Azure Watester FederationBoard

The fisherman’s long, muddied, black rubber boots trudged through the ankle-deep water as he surveyed his vessel, scrutinizing its plastic hull for cracks or holes.

“¡Oy, Gregorio! ¡El hombre está aquí!” Came a gruff alert from above, several meters out into the weedy earth.
“¿Señor Llanos? Estoy con el gobierno.” Asked a comparatively squeaky voice.

Two figures appeared at the edge of the fishing dock, overlooking the fisherman and his work. The owner of the squeaky voice was a suited and clean-shaven man, with a dainty figure and pale and uncalloused skin. His companion was the opposite, being a sunburned and rough figure covered in tattoos and tan lines. Another difference was that of armament; the burnt one had his hand resting naturally on his holster.

“Oy, muchacho, here’s a federal to see you.” The gunman said, bringing his voice down. The fisherman stopped his inspection of the vessel and looked up at his visitors.

“Señor Llanos, I come on behalf of the Ministry of War to make a final offer for your ship. I hope--” The official said, before being cut off by the fisherman.

“Are you paying the ten million?” Llanos said.

“Well, señor, I should inform you that my government did not feel obliged to pay so much for so little. De hecho--” The official started in a flustered tone, before being cut off by Llanos yet again.

“Just tell me, chico, do I get the ten million?” Llanos asked, shifting his stance in the water impatiently.

“My government does not feel comfortable doling so much of their funds on so little a vessel. Nor do they feel that you really deserve immunity for charging anything higher than four million.”

Llanos chuckled in a sardonic way before nodding towards the gangly official’s wide-set companion. The holster came undone in an inconspicuous, almost natural way-- like stretching, but nevertheless it was obvious enough for the pale man to notice and understand the implication.

“Ustedes federales-- listen, we’re both caballeros here, but I need some grease to run this place, you know? When I heard you needed my assets, I suddenly needed to get rid of a full order of materials and let down customers across the waves. Who was going to pay the bills for us if we didn’t get that shipment in? You also needed me to make modifications, which cost a pretty penny as well. Dios mío-- I reckon all that work must have at least earned us some respect and our well-deserved compensation of 10 million dolares. Don’t you think?”

“I’m not to be pushed around like that. Ten million is far--” The official said. The hammer of a pistol was pulled back, releasing an audible click.

The official clenched their fists and seemed to retreat behind their eyes as they worked out what to say. Eventually, they worked their way to respond as the pistol was slowly withdrawn from the holster.

“Ten million will await you at the agreed-upon time and place, señor.”

A smile worked its way onto Llanos’ face. “Well, ¡qué un ganga! I’ll be sure to collect the payment.”

The official’s companion grinned too and quickly holstered his weapon.

“Well, if you’d like to examine the product, the water’s fine.”

However, in just the peripheral of these wide dockyards lay auxiliary piers for smaller craft. Here, the SS La Barata and the SS Therasia idled their diesel engines, spewing a stream of barely discernable smoke from their engine compartment. The fishing vessels, both licensed and visibly used many times before, were now the property of Arb 38 Ltd., a little-known company that had emerged in the previous hours, then went on to purchase a considerable fleet of fishing vessels.

“Aweigh anchor!” Called the captain of the Barata out to the sailor on the bow. The captain then took one last look across the bay before retreating belowdecks. There, in a swaying, dimly-lit compartment, stood a table bolted to the floor with a wide, crinkled map that had markings for deployment, up and up and up almost all the way to--

Miami. They were to head to Miami to pick up paupers for their economy class transport to Almadaria while fishing in waters outside the waters of neighboring nations. Of course, they also had licenses to transport people. There was no reason to suspect them whatsoever. No burnt map to tip their hand, nor legal loose end in their record.

“¿Qué es todo esto?” Asked a nearby citizen of Kynor, sitting peacefully on a nearby bench. The shouter, who had been swept by the crowd to the front, responded sheepishly,
“Grupo de la iglesia.”

“¡Oye! ¡Oye! Grupo uno, ir de compras; grupo dos, a las playas; grupo tres, conmigo a la caminata por la naturaleza. Meet back at the hotel at 9:00 pm minimum.” Came another shout, hidden deep in the group.

The party, having passed customs, were now free to roam the island.
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Similar occurrences, although not all as uniform in appearance, arrived at locations all over the Caribbean. These tourists were likely a result of the undesirable circumstances in Almadaria, forcing civilians to enjoy their time elsewhere in the climate. They streamed in over the course of hours, and, apart from the largest group that arrived in Nassau, were a nearly imperceptible increase in tourism.

