Our tale begins as so many often do. In a world saddled with strife. Uthil'Tal, a divided continent. Drawn by rising mountain spines that carve through jungle and tundra alike. Rivers that act as the life blood of many a civilization. And the sword, crimson bled and white knuckle handled. 

Santiago; Galicia's fastest growing port. On the eastern shores of the Swamplandia region, it is a haven from the area's clutching greenery. It welcomes all with enough gumption to survive the sea or the swamp. But be warned reader, for behind man's walls, not all is civilized. One woman knows all too well the savage nature of humankind.

“Adherence is sacrifice.” The man cried out.

He stared behind a glossy clay half mask painted with a swirl of evocative summer colors. The barren side was clean shaven and carved by time. He looked down at the crowd of peasants without emotion. He stood straight, hands stuffed into the red pantaloons pinned high on his stomach. 

His words bore mixed reactions. People, eager for the coming violence, watched with pursed lips. Most absently talked amongst one another in whispers, treating it like a free show at a carnival. Those who could afford to follow fashion trends wore half masks that gave the crowd splashes of color. More than a few faces were painted to mimic the masks coming out of Fashion Rowe. They weren't fooling anyone though, with their faded clothes in need of patching and their missing teeth.

Bawdy sailors, burnt to a crisp and globed together in pockets of sun bleached uniforms laughed. Wealthy patrons of the city's industrial elite sat comfortably in coaches with house crests hanging from the side and house guards standing at the ready. No matter the path the city folk walked, they were all here for the same reason; violence. 

The dark wood stage croaked like a frog as the speaker approached the edge. He overlooked the crowd, stalling on a man of the cloth who watched intently behind circular rimmed glasses. The tangled prayer book hanging from thick cords of rope and bead had finger stains on the cover and yellowing page trim. His attire was humble, subdued in color, draping over the broad shoulders of a farmer's son. His scowl was obvious behind that drooping black moustache of his. Arched the same manner of his caterpillar brows.

Izan Marzo. Friale. Dissenter. Outspoken critique of the country's harsh and heavy handed history with violence. A counterweight on the scale of a heart he thought was slowly failing in absence of proper leadership. Unlike the peacock speaker, who strut around demanding the crowds attention, Izan seemed to shrink moment by moment in the agitated crowd.  

The speaker continued, "Mountains claim our brothers and sisters in the conflicts with Avierni War Tyrants of the west. Volcanic shores wash bloated corpses of our neighbors in the Shimmering Isles in the east. The Merchant Lords of Borrden'Lau lick their lips, like dogs at heel to strike us for mere morsels of our coast."

Leather gloves strained as he tightly gripped his fist. "Galicia rages against enough foes. Let us not quarrel amongst ourselves. It strips this great land of its finest resource and shortens the labor of its foes who seek our end." He outlined the front of the stage again before whipping his head around to point at the pitiful looking man roped to a pole.

Stripped bear, his skin was red and blotchy with bruises. Tears mingled with the constant stream of sweat. What once was young was now sallow and grey. The prisoner was frantically whispering prayers behind tightly shut eyelids. They briefly dared open but promptly shut upon seeing the bloody wooden stump housing grim notched reminders that soured the stomach. 

"The decrees are clear." The speaker said. "Seek peace when able. Meter judgment when tasked." The crowd's energy swelled as the speaker approached the headsman. He grabbed the sobbing man by the chin and raised his gaze upward. "Mercy for those whose mercy is abundant." More whispers from the soon to be executed. The speaker paid the blabbering no heed and finished, "Death for those who force your hand."

He glanced ever so slightly towards the headsman. That was Genoveva's cue. She gripped the shaft of her ax. Without confirmation, she felt the heat of Izan's glare penetrate her soul. His distaste obvious, her guilt poorly quelled, the speaker's impatience swelling. The sun's deadly kiss weathered her flushed cheeks as she stepped towards the pair of men. 

The speaker whispered to the prisoner when she was within ear shot, “May Betatune favor you on the Eternal Shore, for you have strayed far from her ever burning light.” The prisoner looked upon Genoveva's war mask. Fear erupted like harsh waves in a storm. He railed against his restraints. "Die with dignity." The speaker said sternly, one hand on the man's wiggling shoulder. The man couldn't tear his wide eyes away from her alligator styled mask. 

The speaker sighed and said, "Let us bring this to an end, Genoveva.” He turned on a swivel and addressed the crowd one final time with arms wide open. His voice boomed with bravado. “As arbiter of the Theocracy, I declare justice served! For the death of Senor Enastacio Cordoba, Death be upon his killer, Raul Serrato!” The crowd erupted into noise. The widow Cordoba and her family bore witness; she wore a mourning veil and had to be held up by her neighboring kin. 

Genoveva Amezquita put both gauntleted hands on the prisoner’s shoulders. He let out a gasp. She forced him onto his knees. Thankfully he abided. He hit the ground with a dull thud. Sometimes those she was sent to end resisted their part in this gruesome play. They would have to be held down while she did the deed. Not Raul. He was too busy bitterly sobbing.

Genoveva forced his neck into the metal holster. With a short kick of the iron bar beside them, it swung into the closed position and locked shut. The roar of the crowd silenced in eager anticipation. Time slowed, her surroundings melted, blurred abstractions, pecking at the back of her memories.

There was another time. Another place. The same ax. The same loud noise of a crowd. She could smell the mountain air. She could feel the bracing wind of the cold as the elevated castle walls shuddered under the war machines bite. Her breath caught. She heard her voice echo down the line of soldiers. Ladders cracked against stone. She raised her ax.

Shlunk!

Crimson spurted out as the prisoner's body shuddered. She felt the ripples rattle against the iron head of the ax. The crowd exploded in excitement. This was not a war. These were not her compatriots. That man was not a foreign savage, half giant, half man, coming down to pillage her homeland.

He was a baker's son. Stupid and young. 
Friale Izan chewed on his bottom lip. She met his gaze. He saw right through her mask. The jeers faded. He prayed for the dead man. Always did. Prayed for her too. She palmed blood stained hair and raised the corpse to be admired by the roaring crowd. The city of Santiago faded to black once more. She held a young girl by thick black hair, framed by the light of a burning village. The air smelled of sulfur and the mud was slick on her boots. 

