter had any way of expressing their frustrations aside for on pain of death. There was no word from the clergymen, nor from the quiet and closed rooms of the nobility, set in one of those imposing towers high above. Soon the roaring, and screaming, and searing-hot burning death was over, and there was nothing left but the fear of another attack or the apocalyptic retribution they’d all been told to expect since birth. No second attack came, and, of course, there was no divine judgment to hear of when the barred doors were opened and the peasants were thrown out to the sun-washed courtyards. Anyone not in the Palace courtyard was told to head there to receive the word of their Count, Philipe Caoulo. None of the guards would answer questions; none of the available priests or monks could provide anything other than an obscure and beautiful piece of scripture. Those in the hermitage were tossed out with a reverence, and thoughtlessness, befitting the papacy, and told to head through the charred remains of their home to the palace atop the hill, overlooking, at once, the Atlantic and the beautiful Lisbon countryside. The village was in absolute disarray, to say the least. Most buildings were either burnt out or burning. Most of those which stood untouched by fire were swiped by a wayward tail or claw and broken to pieces. Of course, there was no real evidence that there ever was a beast in the town. No noticeable claw-marks, no footprints. Only the wavering flames around the crushed ruins and charred corpses could speak for what had happened here, and they were as silent as one would expect them to be. Some guards and a few strong men were working through the wreckage to find survivors, but most everyone was differed to the Palace courtyard. --- Philipe Caoulo walked with a purposeful stride, his black heels clicking against the ancient stone floor. He was dressed in a rather beautiful crimson jacket atop a white blouse. He was adorned with all sorts of metals and ribbons and sashes, most of whose origins he could cite as easily as his own name. A full black moustache ran parallel with his pale lips until they swooped upward and into his sideburns. He wore a hastily fastened coif which framed his face like some sort of porcelain doll. Trailing behind the Count was a handsome, and darkly dressed, Viceroy by the name of Antonio de Melo e Castro, and behind [i]him[/i] trailed two guardsmen in splintermail armor. “This better be good,” The Viceroy said quietly, his gravelly voice striking true in Philipe’s heart. It cooled him, and brought forth a hatred and annoyance like no other. But the Count ignored his superior, and continued walking down the dungeon hallway toward the singly lit cell amongst the bunch. He approached it confidently, but that dispersed as he got closer. He glanced from the corner of his eye so he could barely see the Viceroy in his periphery, a bead of sweat fell from his brow to his finely crafted sideburns. In the dimly lit cell, sat atop a wooden chair with his hands bound behind his back, was a dark complected man with shoulder length hair. He only wore leather breeches, and his head hung over his bare, beaten chest like so many other prisoners before him. His hair was drenched, and dripped periodically, as if he were splashed with a bucket of water, which he could say that he ungratefully was. The cell was opened and the brown-skinned man looked up slowly, his deep chocolate eyes coming into view. His face housed the beginnings of a reckless beard, stubbled and slightly malformed. He worked up the energy for a half-smile and then his head fell again. “[i]Alcalde[/i],” he whispered, since that’s all he could do, “a pleasure to finally meet you.” He spoke in a romantic Portuguese, all of his vowels as open as could be. He continued, “Your men worked me over already, in preparation for your visit.” “Shh!” The Count hissed as he smacked the bound man across the head. “You will only respond to my questions, and only after I ask them.” His voice was strong and loud, but it held in it the shakiness of a pacifist. Philipe composed himself briefly, then spoke evenly. “Are you Emilio Cicatrise?” he asked. “Yes,” came the unusually steady response from the bound man. “Are you known as the Dread Captain Scar?” Philipe asked. The Viceroy peered from behind the bars expectantly, his dark eyes flickering with the wavering torchlight. “Yes,” Emilio said, his face still shrouded in shadows as he looked into his lap. Philipe glanced back at the Viceroy confidently, who merely responded with a small wave of his hand. “And is it true,” Philipe began again, “that you, and your ship of brigandens, hunted and killed a sea monster in the Adriatic?” Emilio lifted his head, his mouth contorted into an [i]oh[/i] as he seemed to recall a distant memory. His eyes were fixed directly to Philipe’s, and they searched for something in the Count’s features. When the search revealed nothing, not a single thing, Emilio smiled. Then he started laughing, a hearty, full laughter. It was a laughter that ought to have been bigger than Emilio, but he owned