The Vileness of Man: Mission Eight – Smoke and Long Shadows
The remainder of Corvo's voyage was enjoyable and rather mellow. Most of the crew was busy cleaning up the remnants of wooden shards and pieces of tattered sail the wind had littered over the upper deck, or making repairs to the broken spar that had been ripped apart by lightning. The lack of a main sail greatly decreased the ship's overall speed, but the trans-powered engine had kicked in to give the vessel a much needed boost, and the pungent aroma of whale-oil hovered in the air. Corvo had receded back into the dank hold and, under the request of the sailor whom he had saved, enjoyed a drink in the galley. The seaman's name was Simons, though most of the crew now referred to him as "Sparky" for apparently conducting the lightning during the storm. He had been so enthusiastic about his rescue and the fact that he was still alive that he had told the nobleman all about his life, from early childhood all the way to that very day. It seemed like Sparky never knew when to settle down, and it became obvious his newfound nickname was also attributed to the sheer amount of energy this man possessed. Corvo was forced to endure the entirety of the sailor's long-winded monologue for fear of seeming rude, and though he didn't actually pay attention to most of the man's words, every time Simons would stop to catch his breath or take another swig of ale, the ex-Lord Protector would give a small nod in belated acknowledgement to whatever had been spoken.
Shockingly enough, not once did Simons ask Corvo about how he had managed to save him from certain death by appearing out of thin air. Perhaps he didn't want to know, or didn't care to. It could have also been possible that he figured it out on his own, and didn't feel like ruining his luck of having one of the Outsider's chosen gracing their ship. Sailors are superstitious men, and many believed heavily in the Outsider and respected the god's capricious nature. They carried bone charms in their pockets or carved runes and wore them around their necks to beg the deity for calm winds, or as trinkets to ward off the evil creatures of the watery depths. Even their ship was named the Albatross as an omen of good luck, further exemplifying the irrationalities these men harbored as an aspect of their culture. Corvo wasn't one to judge though, he had lugged around a human heart under advisement from the trickster god in an effort to expand upon his powers. It wasn't until half way through his masked expedition that he realized it was Jessamine's heart, which had caused him to think more maliciously towards the Outsider as he was sickened with the thought of her soul being forever trapped in this realm. After Emily was crowned, Corvo had begged the divine being to release her spirit from the Void—one of the few times he actually prayed to his ambiguous god. The Outsider had begrudgingly accepted his plaything's request after cautioning him that mastering his gift would be much more difficult without the heart's assistance, and stating that Corvo was "becoming less and less interesting everyday [he] was without [his] mask".
Their ship reached the port of Cullero about an hour before sundown, slightly earlier than Corvo had previously predicted. Though despite the setting sun, the air was still very warm; a nice change from the biting cold nights Gristol had to offer. After gathering his few possessions and personally thanking the captain for allowing him passage (despite being practically forced aboard), the nobleman set off into the crowded harbor, a sense of ignominy evident in his gate. Returning to his homeland wasn't as spectacular as he had hoped for, though this was probably attributed to the circumstances surrounding his arrival. It wasn't as if he was on vacation. He had sent himself into exile under the pretense of resignation to elude the Abbey of the Everyman's grasp. And that fact haunted him as he stared out into the throng of people, his people and their carefree way of living, with a scowl furrowing his rugged features. Everywhere life was thriving, despite the dwindling daylight. Rugged dock workers finished loading ships of various calibers with Serkonan exports, such as spices, olives, fabric, and wine, their hands callused from the coarse fibers of rope pulleys. Merchants ushered in crowds to attempt to sell off what little goods they had left from their farms, their rich voices raving how their prices were the best in the market. The pungent smell of freshly caught fish mingled loosely with the sharp scent of peppers and herbs sold at other stands, and their lingering aroma caused Corvo's mouth to involuntarily salivate.
Children laughed and chased stray mutts down the cobblestone streets, their blithe radiating an aura of cheerfulness. Withered old men sat outside of the serene corner cafes and played their life-long rivals in a calm game of checkers as they earnestly sipped on crimson wine and discussed the rising prices of wheat, the struggle to find good pimentos and other mild peppers now that the Gristolians wanted their hands on anything Serkonan, and other various simplicities of life. Besides the street lamps and interior lighting of cafes and restaurants, this rustic scenery was barren of the industrialization whale-oil had to offer, and the romance of these simpletons effectively slowed time. Men did not sample the bitterness of alcohol to soothe their difficulties or uplift their distressed spirits, but instead to enjoy its robust flavors, sipping slowly rather than taking large swigs. The murmurs of the rat plague clearing in Dunwall only touched the tongues of few, and the ignorance and lightheartedness of the speech of these gossiping fisherman's wives made it seem as if those horrid events were from an entirely different reality.