The girl wore the red ribbon. She slapped at Genoveva's armor. Tears streaming down soot soaked cheeks. She was screaming in the native tongue of the Shimmering Isles. Genoveva only caught the occasional word. Die. Scum. Invader. Her sword put an end to the stream of anger. The girl went limp and she threw her corpse into the mud. 

Genoveva grabbed the slumped over corpse of Raul as the crowd dispersed from the market. A cart waited by the back lip of the gallows. She dragged him over with ease. The cart driver smoked from a thin stemmed pipe and with one good eye, watched her and said  "On to the Eternal Shore with him."

His dusty, torn up black clothes were as worn as the man beneath them. With a simple whip of the reins the horse jolted into action and the cart headed towards the cemetery across town. No one followed the dead to their final resting place. Crowds in the throes of bloodlust were never satisfied with just one death. It was likely that the criminal’s family waited for him in the solitude of the graveyard. 

Genoveva ignored the peacocking speaker as he commended her for the necessary act. Absent minded, she waited for him to finish then took her leave, stepping down the stairs and heading for her own private coach. A modestly crafted carriage bereft of filigree. Only a single fat donkey to pull its box frame. The creature hemmed and hawed at her approach.

Sitting atop was one of the new class of mercenary recruits, Herbicito. He wore the green and purple colored standards provided to everyone in her company. He was of farmer’s stock, like her and Izan. Barely a man of two decades, he was eager to make a life for himself. A kind of life that poor folk in the plateau could not normally find.

“Woe be upon those whom her wrath falls. It is impartial and harsh. Viscous and calculated. It tears apart the worthy and unworthy alike. Death lingers here. Her face, green with envy for her twin brother, Life.” A familiar voice rose from behind her. "La Muerte Verda." Her allies chanted it in the mead halls. Sang it in their victory. For twenty years enemies whispered it nervously on the field of battle.

She had grown accustomed to hearing it with a certain cadence. Yet Izan soiled it. There was no honor when he spoke it into existence. Only the truth laid bare. It was a shield for a scared little girl to hide behind. Genoveva’s jaw clenched. She stopped short of the carriage and turned to face Izan. His thick auburn curls were pinned back on both sides by thin clips. His hands were in his lavender and red frock and the travel satchel around his waist sagged partially open to reveal a tied cluster of parchments. 

“Friale.” Genoveva muttered with a warm, velvet voice, tainted by the metal of her helmet. “I saw your prayers once more fell upon deaf ears.”

“Did they?” He inquired.

She closed the gap between them and tilted her head downward at him. She was slightly taller than him when she wasn’t wearing her green tinted war gear. Now the difference was exaggerated to a great degree. 

“My condolences. Truly.” She said,

He said in response, “That is the third execution this month. I am beginning to wonder if your words ring true or are platitudes to placate me and my ilk.”

“Tell your congregation to stop killing each other and it won’t be an issue then.” She said offhandedly. He grit his teeth. “I don’t have a say in who lives or who dies." His features softened. “I don’t like it anymore than you do, old friend.” She said, “I didn’t leave the farm to kill my countrymen.”

Izan took a cigarillo from a tin and struck a match. “This county has taken so much from you.” He let the words linger like smoke between them. She raised the alligator snout shaped visor that protected her head and revealed her visage. He offered her his vice. She let him put the smoke between her full lips and enjoyed the taste of tobacco in her mouth.

She mumbled. “This country has given me everything.”

“Not everything.” He said softly.

She scowled at him. She knew exactly what he meant. “This again.” She was suddenly angry. He knew just how to get under his skin.

“I say it with love.” He said after a moment of awkward silence.

“I’d prefer you didn’t say it at all.” She blew the smoke into his face. He grabbed the cigarillo from her soft, full lipped pout and she felt the brush of his knuckles against her. He took a long drag as he retreated.

“Consider my words. You can’t be a slave to this work forever. Nor will it let you. Rarely does it play out any differently.”

“So be it.” She stated flatly.

He grabbed her by the shoulder. “There is still time. Let the flame die out. Don’t get consumed by it.”

She shrugged him off. “I said, I’d prefer your silence. Now I must demand it.” She turned to the carriage and opened the door. Wearily she stepped into it and slumped into a cushioned bench. 

Izan gripped the door and leaned against its sturdy frame. His hands were calloused from the manual labor he still did. Despite having a congregation that would provide all the man needed, he still toiled for himself. 

“Are we still on for coffee?” He said amidst the smoke. She nodded and waved him off at the same time. An acceptable answer. He gave her the cigarillo and closed the door. “See you then. Get some sleep. You’re boring to be around when you’re tired.”

She slid open the window on the opposite side of the carriage. Herbicito barked a command to the donkey and the city lurched into motion. The fading pastel pink walls and pock marked blue storefront’s slowly passed by. Complex birdsongs broke free from the idle chatter of this grimy city. Bakers plied their trade behind windows and people laughed at tables huddled in the shade.

She rested her head and took off her gauntlet so she could have an easier time with Izan’s parting gift. It tasted splendid. She knew immediately that it was from her favorite crop house in the city. She had it often enough. He spoiled her. He always had, ever since they were neighbors on the farmlands outside Valencia. For the rest of the way home she reminisced of her time as the farmer’s daughter. It wasn’t always perfect but it was her life. And it was enough. He was right. She knew it to be true. Galicia had taken so much from her. How much more did she have left to give?

Jubilant music swelled inside the Jaguar’s Shadow Mercenary Company Guild Hall, its energy barely contained by wooden buttresses and steel braced doors. The only business on the agenda for tonight was celebrating the wedding of one of their own. The entire outfit was present and accounted for; flooding the room with green, purple, and black. Marching songs rang out amid sloshing pints and bawdy jokes elicited drunken laughter.

Genoveva’s mercenaries were rowdy tonight, dancing under hanging purple hemmed olive banners and making lots of noise. They poured sailor’s rum into shot glasses and left them at the Honor Glaive. An offering to the dead, whose blood was spilt to build her dream. It stood at attention, propped up by a glass pole and draped in the Company’s first battle standard. She lifted her own glass and toasted to those whom she loved and lost along the way. The Jaguar’s Shadow was long indeed. She drank her port and let out a sigh.

