RVA: The Red Vixen at Sea, Part Eight
Aug. 11th, 2016 01:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jeriendhalMother Goddess be praised, Rolas was willing to take it slow as they strolled around the perimeter of the island. The sand was just normal sand, though the shells of the arthropod analogs that Greenholme hosted were delightfully strange compared to what could be found on Foxen Prime. Melanie plucked one half buried in the sand, revealing a conical shape perhaps five centimeters long and two wide, which was an odd greenish shade and sounded metallic when she tapped it with her claw.
“I wonder if there’s copper in this shell,” she mused. “Could the creature be digesting it in some way, and adding it to the shell’s structure to strengthen it?”
“If so, I don’t want to be nipped by it, if it can harvest copper,” Rolas said. “Nor meet the creature that it has to protect itself from, if it has to be deterred by metal armor.”
“Good point,” she she agreed, pocketing the shell and resolving to tread the beach more carefully.
After a kilometer of strolling along, they reached the northern tip of the island, which had a large bank of sand jutting away from a rocky, sloping hillside. As they came closer, Melanie found herself gripping Rolas’ arm a little tighter, as she spotted what could only be rusting steel pilings rising out of the surf and heading into the beach, the remains of plastic planks atop them. They looked like they’d been sitting there for several years at least, judging from all the rust and the faded blue color of the plastic.
“The hell…? Rolas muttered, moving forward to examine the structure. He glanced back at Melanie. “I thought you said this was our colony world? Did we build this?”
“Before Salli discovered and took control of this world, it belonged to a pirate named Bloody Margo,” she told him. “She was using it for a base, until it was found and her crew were either killed, captured or scattered. But her main facility was deep in the interior of Continent One, nowhere near the ocean. There was no indication she’d built anything here, besides that base and a series of monitoring stations along the equator and meridian lines.”
Rolas rapped his knuckles along the nearest plank, half buried in the sand. “This is standard marine construction material. If the color has faded it must have been sitting for at least fifteen years in the sun. What’s it here for?”
“I haven’t a clue,” she admitted. “Margo was a space pirate, not a seagoing one. I suppose there might be a monitoring station here that we missed when her surviving crew was interrogated, but we’re in the wrong position for one.”
“Look, there are stairs as well.” Rolas pointed back toward the rocks. Dug into the face of the slope were indeed a set of stairs, leading up to the highest point on the island, looking like they’d been carved by a plasma cutter. “Shall we see what’s at the top? If there is a monitoring station, that would imply a com unit as well.”
She sighed inwardly, but gave him a little nod, following as Rolas headed up the stairs. Really, for someone suffering from a concussion he was being obnoxiously energetic. Still, if there was any kind of communication equipment at the top it would be well worth the trip.
Ten minutes later she was huffing hard, hips and calves aching, feeling out of breath and increasingly nauseous, as she finally reached the top. There was nothing resembling the other monitoring stations that were positioned around the planet. Indeed, there was nothing at all except a cleared area at the top with an odd, waist high stone table in the center, about two meters long and a meter wide, propped on two square slabs of rock, all obviously carved from local material. Well, at least the view was nice, giving a commanding look over the island, including a little cove on the opposite beach from where Windskimmer had landed.
“That’s… odd.” she said, bending over to rest her palm on her knees, trying not to hyperventilate. Mother Goddess her stomach ached. She peered at the side of the table. There were words carved into it, possibly by an etching laser, in a language she didn’t recognize. “What is that?” she asked.
“Let me see.” Rolas squatted down to eye level with the table and looked it over. “It’s some form of Human.”
“Are you sure?”
“I think so. They’ve got at least three different alphabets, never mind the ones with all the pictograms. Not sure what this one says though.” He frowned and sounded the words out. “F’na’glu mig’wa’naff Cuth’ew’lew Rur’ley wagaw’maggi.”
“Well that makes no sense whatsoever,” Melanie said, trying to contain her irritation, and the contents of her stomach. All those stairs to climb, and the only thing at the top was a stone slab with nonsense writing on it. “It doesn’t sound like any kind of human language I’ve ever heard.”
“Nor I.” He looked at her in concern. “Are you alright?”
“Fine. I’m fine,” she said, taking a couple of deep breaths. She turned her attention, and hopefully Rolas’, back to the stone table. “What are these holes in the corners?” They were about two centimeters wide, and drilled straight through the fifteen centimeter thickness of the slab. She pressed her finger into one of them, feeling the rough interior of the granite. When she drew it out, she found a rough bit of fiber sticking to her fingerpad. “What is this, rope?”
Rolas stood up and squinted at it. “I think so.” He glanced uneasily at the stone table, evidentially seeing the same thing she was. It could be big enough to tie an unwilling victim to it. “You don’t actually think…”
“I can’t see it,” Melanie told him. “Bloody Margo’s crew were murderers, torturers, thieves, rapists, and the Mother Goddess only knows what else, but I can’t see them making blood sacrifices. That would imply at least a modicum of religious piety, for certain values of ‘religion’, which I would hardly credit them for. Also, why do it all the way out here in the middle of the ocean?”
“That’s a point,” he agreed. Rolas turned away from the strange table, paws on his hips. “At the least the view is… nice…” He froze, looking down towards where Windskimmer was beached. “Oh, no…”
“What?” Melanie stepped over, looking down with him. The tide has risen, and Rolas’ sailboat was bobbing in it. No, bobbing out with it, the anchor line hanging limply from the bow.
