"You're too late, Investigator."

"You're too late, Investigator."

Soot and embers whirled in a lazy vortex around the cave opening. The voice bounced off the walls in a gravelly tone akin to basalt grinding against itself. The accused slipped off his grey woolen cowl, peering deeper into the gloom in hopes of spying the speaker without having to step into the smoky tunnel.

"How have you activated the volcano?" Tenet wondered aloud.

The smoke puffed and carried the creature's mocking laughter. "I wasn't speaking to you, Betrayer."

Tenet became aware of another shadow against a towering boulder. A roughly man-shaped form leaned against the stone with a wide-brim cover blocking its face. The shadow shifted to glance at the cave mouth and gave an emotionless response, "You have broken the conditions of your parole, leaving Seram."

"Do you think you can stop me? I have become King of Krakatau, House of Fire and Peril. You cannot hold back the death due your pets."

A rumble vibrated from the mountain below them. Tenet gawked as the shadow answered in his deadpan manner, "I am not charged with stopping the mess you've made, Orang-bati, whatever trumped up titles you give yourself."

"You can't leave these people to perish!" Tenet protested.

"It is not for me to question the charges from the Courts," the Investigator replied.

Laughter like the first tremors of an eruption spewed from the tunnel. "Don't you see, Betrayer? They have abandoned man into our hands."

"Now," the voice menaced as something leathery flapped and stirred the smoke into a gyre. "Join them in their fates."

Twin coals lit by an infernal flame glared from the back of the tunnel. The ground split beneath Tenet's and the Investigator's feet. Tenet instinctively snatched hold of the crumbling lip as he tumbled and swung himself back onto a standing column of stone. He looked to where the Investigator had been and saw a great chasm of darkness and leaping tongues of lava. Tenet drew his sword Sicol and looked for a path into the cavern that didn't lead into a lava bath.

Drawing on the Power within, Tenet cried out, "You widen a place beneath me for my steps, and my ankles do not give way."

Then he ran as fast as he could, trusting each stride to bring him into the mountain of terror alive. A glance above showed vents brimming with fire, lava, and black smog. He had moments before the whole volcano blew. How he was going to face an engorged Fallen, the Investigator, and a volcano, he didn't know.

Tenet almost prayed that a miracle would find its way into this earthly mouth of hell. If not, he knew that he would demand answers from the Judge Himself this day.

Art Source: "Bat out of Hell" by JustMick

Story and Characters: (c)/by Corey Blankenship, Tenet (c) Brannon Hollingsworth

Bloody Jenny - Rats Onboard

Jenny's feet moved with confidence along the mainsail's boom. The canvas snapped and fluttered. She stopped and looked back to see if she noticed any pursuit. Movement caught her eye. It was hard to know if a man moved along behind her or if it was just the sheet moving. Thankfully, uncertainty should cut both ways. She held her breath and squatted. After a count to ten, she saw someone move. It was a person, sure a she was sitting here.

Light caught her eye. She looked up and saw some of the faerie fire crawling down the sheet towards her shrouded opponent. As it got closer, she could tell it was Masters.

From the look on his face, clear enough from the flickering blue light, he was uneasy. The man was as superstitious as any one of her men, perhaps more. Fear could play to her favor.

"Husband, don't steal his soul." She shrieked from her place in the darkness.

Master's eyes moved from the light to where her voice originated, and back to the light. He took a step backwards and crouched.

Seizing the moment of doubt, she took three long strides forward and grabbed a rope. Momentum carried her feet first into his face. Bone crunched and he screamed as he lost his footing. Another set of wet snapping sounds came up from below.

She put her feet down on the boom and drew her cutlass. By her count, one foe remained. It was unlike Cooper to climb up, when he had men to send instead. But with Guerrero bleeding and Masters a broken bundle of twigs, he had no choice.

A prick between her shoulder blades told her exactly where. She raised her hands, keeping hold of the cutlass.