Lounging in the back alcove, Genoveva observed it all with a sense of contentment. A finger glided over her posh leather seating arrangement, a comfort reserved just for her. Normally she was wining and dining during contract negotiations with nobles and government types here. She found out very early on in her career that a cushioned ass was a happy ass and a happy ass was amenable to pay more for her services. But tonight she entertained happier deeds. 

A taxidermy jaguar prowled by the doorway; decorated with makeshift floral arrangements and dusty trinkets that catalogued the guild’s history. She admired the creature with swelling pride. The animal mascot wasn’t the only thing adorned with war trophies. Giant heads from the Western Border Skirmishes of Avierno mounted the walls. A plaque of Manangal wings from the Unification war in the Shimmering Isles was placed above an entranceway. Spears tied off with crimson sashes from the archipelago’s subsequent Red Ribbon Rebellion lined the back bar. Attached to the stage, front and center was a cracked steering wheel from a Merchant Lord’s warship during the Kraken Wars with Borrden’Lau.

She thought of the unfolded past. Of her best friend, Cecelia, now off on her own adventure. Of her former business partner, Osvaldo De Los Santos, now estranged. She thought of the steps that led her here to this very moment. The blood soaked imprints in the muddy fields of war. The screaming cavalry charges down sloped flanks. The crashing of bodies, the shuddering of armored impacts. The floating corpses that sank down to the abyss. 

They stared at her, with accusing eyes. Why me? They asked with gargled voices. Why do you get to drink port and I only salt water, they bemoaned. She rubbed the visions away with the back of her hand but nevertheless they persisted. They carried on amid the falling debris of blown apart ships, picked clean by the monsters of the sea. I wanted to get married, they cried. I wanted to dance with my friends on cool fall nights, not sink into an unmarked grave. Their eyes never left her. They hung around her like a crown of thorns, biting into her psyche. 

She felt the cold sensation of the ocean overtake her. She held her breath as the water filled her lungs. Her armor was heavy. She would sink to the depths with the dead if she didn’t act now. She thrashed about, following the bubbles that wreathed her sunlit form. Up, up, no matter how hard her legs kicked she didn’t think she would make it.

“Genoveva!” The voice called out. Father? Was that you, she wondered. Fragments of her life played out among the waves. She wanted to frolic in the fields of her youth. She wanted to bathe in the rivers that fed the town. Instead she was going to die here, sinking in the eternal blue abyss forever more. “Genoveva!” It was her father. He beckoned her to join him. A smiling face. A warm hand outstretched. 

Her watery prison melted away.

She was staring at the ceiling, past Adoncia and Salvador. She gasped for air. She was drowning, wasn’t she? She couldn’t move her arms or legs. She looked at them, expecting them to be shark gnawed. Instead they were being pinned by heavy bodies. The bodies of her friends, her compatriots. Admiral Salvador had a stern expression of worry. Captain Adoncia held her arm with both hands and was holding back tears.

“It’s okay, Genoveva.” She whispered. “It’s over now. You’re not there anymore. You’re home.”

Genoveva was home. All the tension she didn’t realize she was holding onto leaked out of her. She had spilled her port all over herself and the glass mug was broken in shards on the floor. Pinprick pain spread throughout her left leg. She glanced down at it to see a few pieces of drinkware inside her flesh.

She swallowed hard, clutched her companions and nodded, eyes weary and water logged. They let go at once, helping her to her feet. She wiped the tears away and winced at the alcohol stained skin rubbing into her eyeballs. Silently she cleaned up her mess. They tried to help her but she refused. They had done enough. This was the least she could do in thanks. 

Admiral Salvador sagged on the couch as he watched her. “Some fresh air would do ye good.” He said. 

Her hand gripped his shoulder and she nodded, defeated. When she finished, she offered a grateful smile to Adoncia and staggered towards the door. On the way out, she rubbed the Jaguar’s nose. All her fear, her troubles, the soldier’s curse; she put it into that Jaguar. A sacrificial babe for the guild’s sins.

The muffled sounds of merriment pumped out into the Dockside District. It was late into a rain soaked morning. Her aging, bone weary reflection glanced up at her from the waterslick street. Behind her, dark stencils of clouds held the moon hostage. Pockets of light flickered in lamp post glass, offering little in the way of reprieve from the night. Genoveva listened to the weeping sky as it wet the muted buildings and washed away the sorrow of days gone by. 

An all too familiar itch for a smoke returned. So she did as her body beckoned. The tin she kept her cigars in was cold to the touch. She lit the match on her boot and perched a cigar on her lips. She could feel the flush of the alcohol radiating off her cheeks. She chuckled as she missed the cigar on the first try. After a clumsy second attempt, smoke filled her mouth and spiced her tongue. 

She closed her eyes and listened. Imagined a world without herself in it; a painting of this exact time and place. It wasn’t so bad. Somehow there was peace. The world saw her as just another crossed off name on a list of no good people everyone was waiting for to die. The thought lingered in the back of her mind. It would be easy. And really, it was what she deserved. It wasn’t up for debate. The idea tugged at her chest. Anxiety swelled. That feeling of drowning crept back in. This time however, it was a pressure on her chest. 

She opened her eyes and saw a shadowy figure across the way. It lurked in an alleyway, leaning just into view. She watched curiously. It did not disappear. Was her soldier’s curse starting back up again? Or was someone watching her? She offered a wave. No response. Was it a remnant of the past? Or a portend of her future?

She scratched her chin, waiting patiently for something to change. Nothing did. Maybe it was a stack of boxes or a broom left out for the night? She eyed the sky. It didn’t look like the rain would let up anytime soon. She shielded her head with one hand and made her way towards the figure. 

The smoke trailed behind her like a scared child. The streets were barren and the lights to the mead halls and whorehouses were dim. A rat skittered into an alley as she passed. It caught her attention for a moment and when she looked back up, the shadow was gone. She stopped in her tracks a moment, looking around, recalculating. It was just her. Well, her and the meddlesome rat. The rodent looked back at her with a blank expression.

