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The Bowing PathThe Bowing Path
The fog was clearing, the wet mist still clinging to her cream-colored gown as the tattered ends drug across leaves like a cloth rake. Tugging her long translucent shawl free of the branches, fingers that gripped the delicate fabric from floating away, she placed the material loosely around her shoulders and blinking sought to look through the swirling drops of air. No, the fog wasnt clearing, only shifting the concentration as if opening a path before her. With an odd feeling, as if she were meant to follow the course revealed, novel yet seemingly familiar to her, she stepped forward with bare feet crunching and tucked the shawl beneath her arms.
In the distance a dark speck grew steadily, moving ever closer as it drained the flow of light from its cavern-like edges. Its width became pulsing wings, an emptiness shaped like clawed featureless feathers and the oily blackness of a wind-born fiend, driving the silent darkness forward. Trembling
The Treasure of Monte LindoThe Treasure of Monte Lindo
Chapter 1: Many Escapes
He had been victorious that morning, to the delight of his crew, before the governors servants had even begun their chores at daybreak. Muerta Vista, a small island located 35 degrees north 34 degrees west, proved to host a few wealthy Dutch settlements ripe for the taking. Too easy for the Carabella's crew, but they weren't complaining. With loot, rum, and food to last them at least another month, they were satisfied sailors.
Captain Miguel, placing a large plumed hat upon his head, looked out across the calm, foggy waters pondering the treasure he sought. The Pirate Circle called it the treasure of Monte Lindo, the location, 'Beautiful Mountain' in Spanish, rumored to hide the treasures of the greatest pirates known twenty years ago at their peak; Blackbeard, Bonney, and Roberts among others. Miguel Lopez, son of parents low on the society hierarchy, intended to find this fabled treasure and mark his name in history as the wea
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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