Deacon's captured. With no savior in sight, he has moments before he's mutilated, and used as bait for his Father to save him. With no one else to turn to, Deacon calls to his God Tlalocoatl for aid, and finds that his Faith pays in dividends! With new powers bestowed upon him, he now has to confront the looming threat of this mad Captain Rook before his plans come into fruition!
A continuation of Deacon's Crescent Tail story.
The traces of light that pierced the darkness of this nautical prison burned a brilliant orange. Titles of books were swallowed in darkness, whilst the gleam of a model shipped, trapped in a glass jar, finally shined. The smell of a stewed broth tortured the young priest's body and mind, as did the subtle chill in his scales that warned him of a drop in temperature. Time was rushing past Deacon, and he was still stuck in place in this damnable room, rocked by the waves of the restless ocean. The throb of pain gifted to him by his salty kidnapper ebbed harder as he fought against his bindings. Push as he might, the tie of his wrists and tail had kept his leverage hindered. Eventually, the threat of a proper migraine brought the snake to his knees to recuperate.
"Damn it all. Does he plan to starve me and take my tail off my corpse…?"
Already, the possibilities of his fate began to wash over his mind. His end could be swift, leaving his family to exact a revenge far too late. It could be torturous, maiming that would have him pray to Hades instead. Every variation that led to his tail-less future made Deacon's teeth grind and his adrenaline pumped his heart faster. He needed to escape NOW!
"Do not fret, my disciple…"
That voice. That voice made Deacon jump in shock. That voice did not come from Rook, nor any of his crew. That voice rumbled deep in the trenches of the Acolyte’s mind, rising through the darkness and shining a light of hope. That voice belonged to…
“Lord Tlalocoatl!”
Drops of water made Deacon crane his neck to the beautiful sound. Atop of the table, above a mess of maps and documents, was his clay gourd full of the Holy River's water. The droplets became constant before the lid was freed from the inside. The clear tendril of water holding the cap transformed before Deacon's eyes. The head of a snake emerged, and the cobra's hood emerged before fully blossoming into the beautiful aquatic frills that denoted his God's all encompassing love. Striking, marble eyes opened to witness the kneeling disciple.
"In the flesh, so to speak! Now then, you've called for me, and I can see why!" The God of Cleansing Waters, Rain, and Life extends itself by slithering on air. The seemingly endless water in the Gourd brought the frilled God closer to Deacon.
"O Great Tlalocoatl," Deacon's head bows. "Your presence brings me great joy and reassurance!"
"I would imagine so! However, let's sate my curiosity. Why is my beloved disciple tied to a ship's steering wheel?" Those beautiful eyes of the watery god narrows as he slithers closer. "...Is this an erotic situation?
"L-Lord Tlalacoatl!?"
Shooting his head up to face his God, Deacon sees the water snake snickering at him. His cheeks began to burn with embarrassment.
"Haha! Sorry, my disciple! I missed that blush of yours! Now then, let's get you out of here and fix your head up."
"...Actually, Lord Tlalocoatl, I do not wish to leave. Not yet."
Deacon watched his Deity's head tilt in clear confusion.
"Stay? Why would you wish for this, my Disciple?"
To this question, the priest hesitated. The Holy River Covenant promoted peace over retaliation. He knew, deep inside, that what he wished for would not be self-defense. By the sombering face of his God, Tlalocoatl saw this too.
"...Lord Tlalocoatl, I-"
"Deacon. What are my principles?"
The lack of casualness in Tlalocoatl's voice pushed away any hesitation.
"Be generous with the River's Gift. Purge evil from body and mind. Guide the Misguided."
The recital was perfect. It had to be - Tlalocoatl's mythos were spoken rather than written. His Father made sure that these words would never leave his mind. Deacon hung his head, his mouth asking for forgiveness in a hushed whisper.
"Correct. There is much evil in this world, but there is a fine line between true evil and misguided value. Your rage is justified, my disciple, but you are hurt. I will free you, and then we can get you off this boat at once!"
"No."