She was already halfway to the alleyway in question. Might as well see it through, she thought. She did not like to leave questions to dangle. More cautious than before, she closed the distance. Only a desolate scene met her. The occasional crate or barrel. The rain was kept at bay from awnings covering a myriad of windows yet there was a pool of water at the intersection as if someone was standing there a long while. Then a trail of footprints leading down the path.

They were real.

A Rat King or a Diamond Cloak? The Thieves guilds would be skulking about for a fresh victim around this time of morning. Perhaps once they saw who it was walking towards them, they hoofed it. She smirked, her drooping cigar bobbing with the move. A reputation was good for some things. She looked around. There was an open window but it was too high up and there wasn’t anything to climb past the first floor. She walked through the alley, checking the doors as she passed; all locked.

Genoveva stopped, puffing and turning the cigar between her thumb and index. Could have been gutter trash. Some orphan or a drunk stumbling home. Either way, the trail ended where the back of the alley met with another crossroad. Empty. There wasn’t any point in pursuing this further. Not tonight. She turned heel and walked back to the guild hall. As she put her hand on the front door, she chanced one last look over her shoulder. 

Nothing. 

She shrugged it off and went back inside. The sounds of music assaulted her ears and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. Everyone was as she left them; partying themselves stupid. The bride was being accosted by her family, all smiling faces and wide eyes. The groom was being hoisted up by companions on a chair. Adoncia was clapping along to a song and Salvador smoked a pipe by the bar. 

No shadows here. Just friends. 

She smiled, relieved. 

Genoveva hunched over a desk, weary from the lack of sleep. Her private chamber was quiet, only the trickle of bird songs from an opened window above her bed made any noise. Bags sagged under her bloodshot eyes. A trail of smoke raised from the graveyard of spent tobacco by her elbow. She combed her fingers through her greasy hair. She was barren, save for a thin sleeping robe that left little to the imagination.
Thrown over her drooping shoulders was an old quilt she had since childhood.

One of the only things she managed to save during the fire when she was a teenager. Parts of it were still stained black and if she focused on it, really sat with the thought, she could still smell the charred wood. Its edges had been replaced a few years ago, no longer frayed and brighter in color than the rest of the blanket. 

It enveloped her in warmth, hid the burnt parts of flesh that scorched most of her torso and arm. It scraped dust off the floor as she shifted, chewing on chicle to get the taste of cold coffee out of her mouth. The cup sat on the desk beside a half full inkwell and a flamingo feather quill. The horse bust gifted to her by Osvaldo many moons ago reflected the orange hues of the morning that spilled into her room.

On the upper shelf was a stack of bundled letters, tied by string and waiting patiently for their turn to be read. They nestled against a row of military tactic books and leatherbound histories of the countries she had operated in. She didn’t know when she would get to the letters. What she held in her hand was far more pressing a matter.
It arrived last night. The red seal mark of La Catedral set off alarm bells in her head. She opened it as soon as she received it. Now, she had paid dearly for that, having slept little ever since reading its contents, line by line, a hundred times over. A massive trading ship of great importance to some merchant lord or another, Joyau De La Mer, had been sunk by the northern fleet’s Fuego De La Dama. 

The Merchant Lords of Borduen’Laux thought it was one ship too many. They threw their white gloves down and have formally declared war against ‘the uncouth zealots of the flaming whore.’ Their words, according to the circulating propaganda. She put down the letter and sighed. A lot of moving parts were about to shift now that a naval power capable of rivaling Galicia had entered the conflict.

This went beyond the city of Santiago. The Theocracy itself requested her presence at La Catedral to discuss a new military contract. The forever war had reared its head once more, its promise of a vicious harvest breathing down her neck. The Jaguar’s Shadow Mercenary Company’s relatively quaint tenure as a bandage was likely over. 

No matter; Santiago can stand on its own, now more than ever. After all, the stem of Red Tide War refugees had dampened and the city’s adequate police force had grown capable and fierce in the face of a wartime economic boom. Their time as Santiago’s peacekeepers was symbolic at this point. It was time to move on.

As tired as she was, it would be a fool’s errand to delay her meeting. She got up, shed the warmth of her youth, and dawned the plate armor she was so known for. The green tinted metal had been polished during the anxious hours of the early morning. The alligator-like scales glistened with oil and she saw her glowering reflection in the maw shaped helmet. The metallurgy of the dwarves fit perfectly with the alligator leather straps and even after all these years her ensemble was as comfortable as her own skin.

She pulled down the tabard over her body, admiring the Jaguar’s head in a perpetual yowl. She clipped a half cloak of green, purple, and black over her shoulders. She felt powerful in this armor, yes, but more importantly it gave her power over others. It projected a menacing, reptilian appearance that demanded respect. She looked at herself in the mirror; the spitting image of a warrior. 

Tears welled in the corner of her eyes.

She had grown soft in her time of relative peace. Policing a town was dangerous, yes, but rare few of her mercenaries had died. Now the headsman ax she wielded against so many others trained itself on her and her companions. A tingling sensation rose on the back of her neck. A phantom ache, an anticipation for a hard end. She would march towards death, like a good little soldier, but she would not be alone. And that singular thought was both comforting and haunting. A solace and a grim reminder of the true power she held. 

She hoisted her warhammer off the wall. Crooked Jaw had been with her through a decade of hell. A companion weapon to the armor she wore, it was in the shape of an angry reptile, sharp teeth clenched, head bulbous and scaled, pommel spiked with a deadly tail. She rotated it with both hands. The behemoth of a weapon’s eagerness to kill was palpable.

She walked out of her room, into the hallway, and knocked on the doors of her second in command, Adoncia. When she answered, Adoncia rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, hair askew and naked from the waist down. Her husband, Raymundo, the guild hall chef, snored behind a bushy beard, face down and bare ass in the wind. She gave her a confused expression. 

“Why are you in your armor?” She asked. 

Genoveva said “Adorn yourself. The Theocracy beckons.”

Her brow furrowed. “Santiago, you mean?”

“No. The city has no need for us.” She clarified. "Take account of the outfit. Meet with the quartermaster and prepare information on our battle readiness."