And yet this is not to say that "the jewel of the South" was free from its troubles, only that they were from a lighter shade of gray. Huddled down alleyways, one could spot troubled men throwing dice and gambling away the little coin they had made working the docks, or street rats studying their next large pocketed target. Salty corsairs lurked in shadowy alcoves, eyeing fishermen as they discreetly slipped bales of tobacco onto their unimportant boats. Unsavory women whispered in the ears of seemingly respectable constables, and their sensual words and trade loosened the purse strings of even the most dignified of men. Elderly gents crudely complained about the greed of the Trincis, and how they wished to revolutionize their hold with foreign advances that would most certainly uproot the allure and serenity of their culture. "Look at what their 'technology' has brought to Gristol," they remarked, "Plague and chaos, and yet the king rather lie in bed with those prudes and fill his pockets with more of our coin then uphold our traditions." People from all classes of life, from nobleman to street ruffian, from crying babe to wise old man, were gathered within this port, their rich olive skin and exotic Serkonan accents tickling Corvo's ears with their repressed familiarity as he witnessed the color of these events.
As the Lord Protector wandered up the wooden pier, observing the buoyant life, he scanned the area for the transport he would use to get to his brother's estate, which was located about an hour outside of Cullero. The distance was far too expansive to physically traverse and the sun would be setting fairly soon. He had opted to travel to his sibling's homestead rather than his father's villa for many reasons, but the main deciding factor was that his brother's was much closer and it would have taken him a few extra days to arrive at his parent's manor near the capital city if he had elected to go there instead. That, and he didn't really want to meet his newest step-mother, whomever she might be, for his father tended to remarry as often as he would change a pair of socks, and the anxiety of being forced to learn of his newest step-siblings and pretend to be joyful for his family's newest addition was not an emotion Corvo thought he could effectively fake with all the current turmoil looming over his character.
Serkonos was stubbornly primitive when it came to the utilization of Esmond Roseburrow's technology. The heavy metal rail cars owned by the elites of Dunwall were nonexistent everywhere in this Isle outside of its capital city, and no inner-city trains provided convenient transport for their citizens. As such, members of the working class, like well-off farmers and prominent stand merchants utilized more primitive, locally manufactured transportation methods to carry their goods, though were still powered by Gristol's patented whale oil batteries. They were made nearly entirely out of wood, a hazardous combination with the volatile liquid, and were open topped. The battery would latch onto the front with a magnetic attractor (which also doubled as a headlamp in the dark) and was steered with a tiller and simplistic brake lever. Streets lacked rails on which it could run and so they instead used large, wooden carriage wheels from the days where animals once pulled their carts, a sight which still could be seen in more rural villages. It took Corvo only moments to spot one of these vehicles, as a farmer precariously stacked cages of his prized chickens into the back of his motorized wooden cart. At first it was strange to look at, with its elongated bed for storing cargo and scrunched front which could only fit the driver, much different than the luxurious rail cars the once Royal Protector had become accustomed to traveling in alongside his empress. Nevertheless, it would serve his purposes, and so he approached the man, chest puffed outwards and hands held behind his back in a dignified manner.
"Excuse me, sir. May I ask where you raise such a fine array of poultry?" Corvo pleasantly complimented, giving a small smile to the gruff and grimy farmer. Pleasantries were always a good way to start when attempting to ask favors from strangers.
At the sound of Corvo's inquiry, the man set down his current caged fowl and turned, acknowledging his words. He was extremely tanned and bore prominent features, most astonishing of which was the bulbous mound of flesh that dared form his nose. Large wouldn't accurately describe the beak of this man. It was no wonder he raised chickens, for his nose was on par with the fattest hen thrashing wildly in its cage. Away from his face though, he was covered in random dirt and bird droppings soiled his plain clothing. The only part of his body that was relatively clean was his face, but then again that was hard to look because of the sheer wall partitioning his tiny eyes. "Eh? They're a' local. I gotta farm south of here, a little ways outside the city," he responded, his accent romantically rolling his words and causing them to eloquently bounce with a refined simplicity.
To prevent his shocked expression from curtailing their conversation, Corvo quickly averted his gaze to the fowls in the back of the man's cart, and continued to skirt around his question through flattery, "They're beautiful, and healthy-looking. South you say? My destination is also south. Perhaps I could employ your transport to aid my journey. I seek the Attan—"
"No, no, no! I don't gotta time to coddle you fancy foreigners," the farmer quickly cut off with an almost self-righteous scoff, and returned to packing away his goods.
Foreigner? Corvo was no foreigner. He had been born outside Karnaca, raised on its sandy beaches, and grew up under the warm embrace of its sun. Had his accent truly faded that much from his twenty-odd years away from his homeland, and tanned flesh washed away and paled with Gristol's constant rain and cold winters? The remark came as a shock to the typically resolute man, and its weight felt like a dagger puncturing his chest. Needless to say, his next words did not carry the same enthusiasm as before, and his gentility suffered greatly, "I'm not asking you to. Our destinations are on the same route. If you would just be so kind as to alleviate some of my—"
"Answer's a' same. Good day," the farmer cut off once more, and climbed into his carriage.