"Drop your weapon, captain. It'll make it easier for you to climb down. I don't want you dead, but it's all the same to me if you are."

Cooper was a wizard at moving through the ropes. There would be no easy way to use her size and agility against him without also having the element of surprise. That he hadn't just killed her outright meant he thought she had a greater use. "If I go down, I'm eventually dead whether you want to or not. Why not push your blade home?" She waited, gambling she was right about his need for her. With both compatriots down, perhaps he'd rethink the mutiny? "No? Well, take a moment to listen. If it was more gold or a bigger share you're wanting, you could have had both if you'd proven yourself. You want my cabin, though. You think there's something there for you?"

Cooper chuckled. "We both know there is. Tell me where the map is, and I will make your death easy. Don't? And I'll keep you alive and in your cabin for days."

"The men won't stand for it."

"I can keep you nice and quiet." He pressed the blade harder into her back.

A trickle of blood worked its way down. She hung her head and let her shoulders slump. She knew the rumor of a secret map held by her husband. There, the story went, he left a secret share of the takings for his own use. Most didn't believe it. They knew their captain wouldn't hold any treasure from them. There was no good could come of it. Men like Cooper believed everyone was the same, greedy and self serving. "I see."

Blue white light flickered again, drawing her eyes. This time it wasn't the faerie fire alone. A man's outline stood before her bathed in arcs of lightning. While she couldn't make out the features, it was her own Jeremiah. The stance was unmistakeable. Her mouth hung open.

"Well, what's it to be?" Cooper pulled back the blade.

"I love you." What should have been her last words to her husband, instead of the recriminations she had sent, could finally find a proper set of ears.

"What?"

Not answering the pirate, she fell to one side, grabbing for a rope as she did.

A peal of thunder, so close it woke every man on the ship, was followed by a barely heard scream.

As Jenny dangled from the rigging, she saw a charred body fall and looked up to see an empty boom. By the time she made her way down to the deck, shaking and face damp with tears, her men stood looking at the bodies in awe of the damage done.

Zaccheus directed them to take care of the corpses. "Put these scoundrels over the side." He walked over to Jenny. "Is everything squared away, Captain?"

"I think so, mister. The ships had a few rats and I've seen them dealt with. Take the helm and stay on course."

Art Source: St. Elmo's Fire Story and Characters (c)/by Scott Roche
#1800s, #action, #BloodyJenny, #fight, #History, #Pirates, #ScottRoche, #swashbuckling,

Bloody Jenny - A Trio of Mutineers

Jenny slid her cutlass free and used the clam shell shaped bronze hand guard to deflect the wooden cudgel. Her husband had been no slouch with a sword and made sure that his wife could best him.

The soft gong was repeated three more times as she blocked each of the next blows. "You don't want to do this." She wasn't panting or sweating. Not yet.

Cooper growled. "You're right. I want to strangle you and then..."

He didn't have the opportunity to finish the thought, since he exhaled sharply when the handguard caught him on the chin. The clonk of metal on bone and the clacking sound were both louder than the breaking of teeth. No stranger to pain, he spit blood and brown bits at her.

The point of her sword waved between them. A weapon meant more for slicing and chopping, the point would still do a good enough job on its own. "You won't get the chance to do that. You can tell me who's with you on this, or I'll see to it that you last a few days before I hang you." The blade slashed out and parted his belt.

The clatter of guns on the quarterdeck made him open the bloody, jagged maw in surprise.

"Out with it now."

"Why tell, when I can show?" The words were harder to understand now, but the meaning became clear as two of his mates stepped into the flickering lamp light.

"Guerrero and Masters? I admit to being surprised and disappointed. I saw your hands on voting day."

Guerrero, the short Portugese sailor grinned, white teeth showing against sun browned skin. "You saw a lot, woman." He held a brace of tomahawks.

Masters stepped forward, sword in hand. It was a little fancier than Jenny's cutlass and meant for thrusting. "Let's just finish this."

