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Rosa “La Serpiente” Delgado’s Private Journal.
Considering how invasive Francis’ dreams were, Advancement Rituals proved strangely anticlimactic.
There was no whispering past the initial one, no ringing, nothing.
Just darkness.
For hours on end.
Not that the fugitive knew it had been hours. He simply came to such a deduction after his eyes opened to a dark, cold ocean.
Nevertheless, there was a change. Subtly, yes, but he was no longer the same man.
Not long ago, swimming wasn’t an activity he relished, even when the risk of hypothermia was nullified by his “gifts.”
As he swam to the shore of Havana, however, he felt his muscles vitalized by the water. It even made him want to stay engulfed in the vast expanse of blue forever.
Alas, duty called, and so he continued ahead.
This time, Francis made sure to avoid the more populated parts of the coast, lest he found himself swimming in sewage. The only reason he had approached them earlier was desperation. Now that he was a Deacon, such actions were bound to be a thing of the past.
Or at least, that was the plan.
Thankfully, Cuba was no micro-island, allowing him to surface wherever he pleased.
Of course, the plan was to emerge in the countryside, but that was a price he was willing to pay.
After all, taking a carriage for a day or two was far preferable to fighting an Inquisitor.
Preferable is an understatement, if my last fight is anything to go by.
Sadly, thinking about the Inquisitor instantly reminded Francis of his recent failure.
He knew that both their intel and strength far overshadowed his own. But was there truly no other choice?
Was causing a scene the instant he boarded the ship the better choice? It might have cost the lives of a few, true, but was their current fate any better?
Additionally, the incident wasn’t without precedent. Orange Town had already witnessed as much.
I hope my crewmates are still alive.
Perhaps pondering diluted his sense of time. But by the time he let go of those thoughts, he was already on shore.
And mercifully, it was desolate.
Havana’s light shone in the distance, further indicating he was in the city’s outskirts.
Instinctively, the fugitive began analyzing his surroundings and found a town not far off the coast.
He could head back to Havana on foot, naturally, but explaining his ragged state to the guards stationed near the gates would be a nightmare.
And so he approached the town.
The hour couldn’t possibly have been past seven. Yet, no villagers were to be seen.
Francis thoroughly surveyed the streets, houses, and even the market. All were dark regardless.
One building wasn’t, however, instantly drawing his attention.
The structure wasn’t much different from the one in his hometown, instantly marking it as a chapel.
The scene was strangely comforting. Francis couldn’t help but feel nostalgic. The chapel reminded him of the place he once held most dear.
A place that exiled him through no fault of his own.
Then again. Did they know better?
As much as being ostracized pained him, he genuinely understood its source. After all, dealing with his kind was a near-daily occurrence.
An occurrence that left bodies most of the time.
As the hymns drifted from the chapel, Francis was tempted to enter. He refrained, however, as his sorry state was bound to attract unwanted attention.
I can use my new Stanza.
The idea swiftly proved moronic, however. The Apostolic See would come knocking the moment they feel such a ripple.
Especially when it was that of a Deacon.
Left with no choice, Francis simply stood outside, until the townsfolk began exiting the building.
His tattered attire was hard to explain regardless, but his persuasion skills were adequate enough.
Hoping for the best, Francis approached the villagers and was instantly noticed.
“Good evening,” a villager said, not oblivious to his look.
“Good evening,” Francis replied.
“Are you alright, friend?”
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No. I’m not.
“My ship sank near the coast,” Francis explained. “Not sure how I survived, but I’m glad.”
The scene quickly drew attention, with a few villagers even joining the conversation.
“You don’t happen to be one of those outlaws, do you?” one of them asked, shockingly blunt.
“No!” Francis replied, feigning disgust. “I’d rather drown than board a pirate ship.”
The reply appeared to please the townsfolk, with some even laughing.
“Good,” the first man said. “The Lord knows we dealt with enough of those.”
The Lord?
It escaped Francis’ attention before. But one would’ve expected the people living near Havana to worship the new gods. Yet here they were, as orthodox as the people back home.
Then again, one didn’t gain new followers by holding powers akin to sorcery. Powers that never served the common good.
Until now, anyway.
“I was actually on my way to leave Havana,” Francis added. “But fate has different plans for me, it seems.”
“Well said,” an older man replied. “Nothing is by chance.”
That statement would’ve seemed foolish to Francis not long ago. But he saw firsthand how his life was treated like a chessboard.
Of course, it could also be a simple series of unfortunate events. But one would expect misfortune to end if that were the case.
No. He was a pawn. He just had to leverage the next move.
Again and again.
“Anyway,” the older man said. “Our town had an inn if you’re interested in staying for the night.”
He was. He absolutely was.
One simply didn’t show up at Havana’s gates at night hours after their authorities fought the infamous “Yves Saint Agnes.”
Most would’ve considered keeping the pirate captain’s body shortsighted. But Francis knew better. The size difference between them was staggering, leaving Francis with little choice. Clothes, after all, didn’t grow on trees.
Good luck explaining why you’re shirtless and wearing pants thrice your size.
“Would you mind if I bought fresh attire?” Francis asked, feigning humility.
“Of course not!” the first villager said. “We would appreciate it, actually.”
“Then we’re on the same page,” Francis replied, smile genuine for once.
He had escaped the Church’s grasp after all.
Now his only objective was staying undetected.
At least until he graces Havana with his presence once more.