“My boat!” Rolas cried, dashing down the stairs, Melanie hobbling in his wake, her stomach twisting in fear.
“I wonder if there’s copper in this shell,” she mused. “Could the creature be digesting it in some way, and adding it to the shell’s structure to strengthen it?”
“If so, I don’t want to be nipped by it, if it can harvest copper,” Rolas said. “Nor meet the creature that it has to protect itself from, if it has to be deterred by metal armor.”
“Good point,” she she agreed, pocketing the shell and resolving to tread the beach more carefully.
After a kilometer of strolling along, they reached the northern tip of the island, which had a large bank of sand jutting away from a rocky, sloping hillside. As they came closer, Melanie found herself gripping Rolas’ arm a little tighter, as she spotted what could only be rusting steel pilings rising out of the surf and heading into the beach, the remains of plastic planks atop them. They looked like they’d been sitting there for several years at least, judging from all the rust and the faded blue color of the plastic.
“The hell…? Rolas muttered, moving forward to examine the structure. He glanced back at Melanie. “I thought you said this was our colony world? Did we build this?”
“Before Salli discovered and took control of this world, it belonged to a pirate named Bloody Margo,” she told him. “She was using it for a base, until it was found and her crew were either killed, captured or scattered. But her main facility was deep in the interior of Continent One, nowhere near the ocean. There was no indication she’d built anything here, besides that base and a series of monitoring stations along the equator and meridian lines.”
Rolas rapped his knuckles along the nearest plank, half buried in the sand. “This is standard marine construction material. If the color has faded it must have been sitting for at least fifteen years in the sun. What’s it here for?”
“I haven’t a clue,” she admitted. “Margo was a space pirate, not a seagoing one. I suppose there might be a monitoring station here that we missed when her surviving crew was interrogated, but we’re in the wrong position for one.”
“Look, there are stairs as well.” Rolas pointed back toward the rocks. Dug into the face of the slope were indeed a set of stairs, leading up to the highest point on the island, looking like they’d been carved by a plasma cutter. “Shall we see what’s at the top? If there is a monitoring station, that would imply a com unit as well.”
She sighed inwardly, but gave him a little nod, following as Rolas headed up the stairs. Really, for someone suffering from a concussion he was being obnoxiously energetic. Still, if there was any kind of communication equipment at the top it would be well worth the trip.
Ten minutes later she was huffing hard, hips and calves aching, feeling out of breath and increasingly nauseous, as she finally reached the top. There was nothing resembling the other monitoring stations that were positioned around the planet. Indeed, there was nothing at all except a cleared area at the top with an odd, waist high stone table in the center, about two meters long and a meter wide, propped on two square slabs of rock, all obviously carved from local material. Well, at least the view was nice, giving a commanding look over the island, including a little cove on the opposite beach from where Windskimmer had landed.
“That’s… odd.” she said, bending over to rest her palm on her knees, trying not to hyperventilate. Mother Goddess her stomach ached. She peered at the side of the table. There were words carved into it, possibly by an etching laser, in a language she didn’t recognize. “What is that?” she asked.
“Let me see.” Rolas squatted down to eye level with the table and looked it over. “It’s some form of Human.”
“Are you sure?”
“I think so. They’ve got at least three different alphabets, never mind the ones with all the pictograms. Not sure what this one says though.” He frowned and sounded the words out. “F’na’glu mig’wa’naff Cuth’ew’lew Rur’ley wagaw’maggi.”
“Well that makes no sense whatsoever,” Melanie said, trying to contain her irritation, and the contents of her stomach. All those stairs to climb, and the only thing at the top was a stone slab with nonsense writing on it. “It doesn’t sound like any kind of human language I’ve ever heard.”
“Nor I.” He looked at her in concern. “Are you alright?”
“Fine. I’m fine,” she said, taking a couple of deep breaths. She turned her attention, and hopefully Rolas’, back to the stone table. “What are these holes in the corners?” They were about two centimeters wide, and drilled straight through the fifteen centimeter thickness of the slab. She pressed her finger into one of them, feeling the rough interior of the granite. When she drew it out, she found a rough bit of fiber sticking to her fingerpad. “What is this, rope?”
Rolas stood up and squinted at it. “I think so.” He glanced uneasily at the stone table, evidentially seeing the same thing she was. It could be big enough to tie an unwilling victim to it. “You don’t actually think…”
“I can’t see it,” Melanie told him. “Bloody Margo’s crew were murderers, torturers, thieves, rapists, and the Mother Goddess only knows what else, but I can’t see them making blood sacrifices. That would imply at least a modicum of religious piety, for certain values of ‘religion’, which I would hardly credit them for. Also, why do it all the way out here in the middle of the ocean?”
“That’s a point,” he agreed. Rolas turned away from the strange table, paws on his hips. “At the least the view is… nice…” He froze, looking down towards where Windskimmer was beached. “Oh, no…”
“What?” Melanie stepped over, looking down with him. The tide has risen, and Rolas’ sailboat was bobbing in it. No, bobbing out with it, the anchor line hanging limply from the bow.
“My boat!” Rolas cried, dashing down the stairs, Melanie hobbling in his wake, her stomach twisting in fear.
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Date: 2016-08-11 07:08 pm (UTC)Some kind of cult colony that found the planet even before Margo?
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Date: 2016-08-11 07:19 pm (UTC)