[Captain Del]

Through the Vines

Deviating from a norm is even more of an extreme circumstance when we try to return to it. Though not necessarily every regular life is at a normal, sometimes living in a norm other's may consider itself is deviation. In such a time of reflection and thought it is hard to image that the pace would change, but once it does, no matter how large of a buildup, the impact is sudden and sharp; a fierce return to reality. It leaves you almost in a daze, caught in a midway between fantasy and reality where the world is no longer physical, like an outer body experience in respect to the rest of the universe. And the world will rotate around you menacingly, not saying a word but still intimidating you as it spins on it's off-kilter track, deviously waiting to pounce and consume you the moment you attempt to step back on to it's train. It is a moment of limbo in the light; a spark of nirvana in the darkness. And you never want to leave, but you loathe being in it, as well.

It was odd watching the King's Arm being as lively as it was. The moment after Ramona ran off preparations had begun - tables and chairs were being returned to their normal place, soldiers running about to scavenge up supplies, boxes, barrels, and other rift-raft being pulled away from the barricade behind the main door, and even the good Doctor was packing his things with the help of a few men in to a box. At the same time a few of the crew had pulled up from the basement of the tavern a wooden wheel-barrow, which they intended to use to carry Jeremiah around in on their journey, him still being too weak to support himself. He could speak faintly, though, and this is why he cursed in pain every time somebody would pick him up, fix him around, or all of that, almost as if he was begging to be dropped on the floor. Johnny was busy tiding the bottles on his shelves and wiping down the bar, and even Father Molony, barely a week after his stroke, was fixing himself and preparing to come along for the journey, as much as Johnny and some of the other men tried to talk him out of it. And Delmaria just stood there, watching in awe.

It was a hard thought to escape the barricades in Delmaria's mind that they were actually preparing to make a move, and even more so that his entire minute-man militia was doing this without having to be directed or told. Such enthusiasm had not been seen from them in weeks, their loyalty overcoming the best of them. It was a true pleasure to Delmaria to see this going on, because he knew that he had done his job well; a good captain is one whose crew does not rely on for direction. Still, he felt as though he was caught in the middle of things, and found it best to just back up the stairs and in to his office to clear up his things, leaving behind the rest of the tavern.

It was eerie how such a small wooden door had the ability to muffle the entire sound of the bustling room behind him. The light from the clear, bright day outside illuminate his small corner of the world, much brighter than he had been seeing it; in the day he had preferred to walk around the bar, and at night he hardly ever lit any candles. It was a warm, fulfilling feeling to see the clutter of papers on the floor, the discarded bottles and foodstuffs, and marks of rage against the wall in full detail. He sighed and walked over to his bed, where there sat some of his essentials which required to be found.

Delmaria was both an extravagant and simple traveler. Most of the things he ever needed were kept on his person at all times, whether tied to his body with his assortment of belts and clothes, or tucked in to the recesses of his many pockets and hidden compartments. For the first time in perhaps a few months, he had been walking around the tavern with a lack of either his heavy, black long coat, nor his gold-topped feathered hat upon his head. He picked up his ostrich hat with an odd notice of mystery, spinning it around in his hand and observing it. It was a custom for warriors to add a feather to his or her hat every time they slayed an enemy, yet Delmaria still only kept one in his cap - he could only imagine what it was supposed to look like.

As he turned his wide-brow back on to his head and lugged his magnificent coat on to his shoulders, he patted himself down for anything he seemed to be missing. He felt two pistols, three daggers, two belts, a package of gunpowder, the small, crinkled coordinates tucked in to the pocket over his heart, and all that he lacked was his most valuable piece of weaponry. He turned about the room, looking and hunting for his cutlass, yet it escaped his gaze. He assumed that a sword with a gold-colored blade would be easy to pick out, but obviously not this time. Even in such a small room it would refuse to be found, as Delmaria walked around his room looking for it.

A misfortunate placement of his foot on top of a puddle of ink caused Delmaria's large black boot to curve right out from under him, kicking up and sending him down to the floor in an anti-climatic tumble. His backside hit the floor with a mellow, painful thud, before he laid back down with the force of the fall and just rested there for a moment. He almost wanted to laugh a little bit, taking humor in his own failure, nut as he tried to sit himself up he caught eye of a glisten right beneath his bed. Right beneath his bed sat a long, metal blade, to which he smiled when he made contact with.