Adoncia’s hand slid down her face and she eked out a low whistle like a tea pot. “Okay. Give me a few minutes. I’ll meet you in the hall.” Adoncia glanced over to her sleeping husband. “Shit.” She said with pursed lips.

“Yeah.” Genoveva said without a hint of emotion.

All Adoncia thought to say was, “Well. It was good while it lasted.” Then the door softly shut.

Salvadore took a while coming to his door. Genoveva heard the creak of opening wooden drawers. The shuffling of feet. The groan and clatter of a man cleaning his room for guests to see. When he finally answered, he was wearing a pull over pajama and he stunk of wine. “Captain.” He said with a gruff tone.

“Get war ready. Make sure you have stock of the fleet. Then come join me and Adoncia. We are needed in the Temple District.” The man silently nodded and shut the door. The hallway was quiet but a moment until she heard a faint whisper behind the door. 

“Dammit!” Salvadore gasped angrily. “Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!”
Genoveva would give the man the privacy he thought he had and head towards the door.

Outside it was beautiful. Every bit a picture painted by a master hand. The city still slept amid a rising sun. The salty air washed over her with a welcoming breeze. The gentle tussle of the ocean somewhere nearby.

She tried not to throw up. 

Salvadore tapped his boot impatiently. The beefy man's figure struggled against the buttons of his sun bleached naval attire. He flexed every few seconds. His fingers kneaded the commodore hat in his grasp. Any sign of movement sent his eyes darting. Genoveva caught his attention and he composed himself, hoping she wouldn’t notice the obvious.

Against the wall, Adoncia rocked up and down. Her back arched as far as it would go before giving out and hitting the wall behind her with a thud. That happened several times over as she blew bubbles out of the chicle she chewed. She eyed Genoveva with a deep, restless sigh. Her folded arms were hiding the white knuckled grip underneath her chest.

Genoveva stood at attention, hands clasped behind her back, patiently waiting for the door to the meeting room to open. The unseen footfalls echoed from deep within El Catedral. They pounded against her head like drums. The stained glass windows melted wine hues over the eggshell stone room. There was a faint smell wafting up from Genoveva’s polished armor. It scratched the side of her nose and she had to actively fight the temptation to pick at herself.

She redirected her focus towards the door directly across the waiting area; vision tunneling towards a dark, featureless face, imposing in its simple make against the backdrop of gothic architecture. Slowly the ceiling faded to the back of her mind. The long, sharp edged columns lining the walls disappeared one by one. The tile, worn by thousands of travelers moving to and fro, no longer visible.

 Only the door. All that existed was the door. It floated in a black, void of context. There was a high pitch ringing. It bled into her ears. Her left eye twitched as it grew louder. The door, gliding closer. The ringing, louder. 

Her hands felt clammy. How long had she been sweating? The door loomed. It beckoned her closer.

Come, it whispered ominously.

Her teeth clenched. 

Do not be afraid, it hissed. 

The door, creeping ever closer. No longer a distant figure but as grand as a mountain. She looked up at it, the darkness frayed at her vision. The ringing wormed its way into her brain. God, she begged for it to end. 

The door. 

Closer.

She was so small. 

Closer.

She couldn’t catch her breath.

It creaked open. 

“Senora?”

Reality cracked back into existence, like a dark forest suddenly illuminated by lightning. Judicar Prudencia Balles stood at the precipice of the doorway, as rigid and stiff as the wood behind her. Lavender robes denoting her place in the Theocracy hugged her figure and draped down to her ankles. The body length scapular that showcased the government’s ornamental sigil was emblazoned on her chest; a horse superimposed over a flaming spear and a singular eye.

Genoveva swallowed as she stood. She motioned for her posse to follow with a flick of her head. Immediately they fell in line, ready to get the show on the road. 

The trio stepped inside a spartan office, void of light save for a hanging candelabra. A single desk with a handful of chairs already pulled out awaited them. Behind the desk was a banner that hung from a brass stand, sharing the same sigil as the Judicar’s chest. On the desk was a parchment paper and writing utensils.

Prudencia waited for the three of them to sit before doing so herself. Her creased forehead bent slightly as she examined the paper. She did not smile. Her eyes were void of any joy. She smelled of cigarettes and when she spoke, it sounded like gravel falling down a waterfall.

“As explained in our letter, the war has changed. So, the junta, in their infinite wisdom, have started adapting.” The woman pointed to the parchment with a white gloved finger. “Your contracted services with Santiago are hereby null and void as of this meeting. Please refrain from any policing duties within the city from hereon out.”

“Understood.” Genoveva shifted.

“The Theocracy of Galicia still needs you.” Prudencia said. “You should find the terms of the proposed contract acceptable.”

Genoveva nodded. “I have nine hundred and twelve active duty mercenaries in the city right now. I have six hundred and forty three in reserve. I can recruit another four or five hundred given a muster. Will that be enough?”

The woman’s pious gaze was intensely focused on the mercenary captain. “Providence will provide.” Was her response.

Genoveva closed her eyes and wondered where they were going to send her. “I would like the room.”

Prudencia elected to remain in her seat, glowering. Genoveva ground her teeth for several seconds but relented. The contract term was for a campaigning season of one year. It allowed payment negotiation options if renewed for the next campaigning season. All things considered, it was a healthy sum of money. Seven times what she was getting paid by the city of Santiago. Considering they would be fodder for the frontline, she would take nothing less. 

Genoveva looked at the details line by line. She handed it over to Adoncia. The woman chewed on her lip as she read. “I can’t really find fault with the contract.” Genoveva read over the contract one more time for posterities sake. She compiled the logistics log in her head, itemized and unending. War was not a firm wood. It bent in the winds of change. She needed to be prepared to adapt. Just like the War Primarchs in charge of the Junta.

“These terms are acceptable.” She wet the quill and signed her life away. 

Prundecia held out a hand to stop her.

“Before you sign, I  must insist you keep your pillaging to a minimum. We may be at war but we can bring some decorum to the act. Betatune leads with a gentle hand.” How pompous Prudencia’s sullen features were. How sick it made her feel, to be seen as a monster. 

In Genoveva’s experience, militaries weren’t much better than mercenaries.  keep moral high. They took to cattle and pulled up the fields. Claimed sacked homes and bastions of stone. Carried out orders soaked in blood and misery. If the commander didn't care to police their own, well, training seldom held the wicked at bay.