"No stomach for mutiny?" Jenny was glad to see none of them went for the guns. They would make too much noise and awaken any crew loyal to her. "I hope you were promised much. You'll not collect anything other than steel in your belly, if you come at me."

The three men moved to try and encircle her, but on this part of the ship there was precious little room. Her back to a guard rail, the main deck was a few feet below and behind her. Cooper came around the wheel and Masters and Guerrero tried to flank her.

"We'll be paid handsomely, the new captain promised us that." Guerrero threw one of his axes.

Jenny ducked, blocking the thrown weapon with her cutlass. A sharp pain in her back told her Masters was close enough for his sword to provide the necessary reach. She spun, knocking the hanger aside and planted a boot on the rail. With a grunt of effort, she pushed herself into the air and landed with a sizable thud on the wooden plank below.

The pirates followed using the steps to each side of the quarterdeck.

She used the time to scan the main deck and saw no sailors used it as a bed on this fine night. Unusual, since it was so much better smelling above deck than below. This conspiracy seemed larger with each passing moment. She reached into her boot and pulled a dagger free. It would give her something else to parry with. Her back to the main mast, she waited for them to come.

Guerrero hadn't taken the opportunity to collect his thrown weapon. "We'll take turns with her when she's done. It was selfish of the good captain to keep her all to him..." He groaned as the thrown dagger found its lodging in his guts.

"You'll not talk about my husband, dog." Angry at the threat and the slander, she'd given up the blocking weapon, but all of the fight was out of the little man. It pooled around him, staining the wood.

Cooper recovered his pistols, though he had to hitch up his trousers with one gun hand. He could shoot and switch hands easily enough. "I'll shoot you in the knee and throw you to the sharks."

"Shoot then." She waited and watched as Masters went around the mast. When no shot came, she nodded. "I still have some loyal men on board or lead would have already flown." She began circling the mast as best she could, keeping both men in the corner of her eyes. The lighting down here was no better than it was from her wheel. That could play to her advantage. Shouting wouldn't bring men fast enough. Coming down here had cut her off from ringing the ship's bell. The safest way to go would be up.

She sheathed her cutlass and leapt for the nearest rope. With a swing and a grunt, she moved up and into the rigging. Finding her amongst the sails would be easy in daylight. Now they would have to worry about balance, keeping an eye out for their target, and potential obstructions. That is, if they kept up pursuit.

Art Source: Cutlass by Historyfanatic on Pyracy
Story and Characters (c)/by Scott Roche

#Pirates, #ScottRoche, #History, #1800s

Bloody Jenny - Mutiny

Jenny stood at the ship's wheel. Sailing south for warmer weather and fatter hauls was nothing new to her ship and crew. The weather was always mercurial at sea, but especially at this time of the year. She manned the wheel as much as her husband had when he was captain, more so than she did when she'd been the Captain's wife. The nights were her favorite time to do so. Clouds were back from the sliver of a moon and a fair wind blew at their backs. She hummed an ancient tune, lost in thoughts of the baby floating in her belly and what she'd do about that.

A bright flash of blue-white light drew her attention. It wasn't lightning. As she watched the rigging, set to take full advantage of the steady wind, she saw blue traceries work their way down the sheets. Faerie fire was nothing new to a sailor with her experience. It had many names, and by its nature was no more magical than the other phenomena they would encounter during long weeks at sea. That didn't mean the men on the ship would react with reasoned responses. Thankfully most of them were below deck.

If she were honest with herself, she would admit to some superstition when it came to the faerie lights. Every time she'd seen it, it was generally a good omen. She prayed to God if it were, that the goodness was about the son or daughter she'd have just after their wintering.

A board creaked nearby, one which had nothing to do with the movement of the ship. The breeze carried scents of acrid tobacco and unwashed body. That didn't narrow it down, but someone on deck without announcing themselves could be dangerous. There were men in the crew less than happy to be serving a woman.