He grabbed the sword by the hilt without any hesitation and examined it in his lap, checking for any scratches of bruises to its surface. He had finally learned how to control the powers of the blade, though it was more of a weakening of its supernatural powers than it was him becoming its master. He could touch the blade without a need for a rag or linen, because he rarely found it transforming him at any moment when he wielded it. Once night, when he had attempted to practice with it, he found that it refused to do anything out of the ordinary until he finally built up enough energy in to it, and only then did it last for only about twenty seconds before fading back off in to its usual state. Becoming an aura had even lost its spark of pain, coming as just a natural wash of unevenness. It was peculiar, but Delmaria appreciated it's submissiveness by now; he would rather have a predictable blade than one mad with power.

He tucked the sword back within the recesses of his belt, double-checked his body one final time, and stepped back out in to the hallway, closing the door to his room for the final time in what he hoped would be a long time. Walking back down the stairs to the tavern he noticed that everything had become hushed - the rush of the crowd had stopped, the roar had muffled down to a stiff silence. The men and women of the pirate army had finished packing up their belongings and necessities, and now that this routine was complete they finally looked for security and direction in their captain, who was equally hummed and mystified. No matter how great the crew, without one who will be there to guide them, they would only be as unified as the bitterest rivalry among them - yet at the same time, no matter how great the captain, without an equally matched crew he is equally as useless. Two sides of the same coin now waiting to be joined, and neither of them knew who would go forward first.

Though, it was evident that this ultimately came down under the jurisdiction of Delmaria. He reached in to his coat and pulled out the crinkled piece of paper that Ramona had slipped to him, the scent of her dark, purple perfume still lingering on its edges. Descending down the staircase his foremost crew members took their hats off and rested them against their chest, a formality that he despised. When he found himself in service of the French, Porc demanded that his 'inferiors' (in retrospect, everybody) remove their hats, a practice which Delmaria himself found extremely degrading. He glared at them until they put their hats back on their heads, and he rolled his eyes at the giggle of one of his veteran pirates, who knew that he despised such a motion. He unraveled the paper and began walking around in a waverly way to show his focus on the paper, before turning up and explaining their destination to the crew.

Rott and his allies had commandeered an area out in the far reaches of Tortuga known as Raphael's Vineyard, a place known only to the long-time citizens of Tortuga, and avid wine collectors. Hidden far enough in to the island to not be known by anybody who did not intend to do any serious journeying, where one would expect to find a large jungle in a large expanse of flat land in between an expanse of foothills instead found to their surprise an extremely wide and far vineyard, rows of grapes extending farther than one could ever expect. To those who have ever been to the place, they describe it as though they are not on Tortuga at all, as a mixture between fantasy, mystery, and horror. The journey would take roughly two to three days, and Delmaria made it clear they were "in no rush" as he smile deviously in concern to Dedman's deteriorating condition.

What concerned Delmaria most for the time being was not Rott, nor keeping Jeremiah alive, but instead their journey towards the vineyard. Knowing Rott, it could only be a scheme against their lives, the second them stepping out of the tavern their caravan being ambushed in the streets of Tortuga. That, or the people of Tortuga would turn against them out of sacrifice in honor of Dedman or Rott, leading to a massacre right in the middle of the town. It unfolded in Delmaria's mind; first one man would run at them only before being shot down right where he stood, resulting in a wave of angered civilians that would overrun them like a mad pack of deranged wolves. Delmaria made it clear to all of the soldiers that they were to keep their muskets as tight to their chests as possible, and not be afraid to shoot any person that step too close in to their path, to which they all reluctantly accepted.

Though Delmaria had overcompensated in thought. As they stepped out of the tavern, the entire crew assembled in to one giant cluster around Jeremiah, not many in the square seemed to even turn their head. To the Tortugans, what pertained to them was only what was current; currently, the hot topic of discussion was of a captain who had somehow managed to crash his ship in to the far side of Devil's Anvil in broad daylight, killing his entire crew in one foul swoop. Delmaria had done a good job at making the Caribbean lose interest in Jeremiah, because that was precisely what had happened - it had passed, and they had stopped caring.