Others may be crude cudgels clumsily wielded but Genoveva was a professional soldier; not an oafish off season bandido. The Jaguar’s Shadow were held to a higher standard. Genoveva made sure of it. She tried to hide the sarcasm in her response. "Do not fret. You’ll get your noble war.”

“Of course.” Prudencia acted as if there was no other outcome. “Come with me. We can coordinate with the others.” 

Others, Genoveva thought. Of course there were others involved in an operation this size. She did as she was told, gesturing for Salvadore to get the door. He jumped at the chance, a lap dog through and through. Adoncia gestured towards the empty hallway. Outside, they turned a corner and passed a trio of clerics with stacks of papers rushing past. The sounds of busy worker bees flying about the hive grew in intensity.

Adoncia, with a cigarillo in hand. “Who else do you think they hired? Probably that shit head Pol.” She made a slit throat gesture with her instrument of vice. Genoveva smelled the smoke and was reminded that she still had some of Cleric Izan’s gift to her. She took a cigarillo out of her tin

“No point in guessing.” She said, trying to light it. “We’ll find out soon enough.” She took a deep inhale. A grim resolve enveloped her. “But probably that shit head, Pol.” It was a pivotal moment. The Jaguar’s Shadow were about to go to war. She soaked up all the little details and tucked them away into the vault inside her brain.

Adoncia remarked with a sigh. “It’s the anticipation that keeps the boredom at bay.”

Genoveva hummed. "Somewhere in Uthil’Tal, we will be squatting in a castle and being bored. It's inevitable.”

“The ships have a crew cabin.” Salvador said. “The sea, in all her beauty, is a patient mistress.”

Adoncia rolled her eyes “We aren’t all seadogs, amigo.”

“Shame. You could learn a thing or two about tackling boredom if you were.” He remarked. 

Adoncia grinned. “My chef’s special sausage meal keeps me entertained.”

Salvador frowned. “I wasn’t talking about that. I was talking about letting the incalculable act of crossing the world rub off on you.”

“Oh. I let him rub off on me.” She said with a slick smirk.

Salvadore sighed and said, “Stop talking.”

Prudencia entered a large holding space, filled with various groups of people. She did not even make sure they were behind her as she jumped right into the river crossing of bodies. Genoveva found her waiting for them in front of a similarly nondescript door as before. Inside, bored looking people in manicured seating arrangements chatted amongst themselves.

Adoncia stuck close to Genoveva, hand instinctually going to the hilt of her weapon. The window near the back ceiling shed rays onto the desk acting as the room’s centerpiece. Two gargantuan paintings flanked the left and right side walls; depicting the Eternal Shore and the birth of the country through the Unification Crusade.

“Shit.” Adoncia winced. "I was right." Mercenary Captain Pol Bilbao leaned over a chair, one dirty boot propped up against the crossbar. Genoveva’s eyes narrowed. The Children of the Serpent Mercenary Company. Allies in the Black Tide War and fellow peacekeepers during the Red Ribbon Rebellion. 

Despite their appearances, Pol’s soldiers were highly disciplined. After the fighting was over however; not so much. Many Islanders flocked to her controlled territory, bringing horror stories with them. Mistreatment and abuse were commonplace. No doubt, he was the reason Prudencia made those earlier comments about civility.

Pol fumbled with the rings adorning his hand; all large and expensive. He wore an eyepatch embroidered with a white mimic of the one he had lost. Him and his posse wore a black quilted gambison, trimmed with mud brown, a coiled serpent with its forked tongue sticking out above the breast. Pol’s drooping salt and pepper beard covered the tanned skin of a face crisp and glowing red. Part of his nose was missing and his scars gave birth to even more scars. On his sword belt, Jolly, a scimitar he used with deadly efficiency. And Smile, a curved dagger with a black polish finish. 

He smirked. “Always you and me.”

“Senor.” Genoveva said testily. “Do us both a favor and move to Cuenca.”

Pol only laughed in that obnoxious way he always did. She wanted to bonk him on the head. Pol’s two companions grumbled at the insult. Adoncia and Salvador lined up to meet them. Another machismo dick measuring contest; same as always when rival mercenaries sized one another up.

The woman wore a dagger on her hip. Her hand was on the serpent carved hilt. She was tall, slender, and of a warm olive skin complexion. Her strong, prominent nose was slathered with a black painted line across it. Her eyebrows had been shaved off and in its place were a series of studded piercings. The same piercings that adorned both ears. 

The man glared at Salvador with a sour expression. The two men snarled like dogs separated by a fence. He was pale skinned and suffered from acne, with shining blue eyes like a clear sky. His bald head was covered by a spider tattoo, its web reaching his ears. Ink lines peaked out from beneath his collar and both cuffs. A gold chain glistened around his neck. The man thumbed brass knuckles eagerly and when he licked his teeth, the split forked tongue wiggled in different directions.

Pol sauntered up to Genoveva, hands tucked in his belt. He smiled as he eyed her up and down. She looked down at him, unmoving. The silhouette of a middle aged woman appeared in the corner of her eye. Pol did not notice as it was on his blind side. Prudencia wore disdain for the sixtuplet of sellswords the way a rich woman wore a pearl bracelet.

“Are you two done?” She said, unimpressed.

Pol slicked his hair back with one hand. “Enough people are gonna be trying to kill us. Let’s play nice, Green Death.” He gestured for his mercenaries to relax. They peeled away. “After all, not all the rumors about you are true. Right?” 

Adoncia scoffed, arms folded, superiority plain on her face. Salvador looked nervously back at Genoveva, waiting to be let off his chain. Admittedly, she was tempted. Instead she just gestured for them to take the seats before the others could. The two groups of mercenaries raced to the table like children playing at a game. Thankfully the Jaguars arrived first. Adoncia stuck out her tongue at the woman. Salvador blew the man a kiss. Genoveva stood beside Pol, a creeping smile on the corner of her lips.

Small victories.