She put her hand on the hilt of the short cutlass she wore. "Good evening, sailor."

"Evenin' captain." The voice was low and gravelly. It spoke through a set of lips which lent a muffled quality to the words. That would be Cooper. He'd taken a few shards of wood to the face when grapeshot splintered a mast two years ago. It left part of his mouth immobile.

"What brings you above deck, mister?" She kept her eyes on the sea and stars, navigating by the latter. Certain his presence meant nothing good, she tightened her grip on the sword.

"Seems some of the men aren't pleased with your leadership after all, captain." The title was said with an audible sneer.

She hooked a loop of rope over one of the hand holds and turned, leaving her weapon hand where it was. "And you've come to let me know this out of the goodness of your heart?"

He had a cudgel in one hand and a brace of pistols at his waist. "I've been asked to relieve you of your duty."

The office of captain was filled by a majority vote. She'd been brought in by her crew, proudly. If something were to happen to her this late at night, with the only witness being the murderer, there would likely be no consequences other than electing a new captain. Her first officer and a few other loyal men would raise a stink, but the consequences of saying anything could be just as deadly for them. "You think you can do that?" She drew her cutlass free an inch or two.

"Aye. I can." He stepped forward and swung the length of wood with more force than finesse.

Art Source: R by Pheberoni on DeviantArt
Story and Characters (c)/by Scott Roche

#Pirates, #ScottRoche, #History, #1800s

Bloody Jenny

Jenny Flanders, "Bloody Jenny", as she would one day be called, looked down at her dead husband. He'd taken his last breath only a few moments before. Life on board ship hadn't been all bad, though it was hardly the one she thought she'd signed up for. When she and Jeremiah married, she'd known he was a privateer. It seemed romantic, and growing up on ships herself, she knew enough to be of help. They had a good crew and once they no longer had the blessing of the crown, they'd continued their life of taking from those who had more than enough and spending it far too quickly. She put away a little of each haul for their future, one they wouldn't have now.

"Damn you, Jeremiah." She beat his chest, still full of fluid from the sickness. The chest had been her pillow for eight years. "Now what do I do? Do I try and captain the ship? Or do I steal away and start afresh?" What made matters worse was she knew the new life would include their unborn child. Banging on the door drew her away from self pity.

"Ma'am." It was the voice of Zaccheus, their first mate. "How fares he?"

Now it was time. Time to at least come forward. She stood and made sure the flintlock pistol tucked into her sash was ready. She touched the handle of the short cutlass. She would fight, if she had to. She walked to the door of the cabin and opened it, letting in fresh sea air. "He has gone to be with the Lord."

The tall, slender man had skin blacker than the flag they flew. He wore breeches and shoes but nothing else, the sweat on his chest beading thanks to the beating of the sun. His gaze went to the deck. "M'sorry, ma'am. He was a good man, he was." The accent, a blend of the tribe he was born among and the English who owned him for a time, was deeply pitched and occasionally hard for strangers to understand.

She put a hand on his shoulder. This was the one person she knew she could trust without question. "He was. As are you. If the vote goes ill, will you side with me? I would have you by me as Jeremiah did."

He looked up at her. "Of course, ma'am. You and he saved me. You have my loyalty. As for the vote, the men would be foolish not to make you their captain."

She blushed at the compliment. "Let's have it then." The pair walked out onto the deck. Once at the ship's wheel, she had Zaccheus ring the bell.

The crew gathered, a mix of races and backgrounds which spoke to how far they travelled and how fair the captain was. There were no other women, though.

She cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. One hand grabbed the wheel and the other rested near the smooth bore pistol. "The captain has met his maker. We will bury him at the next island, or barring that, at sea. He was loved by us all. "

The crew cheered, most of them. She noted the faces of those who held back.