The militia made their way out through the back gates of Tortuga without so much a flicker of concern. They pushed themselves along the main dirt road that cut out from the town, growing narrower and more hidden as they progressed, and the sounds and sights of Tortuga drifted off in the back distance. They were once again alone in their own journey.

And loneliness is what their journey was. For hours on end they trekked through the jungles of Tortuga, their minds set on their single destination of the vineyard. From Tortuga the jungles progressively became more and more narrow, the tree tops becoming denser overhead and the tree trunks and roots cutting over their paths. They would have to cut through the foothills if they wanted to reach the vineyard, which was something Delmaria would not look forward to considering they would have to haul their men, their equipment, Jeremiah, and the half-handicapped Father Molony, who seemed surprisingly youthful as he tried to keep at the head of the pack. The men of the group would continuously give Molony their shares of water and food, to which Delmaria gave them a stern eye in return; he felt that it was unfair that just because a friar had joined them, on his own accord, that he should get special treatment over the rest of his crew. He wasn't going to say anything, though - not yet.

A major concern of Delmaria's was if his crew would be safe along the road, especially at night. Raphael's Vineyard was abandoned due to large groups of looters and gangsters that would sit along the outskirts of the road, waiting for a caravan of fresh wine to pass along at night so they could swoop in to kill off it's passengers. Of course Delmaria would have numbers on his side, but he knew that his entire bargain with Rott relied on Jeremiah's survival until they at least reached the vineyard.

And then, of course, there was the possibility that Rott himself would try to compromise their mission. For all he knew, the Casa de Muertos would simply wait for them along the trail, picking off their crew in the wilderness and leaving them to die and decompose. The crew received minimal sleep, only just enough to keep them on their feet. Delmaria himself did not sleep at all, continuously scanning the jungle, waiting. He knew Rott was out there, waiting, too.

It was by the dusk of the second day that Delmaria's convoy finally reached their destination. A warm, scarlet blanket was slowly being pulled back over the horizon to reveal a bright, shining blue sky hidden behind the tree tops of the forest. The air was clear and fresh, not a single drop of humidity as the crew of early birds skidding gingerly down the side of the hill they had camped on that night. They had reached the end of the foothills, now making a swift descent down the side of the cap, densely covered in greenery. It was a surprise to not only Delmaria, but his crew when they stepped out in to the bright sunlight - and there, before them, was their destination.

Across a very short opening of land, a small curved patch of sand and dirt before it's landscape, the wide vineyard unfolded right in front of them, it's row's perpendicular before them and neat enough to allow them to see straight down the long, long aisles of the farm. The earth curved slightly downward as the tall grape vines progressed, and then steadily curved up in the far distance until it met the forest again, which surrounded it on all sides. The vineyard had to have been at least half a mile long down it's aisles, and three fourths of a mile across, confined only by the trees that loomed directly at it's borders.

While the crew admired the tall grape plants, Delmaria was far more interested in the image off in the background; or, moreover, the lack of a background. Though the vineyard was tall, wide and plentiful, and the forest's border was great and surrounding, there was no noticeable sign of humanity hidden anywhere over the background. But he knew that something was out there.

As he stepped down towards the vineyard he heard the yell and scream of a few shouts come out before him, and he tilted his head up to see some of his pirates surrounded over a single point in the ground as more of them ran forward to aid in their struggle. He could see in the patches of space between them that they were fighting to subdue something, and as he drew closer he saw them leaning over a man, trying to pick him up and cut his throat.

Delmaria stepped forward and pushed the pirates aside, dropping the man down to the ground. He was a tall, scrawny man with a ratty looking face, draped in brown, red and purple linens washed out of their original color. He coughed roughly as he gripped his unshaven neck, which had a small cut where one of his pirates had attempted to slit his throat. Delmaria took his boot and planted it square on the man's chest, pushing down with his weight as he demanded "Do you work for Rott?"