“Fine.” A long pause. “How far do we have to go?”

“We go this route for a few days. Then we deliver packages.”

“That’s boring.”

“Well, it beats screwing with a country thrice our size in close quarters on the ground.”

“I hear they’re actually going shopping.”

“I hear that too. But we’re not landing there to find out.”

The cruiser rocked side to side in the evening light. They had moved over from the Sanguis, making the planned voyage upriver easier. The rest of the fleet would join soon enough, as would additional support. Enforcing this treaty would be a strange affair, and a dangerous one.

Michael stood at the bow, gazing south. The metal providing no sturdy ground beneath his feet. It didn’t matter. Being on the water he felt most at home.

“Sir, we’ve sighted the Canicas. We should be in the Vatican before the next dawn. I’d recommend coming belowdeck soon though, the seas will only grow rougher and colder.”

Michael turned to see the Captain. The man standing in front of him was formidable, but not unyielding. He could see it in the Captain’s eyes. These waters intimidated this foreigner. Not surprising given the majority of the man’s lengthy naval service had been in the relative shelter of the Mediterranean. But for Michael, the air was inviting.

Michael looked back south. The rocky outline of shore sat veiled in fog. A familiar sight, but unlike each time before, it wasn’t inviting. His hand fell to his scabbard, then paused.

“Captain, inform the Knights we’re approaching.”

“Of course, your Grace. Sail to the Vatican as planned, yes?”

“Yes, Captain. I want to avoid having the Knights out whenever possible. Their armor will attract attention.”

“Unfortunately so, but you know the rules of this affair. You have your copies of the treaty?”

Michael looked at the leather canister in his cloak, his mind racing just at the thought of that map. It wasn’t his fault; he’d had no say.

“Yes I do, Captain.”

“Excellent.”

The Captain walked away. Michael stayed. He could feel the salt in the air fade. Not lost. Diluted by the changing winds.

The Vatican, on the River Risade

A priest in red robes stood on the stone. An initial look of invitation soon turned to confusion, then fear. The white, avian-like armor was unusual for most, but a little understandable as Michael was part Kyavani. But his presence wasn’t understandable.

“Michael, you’re supposed to be in Colombia. What brought you here, and what are you wearing?”

“I’m sorry, Father Cassius, but I must meet with the Conclave at once.”

“They are in the middle of a very important-“

“I don’t care. The urgency concerns both the Grandmaster and Alexios, and matters of the war.”

The priest’s face went pale. “Right this way.”

As they walked, the priest couldn’t help but notice the white-painted metal clad figures following Michael.

In the Heart of the Red Cathedral

“Bishop Joshua, you cannot possibly be serious. There has never been a wo-“ The doors flew open. In strode Michael, moving right to the center of the room. The Knights followed, forming a circle around the figures in meeting. The old bishop who had been interrupted turned to face the boy.

“Michael, how dare you. The Conclave is in session, have you not seen the black smoke?”

“I have, but I have news from the fronts.”

“And this couldn’t be delivered to us some other way because?”

“Because the world has found peace.” Michael pulled the canister from his robe, unfurling its contents. Two pages of demands, accompanied by three maps.

“Victory I hope, young Michael?”

“You could say that. I believe we should-“

The old bishop saw the second map. Austoream, the Order, with lines drawn across it. Kynor. Core Pillar. Michael IV. His eyes widened. He leapt to a fighting stance, an arc of fire flying from his hand.

The Knights surged forwards, the flames doing little to slow their blades. One by one, the bishops in the room fell. Soon, only Michael and they stood there, amongst the dead and the charred and the pools of blood.

“Secure the Cathedral at once. I want religious and government documents locked down, artifacts catalogued, and knowledgable craftsmen rounded up. Send for the clergymen back on the ship. We have a number of Bishops to appoint, and after that we have treaty terms to enforce.”

The Knights dashed from the chamber. As they ran, Michael began to sift through the administrative documents. As annoying as the old farts that had run this place were, they were excellent record keepers. His hand drifted over the many mapscreens and digital ledgers. By the time the sun had risen, some Knights had returned. A simple nod from the Captain made everything clear.

“Excellent work. And the texts?”

The Knight dropped the body of a scholar at his foot, bloodied scrolls still in hand.

In one of the libraries, foreign clergymen begin pulling documents from shelves. Onto blank sheets of paper they rewrite, not perfectly intact, before tossing originals onto the pyre. Over the Cathedral, a plume of white smoke found itself plucked up by the breeze.