“The Lovers Peninsulas.” Judicar Prudencia unfurled a map that was tied up and sitting in a basket beside the desk. It depicted neighboring Paratay. She pointed to the northern coastline beneath the Shimmering Isles, “We strike at the heart of their power, concentrating on ports under the control of the Coastal Coalition. Seize their shipyards, and retool their logging camps for our own; their war efforts will crumble in due time.”

“Our primary targets?” Genoveva asked. 

She singled out one of the room’s occupants. “This is Admiral Edgar Lagos. He is going to be my voice when you’re out at sea.” Standing under the window was a navy man who eyed Genoveva with a sharpness that made him worth remembering. “His word is law, understand?” There were murmurs of agreements, mild at best. He held himself with distinction; unfazed by the lack of enthusiasm. 

The naval officer nodded curtly and approached the table. “The city of Paradiso is strategically placed to control the flow in and out of the area.” He pointed to a circled dot on the northern edge of the right side peninsula. His uniform was pressed and studded with ribbons. His square glasses were spotless. His hat hung on a loop around his belt and a rapier rattled against his thigh. 

Up close, she saw that everything about this man was meticulously prepared. Not a smidge of grime. This was a man who did not get his hands dirty. Rather he gave the order for others to die. She doubted he even used that rapier. “Controlling enough ports, the Paratay navy will get pinched between the Eastern Sea Corps division already in the area attempting to break the enemy blockade.”

Attending him was a young boy; scarcely older than she was when she left the charged wreckage of her home in Valencia. He had a matching uniform, sans ribbons, tassels, the bits that had to be earned. He was lanky, still growing into his figure. He looked upon his master like a beaten gelding. 

Edgar leaned over the map and said, “Establish yourselves in Paradiso and you can keep an eye on enemy forces coming from the east, even respond before they attack our holdings in the Shimmering Isles. From there, you march west along the coast. Baracuio is the planned second target.”

“Two peninsulas is too much land to hold for our mercenary companies.” Pol Bilbao stated flatly. “Earlier you said something about rendezvousing with the Crab River Corps?”

Edgar responded, “The Crab River Corps is pushing into the country by way of the Contested Borderlands. Two battalions will head north to sweep the lumber camps and any settlements along the way.”

“What about the other two battalions?” Pol asked. 

Prudencia chimed in, “The Sultan of Kilab will assault the country from the south. The other two battalions are to occupy the Strange Steppes until the Sultan’s army joins them.” She offered a quick glance at a woman sitting in a wheelchair by her lonesome. “Hafsa el-Aghra will be our liaison with them.”

A tawny skinned woman, Hafsa was wearing a linen shayla common in Kilab. Peaks of her curly midnight ringlets fell down her temple. Almond shaped eyes, rich brown with hazel flaking, squinted as she examined Genoveva. On her face were gold piercings, connecting like bridges; nose to ear. Cheek to eyebrow. Nostril to lip. Said lips were brown in color and bow shaped, full and tantalizing. She had a satchel of papers slung around her vehicle.

She offered a respectful nod to the group. Genoveva offered one back. 

Hafsa spoke with a thick accent hailing from a region of the desert country Genoveva was not familiar with. It wasn’t hard to understand though. Rather, it gave the woman an air of charm. “Kilab is prepared to assault the Twins and the surrounding settlements. There are…reports…of weirdness there that might forestall our victory. It won't be easy but rest assured, the Sultan will reign over the Steppes. Then we will head north to combine our might.”

“They don’t call it the Strange Steppes for nothing.” A pale skinned dwarf said with a harumph. He was part of a duo of mountainfolk who smoked cigars in the corner of the room. His bright yellow mohawk blinded her and the thick braided beard he wore smelled of fine oils. He wore a dirty smock with ten pockets full of tools. A belt of pouches was strapped to his left shoulder, each one stuffed to the gill. “I wouldn’t count on you being as mighty as you think you are. Down there, anything is fair game.”

“The Sultanate is more than capable of handling our part in this war, mountainfolk.” The woman said matter of factly. “Most of the Coastal Coalition’s power lies outside the Twins, in their floating necropolises. It is you, I fear, who may fall and be turned against us in your after death state.”

“Fret not, noble dwarfs. We will not let that occur.”A voice called out from an assortment of people wearing the bright orange robes of the Trifecta Triumphant Towers. Golden Wizards. Each one of them was worth five hundred sellswords. Just one could sink a ship. Just one could warp gravity and blow a hole through castle walls or rain lightning upon a battlefield. They sat on couches, smoking long stemmed pipes that bathed the room in an earthy smell that wasn’t quite tobacco; their clothing overtaking any visible portions of the plush material beneath their bums.

“The necro magics of the liches will fail under our watchful gaze.” To Genoveva’s surprise, the one who spoke was a dunelf. A bald humanoid of some age. She had pointed rabbit-like ears and dark skin like maple trees. Her face was angular, exaggeratingly so, and her eyes were twice the size of any human in the room. 

Salvador, always thinking about his ships, raised a hand. “So the Eastern Sea Corps is busy breaking the blockade in the Shimmering Isles. Are they going to eventually meet us in the Lovers Peninsulas?”

“Unfotunately, most of Paratay’s naval power is sailing the colony. And scouts have spotted two floating necropolises heading to the Pohrohanon Islands. All we can offer you right now is a modest escort from part of our fleet treading water in the Baliokota Islands area already moving to intercept. Once we get you to Paradiso, we’re going to have to turn around and engage those ships before they make it to Pohrohanon. Your job is to make sure they don't bring in anymore but you’re going to have to do it with the ships you already have.”

“Great.” Salvador bemoaned.

“How are we supposed to siege a city? Let alone multiple ports?” Pol raised his hands. “I don’t have any siege equipment. Do you, Genoveva?”

“I don’t.” Genoveva said, “Not to be presumptuous but I had assumed that was why the dwarfs were here.”

“A little presumptuous.” The blonde dwarf grumbled.

“But not wrong.” The brunette dwarf sighed. “Alright, humans. Bend your ears to me, if ye will. My name is Signe of Clan Kithkeeper. ” Signe was bronze skinned, with a long brunette pony tail that braided down his back and short cropped mutton chops. His eyes were hidden behind goggles that looked like navigator’s spyglasses that gesticulated on their own. He smelled of grease and his hands were stained black. His leg was gone. In its place a metal curved prosthetic that released pressurized steam as he shifted his weight.