it. He laughed, and he shook his head, and his eyes bugged, and Philipe could see the back of Emilio’s throat as he cackled. “Stop it!!” Philipe demanded, more loudly than Emilio would have given him credit for. And his voice shook the walls of the dungeon, and stopped the Dread Captain Scar from his hysterical tirade. The Viceroy let a small smile creep across his face, and disappear in much of the same fashion. “And answer me!” He yelled again, breaking the silence, this time a little lower. Emilio glanced over to the Viceroy with a hidden interest, noted his presence. Philipe moved in front of Emilio’s line-of-sight, engaging him aggressively. “Yes, the answer is yes.” Emilio relented finally. --- As Philipe and Antonio made their way back toward the front part of the Palace, the silent hatred causing extreme tension between them, Emilio was dragged out of his cell and taken to be washed. He was cleaned up, and dressed, and fed. Philipe stood in front of the door which led to the balcony from where he would deliver his speech. The Viceroy sat a good distance away at a desk, inkwell, pen, and paper laid out before him, in preparation for a letter. “Don’t be too cordial.” Was the only advice the Viceroy gave before starting his letter. Philipe straightened his bow-tie as the trumpets, which signaled the word of the Count, blared into the open coastal air. As Philipe opened the balcony door, and stepped upon it, the sun seeped into the room behind him, and doves, which were placed around the balcony floor beforehand, flew off over the heads of the awaiting crowd in the courtyard below. Distant and silent murmurs followed the Count’s appearance, as everyone wondered what it was he would say. Their soot and blood covered faces peered up toward the balcony where Philipe, dressed only slightly more formally than before, was flanked on one side by a serious looking Spanish Archbishop, Vitaliano Visconti, and by his various consultants on the other. Heavily armored guards stood on either side of the door, shields and swords drawn in resolute loyalty. Philipe looked at the ground for a moment, composing himself and remembering the speech he’d been preparing since the night before. He exhaled and then spoke: “Citizens of the Sintra Valley community, and those unfortunate enough to be visiting us during these distressing times, it is with a heavy heart that I reflect upon the huge amount of losses we have suffered over the night. I share this pain and confusion with you, as I’m sure all of Portugal will once it is made aware of our plight. “I have heard conjecture hereto of many compelling, albeit mythical, accounts of last night. There has been word of a Dragon. I want to, immediately, settle everyone’s mind to rest, and cease the harmful discourse of human frailty and sensationalism. I want to stop that and direct your attention to the truest enemy of Portugal, of which there is no equal anywhere on earth. Having discussed the matter with Archbishop Visconti, and referring back to the scriptures, the only word of God, I have determined that this was a warning. A warning of the judgment to come in the face of our godlessness. Our Father has deemed us heretics, and cast us into hell on earth. The fury of our creator has been meted out justly, and our loved ones have paid the price. How much longer will we allow our quest for independence stifle our religious duties? Surely God is with us in our endeavors against Spain, as the Archbishop has so warmly ensured me, but he calls out for peace, and the quietness that brings the heavenly worship our lord deserves. “I ask you to bow your heads now, and join in a silent prayer to Our Father, so that he may, once again, smile upon us.” And Philipe lowered his head, along with almost everyone else, and pretended to pray. He was, actually, not a very devout man, but the perks that came from openly defending the church was too much to turn down. Once there was enough silence, and people seemed to be ready to get out into the courtyard, Philipe extended his hands out to the crowd, took a deep breath, and then bowed slightly. The trumpets blared and Philipe, along with the Archbishop, disappeared into the Palace. --- Emilio, after filling up on grapes, and oranges, and pork roast, and rice, was dragged back down into the dungeon. He thought he would be tied back up, a cruel joke played by the evil Count. But, in fact, he was taken even further down, through a door he was sure would lead to a broom closet. A narrow, decrepit stairwell led all the way down, perhaps to where the ocean met the sand, and suddenly Emilio was in a natural cave. Blue lights, perhaps on sconces, were farther ahead, over a natural stone dais which hung over an empty cavern. Emilio was not allowed to stand and was dragged all the way from the hole in the wall to the center of the dais. The blue lights were, indeed, not in sconces at all, but floating in midair. The Dread Captain Scar was tossed into the center, the guards backing away quickly. As he landed on his hands and knees he felt a warmth all around him, and the lights had