Mutiny..... Again 1301

The Mekreti named Rape was a troublesome fellow. Perhaps he cared for his countrymen, dying as they were, or perhaps he was just the kind of bastard to use any sort of problem as a way to take control. Either way, he was planning a mutiny. The physico knew it. Jhonen knew it, through one of the simple whisper spells any seaman had to know.

“We'll go aground at the Hellhounds,” was the whisper back.

The Mekreti named Rape was a dim fellow. He did not cry for mutiny as the ships approached the Isles of the Hellhounds. No, he did not cry for mutiny as his countrymen quickly forgot the troubles of rowing. He only cried for it when the physico had one of his countrymen wrestle him to the deck and throw him onto a rowboat.

His co-conspirators looked on in silence. It had been made clear they would have their life and freedom if the man named Rape was killed. In the gamble for such things, men will always bet other's lives first.

The Mekreti named Rape was a weak fellow. He squirmed and cried and begged as his hands were tied to a post on some lonely beach. He squealed as they gagged him, fidgeted as they bound his legs. Screamed into the cloth as Jhonen lightly tapped his back with a thick wooden cane.

Then the light tap wasn't a light tap at all, but a heave with all the force of a Northman. The Mekreti's back gave a sickening crack and his bound legs went limp. The Mekreti would have bitten off his tongue if not for the cloth. Jhonen returned to lightly tapping the Mekreti's back, between the shoulders. And then he heaved again, and the man's arms fell limp the same as the legs.

The Mekreti passed out with a whimper and a tightening of his jaw. “Let's return to the boats”, Jhonen said, staring satisfied at the beaten man, “And deal with the rest of our Mekreti friends.” Jhonen and his men returned to their boats, leaving the man named Rape to die on those desolate sands.

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Not all of the Mekreti wished to be left to their own devices on those Isles. The old, the sick, the city pampered, they begged to be let off the ships. But many others, many more begged to stay. Old nomads with scars marking their old allegiances, boys with senseless eyes that had never seen a home, battle scarred men who knew of nothing but struggle..... they begged to stay.

One of the men, a boy who spoke Ruhmish, likely caught in some city clan-feud, told the physico their reasons. ”We have seen nothing but the struggle. Under the branch of the Deraxti, under the cross of Orimmo, under the unwashed feet of our own neighbors. And many of us have come to like it. To live like old women and die on untended beaches.... this is not our way. We wish to die and do so in killing.” The boy's name was Hajz-naya, Journey, a fitting title.

Jhonen liked him.

The sailors got to work dividing up the Mekreti and preparing to drop many of them on the islands. There appeared on the horizon a dhow with triangular sail and cross emblazoned. They approached quickly, the winds hastening them to Jhonen's ships.

Their faces were like dogs- but those were only masks. Jhonen knew of the true people of these Isles. They asked, in their Portau dialect of Orimmo for the Captain. Jhonen spoke for a bit and agreed to meet their Grand Master on the largest island. The Domini Canes had noticed his presence.

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“Do you wish to live?” was the whisper in the dark. The cloth in Rape's mouth sizzled away with the flavor of smoke and a tang of warmth. “Si,” came his Orimmo response. “Will you offer your life and your soul for my cause?”

“Si,” he said, wondering what torment this was. Then fire entered his veins, burning his limbs, crackling along his spine..... and then he could feel and move as he hadn't done since his punishment.

“Are you one of the tricksters?”, he cried into the darkness. “Yes,” there was a laugh echoing like the void, “but not one you would know of.”

“Brace your mind for this,” and with that, Rape disappeared from the beach with a flash and a mad tingling in his skull.