He tried to cough out "I work for no man," but he was cut off half sentence as Delmaria gave a jolt of his pressure. "Do you work for Rott, or not?" Delmaria demanded again.

The man patted his hand on his chest in a swerving motion, like he was trying to rub out the pain. "YES, I work for him!" he cried out as he tried to make his chest more comfortable.

Delmaria let his foot off the man's chest as he patted a patch of dirt off of his boot. "So what did he send you for? To try and stop us?"

The man shook his head, closing his eyes and rubbing his neck again in pain. "He wants me to take you too 'em!"

1

September 8th, 1725
Raphael's Vineyard, Tortuga
6:45 PM

It seemed as though they were walking through an illusion as they continued down the long aisles of the vineyard, the tall bushes lined at their sides and the the wide, expansive skies panning over their heads. The stars started to poke through the orange-pink hue of the twilight as the dark blue began to seep in to the sky like an ink. The sky reminded Delmaria of when he would sit out on the hills overlooking his hometown every spring evening with the old, wrinkled books his father would bring home to him and sit there, under the lights, wishing he too could bottle up the beauty that lingered over him. The twilight was perhaps his favorite moment of the day because he found in it the past, the present, and the future; the closing of an old day, but just before the brink of the new. It was bleak, but it was hopeful.

Rott's henchman would only allow Delmaria to come with him, but under the generality of force he was persuaded to allow Delmaria to bring two body guards with him. The man also stated how Ezekiel wanted Jeremiah to be brought along, but Delmaria saw that as unnecessary; bringing the ransom in to enemy territory would only lead to his own demise. Instead the stonewall was being lead down the lanes of grapevines, which expanded down a distance much farther than he had anticipated. To keep himself entertained he would pick out a few of the grapes along the way, plump and still unwashed, and toss them in to his mouth. They weren't as strong tasting as Delmaria would have liked, but he figured that was the price of eating fruit from a patch years unkempt and left to the mercy of the seasons.

The only thing Delmaria was concerned about, however, was Rott. He almost shook in anger at the thought of having to speak with him, but it would have to be done unless things were to be taken out of hand. It was either torture himself with a conversation or torture thousands of others through a war in the Caribbean; he could easily go without either, but it was evident which one he felt he should choose. He only hoped that Rott would be open-minded, because Delmaria was not prepared to be walked over - and when two walls collide, the result is often disastrous.

"How much farther until we reach him?" Delmaria persisted, trying to look over the guide's shoulder to find a hint of humanity. He could see some lights at the end of the aisle off in the distance, but he wasn't to be too sure.

"Them." The guide corrected, continuing without a followup.

"Them? Who is 'Them?'" Delmaria harked, but the guide didn't say anything further, instead focusing on moving forward to the end of the grapevines. Delmaria could feel his muscles tense, and he found security in letting his hand slip to the hilt of his cutlass.

The change in atmosphere was almost palpable as Delmaria's boots stepped from the crinkled, dried grass on to a hard patch of dirt, the grapevines cutting off just at his side. Before him sat a small clearing of blank dirt, surrounded by the ends of a few other sections of grapes that cut in to the forest later than his. It was littered by tables, chairs, bowls, and crates, and directly twenty feet from where he stood, the flaps to a small, enclosed tent sat, akin to a general's camp right before they plunged in to battle.

Delmaria was horrified, however, by who surrounded him. Laying and walking about the camp had to have been at least seventy pirates, both male and female, dressed just as ratty and dirty as the guide who had brought him here, which was a far larger number than the some-odd seven men who consisted of the Casa de Muertos Guild. They all had devilishness looks on their face, as if they were eager to jump and kill at one another if it meant they would be able to rise through the ranks. They seemed to be underfed, and there were scares across the entirety of their bodies. The worst part, however, was that they all seemed like chillingly memorable faces to Delmaria, like he had seen them every day of his life, but never known their names; waywards from bars, revelers in the streets, and just average layabouts now turned against him, ever though they had never met.

Delmaria slowly trudged forward, towards the tent, as he felt the legions of eyes turn on him. The murmurs became silent whispers changed in between the groups of pirates, staring down ominously at Darkskull. He kept his posture upright and firm, not giving them any sort of idea of weakness. As far as they were concerned, he could care less of their presence, though in his mind they did. He proceeded through the small flap of leather that acted as the door to the tent by himself, closing off the world behind him.