“This be my cousin, Thakrik.” The blonde dwarf who spoke earlier waved his cigar in salutation. “We’ve got ships carrying exactly what you need. A battalion of dwarfs eager for a fight. Ten catapults. Eight organ guns. Six flaming canons. Two ram drills. And finally a zeppelin. Make sure my bearded kin arrive alive and you have your siege. Fail, your job becomes an order of magnitude harder.

Hafsa spoke, “So does this mean that the dwarves have answered our call to arms?” The two dwarves looked at one another for a few moments then shrugged. “You do not speak for your High Queen Paragon?”

“No.” Signe said. “We’re Exile.” His cousin Thakrik visibly bristled at the term.

“We’ve no word yet from the dwarven kingdoms, Hafsa.” Prudencia admitted. “All we know is that Ambassador Kazzad arrived at Three Peaks Thaig a few short days ago.

“Short?” Thakrik grumbled.

“And if they don’t honor the treaty?” The dunelf wizard asked.

Signe waved away the notion. “Dwarves honor their word, Dunelf.”

The dunelf identified herself, “Quamara of House Ta-Na-Ro.” She haughtily said. 

“Well, Quamara,” Signe continued, “to even suggest otherwise is an insult to my father’s father’s father.”

Pol scoffed. “Okay, exile.”

Thakrik slammed the table. “Say that word with such intent one more time and it will be the last thing that dirty tongue of yours ever speaks.”

“Oh.” Pol feigned exaggerated fright. “Going to bite my ankles?”

“Enough, Bilbao!” A second wizard said. He was human…that Genoveva could see. His hood pulled over most of his head. The only thing visible aside from leather aged hands was the fiery red beard down his chest, collected by a string of polished beads that looked like living fire. “The dwarfs are putting their lives on the line for our mission. That alone makes them worthy of our utmost respect.”

“Well said.” A third wizard remarked. “What about the dwarfs in Paratay? Are they willing to offer help?” This one had the light green skin of an orc. A thin strip of black hair hugged a bulbous head. It reminded Genoveva of a mushroom. His pressed ear flaps dominated the sides of his clean shaved cheeks. As his mouth moved, the tattooed lines on his chin changed shape. They even dripped like sweat, only to dissipate in small bursts of glitter. 

“It's a lost hold.” Signe remarked. “Collapsed into ruin by calamity. Now all that’s left is the Legion of the Damned. And they aren’t going to be of any help to us. Scattered kin, obsessed with revenge, slaughtering anything that comes out of the Maw.”

“We should send a letter to them, regardless.” The final two wizards spoke as one. Genoveva blinked in momentary confusion until they did it again. A jarring experience. “They might still uphold the treaty. And a contingent of well trained, battle hardened dwarves who know the area would be good to have on our side.” They were twin albino women; red eyes and white hair laced with matching hair pins. They covered their mouths with orange cloth and carried arcane staves that hummed; stone orbs floating above their brass polished tops. “Something to consider after establishing a beachhead.”

“Speaking of considerations.” Genoveva said as she looked at the wizards. “How many have the Golden Wizards offered us?”

Quamara said, “We will be accompanying Dimas Salguero and his fellows in the Order of the Silver Lion. They are to be our honorguard.” The wizard looked at an aging hulk of a man with a gentle dusted tan complexion. His long curls of went down his neck and a thick moustache and goatee covered most of his mouth. His hands were coarse and full of calluses.  He wore a set of clothes people wore under thick plates of armor. The man’s tabard had two silver lions raised up on their hind legs on either side of a blue shield and he wore a metal chain around his waist like a belt. Looped into it were several religious trinkets. 

Dimas Salguero said in a baritone, “By my life do I swear the safety of your people.”

“Easy to say when you’re a fucking mountain.” Thakrik laughed. “I doubt anything can kill you.”

Dimas had an easy going smile that was missing a few teeth. “I have faith that Betatune will keep us all within her radiant light.”

“Well said.” Judicar Prudencia nodded.

“Blessings. Bla bla bla. Betatune. Bla bla bla.” Pol gristled. “So the mercenaries don’t get a single damn wizard!”

Genoveva ignored the man. “How many wizards travel with the Order?”

Quamara said, “We who sit in this room.”

Five wizards was enough to turn the tide of any war front. If the paladins somehow perished then it fell upon them to keep the wizards safe. Otherwise the necromancers of the Coastal Coalition will decimate their ranks. Genoveva glanced over at Pol. He eyed the wizards greedily. Harrowing to think what he would command them to do. That much power did not belong in his hands. 

“Consider the Jaguar’s Shadow loyal honor guard as well.” She remarked. “Your magic is paramount to our success.”

“And the Children of the Serpent.” Pol quickly added. “Just say the word and ol’ Pol will make sure you’re taken care of.”

“So, Judicar Prudencia,” Genoveva pivoted, growingly annoyed. “When will we expect you in Paratay?”

“I have important matters to attend to in the Shimmering Isles first. I will join you all when I am finished. If you’ve any important missives then you can pass them along through Mokazar Uctakur.” She pointed to an orc who had stuck to the back of the room. “He’s a good sailor and knows those waters like the back of his hand.”

“Hello.” Mokazar’s eyes were yellow and bulging, like most orcs. His tusks were capped with copper, distracting Genoveva’s eyes as they moved up and down with a glint. His head was bald and carried more than one scar, adding to his already imposing visage. He offered the group a quiet wave. His arm was covered with black and blue ink work. Nautical in theme; ships, birds, compasses, mermaids. He wore the common seamen pastiche of a thick striped tunic and brown trousers rolled up to nearly his knees.

“I have other pressing engagements to address.” Prudencia said mysteriously. She headed towards the door. “Know that the Demigoddess of War and Peace lays her mighty spear upon our shoulders. Anointed is our path. Righteousness is our cause. Muster all your forces. War calls, good people of Galicia. I expect you all to rise to the occasion.”

Watchful eyes studied one another, glinting with recognition of the intertwined webs of fate now woven. Either they return in triumphant glory or perish in deadly jungles. Genoveva pondered on which future awaited them.