"I would be your new captain if you'll have me." There it was. The decision on her part was made. Now it was simply a matter of the vote. Sweat bloomed at the nape of her neck and the breeze suddenly stilled. She could hear the call of seabirds and the creaking of rope.

"I vote, aye." Zaccheus' deep voice boomed. The chorus of ayes which followed was heartening. There were a few nays, but the majority had it.

"We set sail for the southern seas. We'll celebrate the life of our old captain and future of our crew for the rest of the day. Then it's back to work for us all! Double rations of grog for the crew, Mr. Zaccheus."

This time, every sailor shouted with joy.

Art Source: R by Pheberoni on DeviantArt
Story and Characters (c)/by Scott Roche

#Pirates, #ScottRoche, #History, #1800s

The storm was only getting worse.

The storm was only getting worse.

Ichabod knew he'd made a horrible mistake. If only God would allow him the time and the strength to make it up, to right the wrong he'd perpetrated...then perhaps he would be able to face his beloved Amelia in the afterlife. The thin man's rail-like frame rattled with a stifled sob as he picked up the cast-off shovel. He cursed himself for making the deal, for even considering a partnership with Amol. He'd known, deep in his soul, that the man was something far more sinister from the moment he'd first laid eyes upon him. How could he have been anything but a devil from Hell? Amol offered the unthinkable: the return of Ichabod's cold, dead wife.

Amol had said he could raise the dead.

Outside the church, the storm howled like a thing with a life and a sorrow of its own. Rain rattled against the leaded windowpanes with the sound of bony fingertips rapping--the skeletons of Ichabod's deepest fears given grasping hunger and unending locomotion. With trembling hands, Ichabod lit the hooded lantern. He whispered a prayer, fervently asking God to forgive him. The professor wasn't sure if God was even listening tonight, and if he was, then Ichabod could only hope that the Almighty was feeling particularly magnanimous.

The wind's keen reached an ear-splitting pitch, followed by an instantaneously and seemingly universal vacuum composed of utter and complete silence. It was like being trapped inside a dark and noiseless cave, in the bowels of the Earth, in the perfect pit of despair. Ichabod's fear rose. The professor knew that the ritual had reached it's zenith. The ancient rite that he himself had discovered and translated at the request of Amol--it had been Ichabod's part of the devilish deal--was being consummated with unholy energies and baleful fire.

Amol had said he could raise the dead.

The dead were about to walk.

The categorical and cavernous silence lasted for another heartbeat and the sensation was one of the whole of Creation teetering madly on the edge of a terrible and deleterious precipice, but it was suddenly shattered by a titanic thunderbolt and a blinding, sizzling flash of eerie green lightning. The deed was done. Somehow, Ichabod knew it.

Amol had said he could raise the dead.

The dead were about to walk.

This had been the fiend's plan all along!

"No!!!!" the spindly professor screamed, hating himself nearly as much as Amol, the minion of the Dark One, who had beguiled him and made this gut-wrenching, soul-defiling moment happen. Ichabod charged out of the church, dove into the pouring storm, his only weapons held aloft in his still-trembling hands and his overly long scarf whipping in the hell-borne wind. Ichabod was ready to strike down every single being of undeath that Amol had called forth from the church's graveyard, or he was at least ready to die in the attempt. Of one thing, he was sure: Amol would have far fewer minions to command when he was done this night.

Ichabod ran into the storm, into the dark graveyard, barking his shins on cold, craggy crosses and slipping amid the ice-like gravestones and slick tomb markers. Then, the entire sky was lit with a bolt of bright-as-day lightning...

...And Ichabod had no doubt whatsoever that he would indeed die trying.

Art Source: "Walking Graveyard" (c)/by RM73
Story and Characters: (c)/by Brannon Hollingsworth

#MMWW, #Makes, #Me, #Wanna, #Write, #BrannonHollingsworth, #1800s, #vintage, #horror, #Ichabod, #Amol, #Amelia, #God, #Devil, #demon, #Lovecraftian