become a sick green color. He could not move anything aside from his head, and as he looked around Emilio could make out distinct figures appearing around him, in a circle, one by one, surrounding the dais. The figures were quiet, but they mumbled things amongst themselves. It was a sort of ethereal sound which seemed to come from air and hung there like effervescent smoke. “You..” one figure, the one immediately in front of Emilio, said. Emilio was quiet, deathly quiet. Beads of sweat dropped to the stone floor in front of him. The voices grated now, like nails against stone, and there was no escaping them; the voices came from the ghostly apparition, but it struck into Emilio’s mind as well, “… The slayer of guardians and angels. You, the blood pirate, Emilio Cicatrise!” There was an indelible silence which, itself, brought pinpricks to the back of Emilio's neck. “You..” He spoke again, “have been chosen. Plucked from the stream of destiny and dropped into the pool of mysticism—“ “—dropped indeed,” said another voice. “Quiet,” said the first. “You are to make haste to Morocco, where we know the beast’s lair to be, and with the wind of our church under your wings, to pluck his still beating heart from his scaled chest.” Emilio's mind raced. He was to kill a dragon? By what means? “But I am merely a man!” Cried Emilio, truly humbled and frightened. “No man is [i]merely[/i] a man” said the first. “No, not merely…” said another. An object came from behind the misty figure in the darkness and flew to Emilio’s position. It fell to the floor in front of him with a clattering. Emilio could make out a dagger, fashioned by, seemingly, glass and twine. “Use this to strike at the beasts heart. Strike true and he will have no chance, not even against a mere man.” The first said, a little humor, however dry, to be found in his voice at last. “Do you accept?” he asked suddenly. Emilio could feel his muscles untangle and his mind uncloud, and he could move again. He lifted himself so he was on his knees alone. He could see the figures better but their visages were murky and undefinable. Emilio lifted the glass dagger in his hand, peered into its crystal form. He knew that he truly had no choice. All of this was insane to him, but it also held a logical place since it answered so many questions. The sea monster was, indeed, a sea monster, he recalled. And this was, indeed, a dragon attack. What other wonders were there to find, he thought. And as if that were all he had to think of, he nodded and answered, “Yes”. “And so you have chosen,” The first began again, softly. “And so you have been marked!” He yelled. The green lights came to converge on the misty figure, like lightning, and crackled there for a moment, blue and green sparks flying from it's supernova center, then struck out to Emilio. His heart was hit with the lightning, and he convulsed as he was lifted into the air high above the dais. He screamed and writhed and peered straight up. A small hole of light at the top of the cavern was all Emilio could, or wanted to see. He felt no pain, but nothing else either. He was completely ejected from his body and all he could do was peer up at that light. “Spiritum Aeternum!” the first screamed aloud, his old voice shaking with passion. Soon the others joined in as well, chanting the very same words; “Spiritum Aeternum.” --- A town crier had been commissioned to scream this among the wreckage of the town: “Your Count begs your attention, for the sake of Portugal. Be you young or old, male or female, the Count, with the authority of the papacy and Lisbon behind him, urge that you meet in the palace courtyard for the opportunity of a lifetime and a chance to travel around the world. All who decide to undergo the task are promised a handsome reward, should you be chosen to do so!” And, so it was that, among the dozens who decided to visit the Palace grounds, our destined voyagers would at last meet the catalyst of their fate. Emilio, now tired and depressed, but visibly fit, stepped from the cool interior of the Palace and into the warmth of the courtyard, followed by Count Caoulo’s dutiful assistant, Caesar Luna. Emilio’s skin was a coffee color in the radiant sun, his black hair gleamed with it’s reflection. On his hip was a scimitar, his weapon of choice, along with the glass dagger, sheathed in a simple leather holster. He wore a comfortable looking, knee-length brown jacket atop his finely adorned blouse. His leather shoes met his olive green breeches warmly. He looked like a cardinal manifestation of the earth, such were his colors. His hair was slicked back into a tiny bun far down his head and his beard was lightly shaved, but still visible. "This is all we have," said Luna in a quiet voice, his nose raised rather too high. The dark orbs of Emilio's eyes scanned the courtyard for a workable crew. He’d need men, surely, strong ones at that. But he needed more, people with knowledge of the areas, of religion and myth as well, since he was no scholar. He eyed the group scrupulously, judging each of their characters based solely upon what he saw.