"100 coin!" the nobleman yelled, latching onto his belt pouch to assure its fullness, "That's more than you'd make on your best day."
The man robustly laughed at the snarky insult, pleasantly surprised with the gusto his dignified acquaintance displayed. However, such a particular sum was not something to turn down lightly, especially when there was little effort to be done on his part. That didn't mean he wasn't about to haggle though, for what type of merchant would he be if he did not hold out for the best deal? "You doubt the speed of my fine buggy! 150."
Fine buggy indeed…Corvo's eye grimly twitched as he struggled to maintain his air of refinement. This was robbery, and yet where else was a "foreigner" like him going to find another manner of transportation so late into the evening? Surely he would have to rent a room and wait for tomorrow to restart his search, something that would frustrate the noble more than losing a bit of coin. And so he obliged, with a circumstance of course, "You have a deal, but only if you take me to the door of the estate."
"You have ta' sit with the chickens…"
"I have no quarrel with that."
Corvo reminisced later that perhaps he might have quarreled had he known what a cramped and uncomfortable position the chickens would put him in. He managed to wriggle himself between two pillars of caged birds, which squawked loudly and flapped violently as they shifted about. The stench of feces, corn, and dirt, accompanied with the noxious fumes the whale-oil smoke rolling from the cart's exhaust made for a dreadful atmosphere as he sat on the tailgate of the wagon, feet dangling over the edge and occasionally scraping a protruding rock. The more inquisitive fowl pecked at him with curiosity, pulling strands of hair into their beaks and shedding wet feathers onto his coat. Although the stench and annoyance of the poultry along with the cramped niche he had forced himself into caused for an unpleasant experience, it reminded Corvo of his youth, chasing stray chickens about his father's villa with his brothers and herding them back into their pens. They seemed much nicer back then (the chickens, not his brothers); however he had never been surrounded by such large a flock before. The ride took an exasperatingly long hour, and the constant bumping of the road and poultry plucking at his clothing had forced the exhausted noble to stay awake during the entire trip. The farmer hadn't said much to him since the market, only asking for few general directions and the name of the estate of which he was heading to.
The Attano name was fairly unknown outside of the capital city of Karnaca. His family was very militaristic, but not esteemed enough to produce generals or fleet admirals. No, they were the type of family that made good lieutenants and captains, and the best swordsmen across Isle. Every male in their family held a sword by the time they could walk and was destined to succeed in the imperial military, under scrutiny of abandonment. Noblemen and princes traveled from their castles to train under his father's guidance, and even Aeton Trinci VI had learned the deadly art alongside Corvo and his brothers, though the young prince had rather dabbled in menial seafaring hobbies than attend to his training. What they lacked in exorbitant wealth and title, they made up for in reputation and esteem, so much though that Corvo had been handpicked by the king himself as a diplomatic gift to the empire, to be the first outsider to bear the title of Royal Protector. They were a proud and large family, though this reverence had since become tarnished with the dishonor the accusation of Jessamine's assassination had carried. News circulated the other Isles much slower than in Gristol, and still much resentment was attributed to Corvo's name from imperial loyalists who refused to acknowledge his publically pronounced innocence. However, this separation between the holds worked both ways. It was thankful that Serkonos wasn't actually apart of Gristol because of their mostly autonomous monarchy. It wasn't their queen whom the Lord Protector was charged with killing, and as such their hatred wasn't as deep-seated as Dunwall's.
Corvo's brother's estate was located just off the main route headed south from Cullero. Large wrought-iron gates stood ajar at the entrance to the massive two-story manor, and cypress trees lined the entrenched dirt path leading up to the main house. The structure was the epitome of the rustic romance Serkonan architecture had to offer, with its white stucco exterior and red clay shingles adorning the roof. Grand, circular towers protruded from the estate's sides, and large windows and open balconies furthered its lavish atmosphere. Gardens and fountains interrupted the emerald landscape, and oleander shrubs towered beside the main door's terracotta terrace. As agreed, the chicken farmer pulled his wagon up to the entryway and dropped off its esteemed passenger, and was given the promised amount of coin for his trouble. Despite the discomfort of his transport, the bumpy ride was still better than the harsh swaying of any ship, and the peaceful route had brought a sense of tranquility to the distressed noble. With a final blast of oily smoke, the farmer's rig pulled away, leaving behind a rumpled and dirty Lord Protector, the setting sun casting a long shadow behind his silhouetted form.
Not very action-packed in comparison to the last chapter, but it was needed. Serkonos was hardly talked about in-game and it was in desperate need of some dimension. I see it as a very rustic and romantic blend of Mediterranean cultures, and mostly untouched by Roseburrow's Industrial Revolution. A big thanks to Anime Borat who has been helping me set up this scenery, and Futile Crux, my beta reader. As always, review!