***
As much as Francis wanted to sleep, the town’s remoteness offered a great opportunity to explore for once.
From the moment he set foot on Havana’s soil, the fugitive barely had time to appreciate his surroundings. He surveyed most intricacies, true, but it was never about leisure.
What lay outside his modest room might not have been the metropolis he grew accustomed to, but one had to start somewhere.
And so he put on his new coat and opened the door.
The moment he did so, his nostrils were assaulted by the smell of ale. One would’ve expected a modest town to barely have any festivities. But if his birthplace was any indication, a small population never stopped anyone.
As Francis reached the ground floor, he expected the villagers to eye him with suspicion, even malice. Yet there they were, looking as amiable as lifelong friends.
“Would you like to sit with us, friend?” a random villager asked, undoubtedly seeking to fill the evening with interesting tales.
Makes the two of us, I suppose.
“Sure,” Francis replied with a shrug, before approaching the table.
The three men made space for him, eyes essentially glowing with anticipation.
Francis took a look at the rest of the tavern, and sure enough, the lot were equally as curious. The treatment was certainly a far cry from what he received in Havana, but there were no complaints to be had.
“Tell me,” the man from before said. “How is life at sea like?”
Francis wanted to invent a story or two, but there was no need to.
Not when land was far more compelling.
“To tell you the truth,” Francis began. “I only sailed once.”
“Nonsense!” a second man said. “You don’t strike me as a Havana native.”
“I’m not,” Francis admitted. “I only came here recently.”
His words were undoubtedly intriguing, a conclusion he reached when gazes only lingered.
“Tiago!” the third shouted. “Bring our guest a drink.”
“Are you paying for it?” Tiago replied flatly.
“I’ll handle it,” Francis reassured the bartender. A gesture that seemingly offended the lot.
“No, you won’t,” the first man said. “You’re our guest. It’s our treat.”
If only you were as generous when it came to the room and clothes.
Moments later, the man named Tiago brought a wooden mug that was filled to the brim. “There you go.”
“Actually,” Francis replied in haste. “I’m interested in local cuisine.”
Tiago raised a brow at that. “Your first time in Havana, I take it?”
“Indeed,” Francis confirmed. “Most of what I ate here was foreign dishes.”
“I bet you did,” Tiago replied, before handing him a parchment containing what the establishment offered.
Was he carrying that the whole time?
Francis wished to read the paper, but his company seemed too restless, so he postponed it. “So. What would you like to know?”
“You don’t sound Iberian,” one of the men said, standing on no ceremony. “Where are you originally from?”
“I am, actually,” Francis replied in his odd accent. “I just speak multiple languages.”
The group looked at one another, curiosity renewed.
“French and English, I take it?” one of them asked.
“Indeed,” Francis confirmed in amusement. “Aren’t you sharp?”
“I can recognize that accent anywhere!” the man said, voice full of pride. “You pronounce your Rs and Ls like an Englishman.”
“What about French, then?”
“I don’t know how to explain it,” the man admitted. “But I spoke to a few Frenchmen to know.”
The conversation drew Francis’ attention to Havana’s diversity. His time in Orange Town made him assume that most Caribbean cities were predominantly Iberian. Yet the capital proved far from the case.
Then again, a superpower didn’t remain such by being isolationist.
Or at least, that’s what the books claimed.
“What about the city?” the second man interrupted his pondering. “Did you encounter any gangs there?”
The question was… a curious one. “They’re that infamous?”
“Please,” one of the men snorted. “Why do you think we’re still living here?”
“Yeah,” Francis replied, hoping that wasn’t rhetorical. “Why are you living in a remote village kilometers away from Havana?”
“Because I’d rather hang myself than see my sons and daughters grow up to be thieves and harlots,” the man replied, before the lot burst out laughing.
Interesting humor.
The veneer of jest hid a deeper truth, however. Iberia’s capital was not the safest. A fact Francis discovered the hard way, as he found himself in the middle of a gang fight on his first night there.
The words put another thing into perspective. The only reason why he survived for as long as he did was his Acolyte status, or rather, a near Deacon who was armed to the teeth.
Had he been a regular person, however? He would’ve bit the dust the moment those goons spotted him.
Nevertheless, the fugitive could spend an entire evening recalling his near-death experiences. And so he refrained from humoring such thoughts further.
“You’re right,” Francis spoke at last. “It was as dangerous as they came. I almost died multiple times, actually.”
“Did you see any sorcerers?” one of the men asked.
“Sorcerers?” Francis blinked, not believing his ears.
“Yeah. Folks who use magic and such,” the man explained, undoubtedly proud of his vast knowledge.
Is he talking about Submerged?
“I did, yeah,” Francis replied. “I saw this fellow shooting lightning from his fingertips.”
The words only served to grow the town’s anticipation, as the table was now surrounded by half a dozen.
“What happened next?” one of them asked.
“I thought I was going to die when he spotted me,” Francis replied, sticking to half-truths. “But then some fellow shot him in the head and ran away.”
He expected morbid curiosity at best, and disgust at worst.
Instead, the lot cheered.
“Burn in Gehenna, witch!” some of them shouted, while others gulped their drinks with renewed fervor.
If only they knew that the person speaking was a Deacon of Dominion.
A Deacon who could slaughter every single one of them with a single Stanza.
Thankfully, he had no reason to.
Unlike most of his kind.