A lingering smell of dank, dirty musk lifted to Delmaria's nose as he stepped inside, his feet transferring from a hard dirt floor to a soft, felt carpet. For the most part, the interior of the tent was bare, consumed by the darkness save for a single candle that sat in the middle of a rectangular wooden table, lined with all sorts of plates filled with fish, crabs, pork, vegetables, and overall a banquet fit for a king - or moreover, a glutton. Rott sat deviantly behind it, picking the meat off of a leg of chicken and shoving it in to his grey-bearded mouth as he looked up to see Delmaria standing there, watching him in disgust. He smiled a dirty, greasy smile, and threw the bone on to his plate.

"No, go ahead, continue eating. I find it to be a good hobby of mine." Delmaria sighed sarcastically.

"There's the humor I've missed hearing." Rott smiled, propping his feet up on the table. He motioned to the chair adjacent from him.

As Delmaria graciously took his seat he continued speaking. "Can you explain to me how you sleep at night as you sit in here like a king, while your crew swims in their own filth and sorrow?"

"Ah, so you took in to account my crew?" Rott played with an apple in between his hands. "I'm sure y-"

"Don't change the subject." Delmaria cut him off harshly.

Ezekiel rolled his eyes at Darkskull. "I assure you, they are more than happy with their situation. If they weren't they wouldn't be here, would they?"

"Maybe they're just too afraid to leave."

"Nonsense. My pirates have come here on their own free will, and are free to leave on their own free will as such. If they are unhappy with their situation and refuse to leave then they own it to their own ignorance." Rott slipped his teeth in to a side of the apple and bit extremely loud, chewing away like a donkey.

"There's a difference between choosing not to act out of stupidity, not acting out of fear, and not acting out of brainwashing. While I would not rule out the first of these possibilities for listening to you in the first place this doesn't mean your crew hasn't succumbed to the latter two."

"Why should they live in fear? I give them protection and a place to be. As for brainwashing, I've said it once and I'll say it again, they come on their own accord. If they freeze themselves here it is their own fault."

"You justify your means by definitions and books, not by a perception of humanity." Delmaria sat upright in his chair, and smirked. "Though I suppose you could use the same reasoning as to the time when my crew cornered you on Padres and beat you out of your senses a few years ago."

Rott let the apple roll out of his hand and on to the table. "I'm glad to see you won't stop meddling in the past."

"I wouldn't be the same person if I didn't." Delmaria gave him a little smile.

"Damn right you wouldn't." Rott leaned in over the table and grabbed a piece of pork from the table, plopping it in his lap. "So tell me, Delmaria, how have things been going for you these past few months?"

"Better than expected. And I already know how you've been having it."

"Oh but you don't." Rott slipped piece after piece off of the slab of meat and in to his mouth with his dark, jewel encrusted fingers. "Even though the surface may be ridden in my own defeat, which I will except, I have been growing stronger below it."

"I very much doubt seventy men will allow you to control the Caribbean."

"But if I already had it on the edge with just ten, what am I capable of sevenfold?"

Delmaria fell silent. As much as he did not want to admit it, Rott was still a strong person, and with his unhealthy growth in numbers he only became more of a threat. He sighed, and changed the subject slightly. "What do you want, Rott?"

Rott slide back in his chair. "You can imagine I haven't had much organization over the past few years. The Brethren think because of this they own the Caribbean, but they are much farther from that goal than they could possibly imagine. All I want is to make it evident that our side of the battle is not dead."

"And to do so you are willing to terrorize as many innocent lives as possible?"

"That's the name of the game. Haven't you played it before?"

"I have." Delmaria began to stand up. "But I pride myself in knowing I don't anymore."

As Delmaria turned around and began to walk out of the tent, Rott called from behind him. "You know you'll never be able to kill me, Delmaria."

"I may not be able to kill you, but I can cut off your head. Sleep with one eye open, Rott."

"You too, my friend." Rott smiled, watching as Delmaria slipped through the flap in the tent. "Let the fun begin!"