The avatar of the God of Cleansing Waters paused. The godly gaze upon the young priest made his very scales feel as if they’d begin to peel away one by one, as if his God would dissect his very body to inspect the body and soul of his disciple that would dare to say No to the one he worshiped. Truly, Tlalocoatl was a just and noble God, for the only pain done to Deacon was the pain of his building anxiety and self-doubt clawing away at his resolve, but to no avail.
“...G-great Lord Tlalocoatl. This…This Captain seeks to kill my Father. He has a vendetta that was passed down by generations. If I leave, he WILL find someone else to lure him out.”
Deacon, under the weight of Tlalocoatl’s scrutiny, raised his head to his God.
“...I want to stop Rook myself. I…I refuse to allow him to treat my father like some mindless beast. I refuse to let him take anyone else, and maul them for his insane vendetta!”
“Deacon-”
“MY FATHER IS NOT A MONSTER!”
The shock on Tlalocoatl's face was subtle, but Deacon saw it through tear-filled eyes. To call Tlalocoatl only to defy his wishes in the end was insanity. The weight of his shame made his head lower before the River God.
"My sweetest disciple. Even when you defy me, you do it out of love!"
The inner self-flagellation was halted as Deacon peered up at the watery snake, who appeared to be smiling.
"Men, Women, and even Beasts call to their God for their own desires. Even those who wish for their brethren's well-being could have superior motives," The River God curled around Deacon's neck, nuzzling away a few of his tears. "I can tell that your conviction is thoroughly out of respect and love for your Father. For this, I shall grant you power."
The endless thanks that Deacon gave were faster than his own mouth. Sputters and babbles escaped the collected snake man, all understood as praises and apologies. Before the power was bestowed, Tlalocoatl's serious expression returned as he ushered a warning.
"...But know this, Deacon. Love and Hate swim in the same river. Tread lightly on these waters, else you will be swept up in the tides of Ruin."
Deacon bows his head, uttering thanks. Though revered for his God's benevolence (for malevolence), deep down the young priest began to think back to his father, The Bishop. A scar represents a harsh battle, Deacon thought. If Tlalocoatl was so cautious toward him, then what had Bishop done to deserve those scars? The thought of his Father, large and imposing despite his peaceful efforts, engaging in battle sent a cold shiver up his spine.
"Now then, when you are prepared, close your eyes and bow your head."
Deacon obeyed without hesitation. The River God's form slithered above Deacon, looking down upon him with a silent gaze. Shutting its eyes, Tlalocoatl's form shuddered, and then became formless. The icy cool splash upon Deacon's hood threw his nerves into a cold front, causing the priest to hold back his desire to hiss in discomfort. If it was Tlalocoatl's blessing, then this icy sensation swimming across the grooves of his scales was worth the dreadful cold.
Unfortunately, the cold worsened.
"L-L-Lord Tla-"
"My young disciple," whispered the disembodied voice of Tlalocoatl. "I have bestowed upon you a gift most suited for you. The frigid ice you feel is a reflection of your fear, your desperation, and your rage. Control your emotions, and let your Love turn ice into water!"
It must be true what they say: The gods made mortals of their image. It had to be, because every bite of the icy carpet crawling on Deacon's back felt like a passive-aggressive admonishment akin to a scolding parent. This pain was his to bear, however, and he turned every curse of frigid temperature he could think of into the love he had experienced. The Monastery's open and friendly natures, His teacher, Parnese, and her wisdom, His Mother's cool caring, and the silent, yet palpable protection of his Father. 27 years of his life, teaching him from the warmest place he could imagine, reminded him of why he wanted to go down this path. The people who raised him didn't deserve to be bothered by scum.
Suddenly, the Ice didn't feel too cold anymore.
"Yes, my Disciple! Control the water as you control your emotion! Give form to the Formless!"
His instructions were as clear as the water that rose off his scales. Hundreds upon millions of single droplets, suspended in the air, came together in a massive blob of water. Formless as it was, Deacon obeyed the words of Tlalocoatl. He gave it form, and turned it into a blade. With a thought, the curved blade came down, slashing through the rope bindings with ease. With the tension on his wrists and tail finally free, Deacon spares no time standing up tall and stretching his sore body.
“Thank you, Lord Tlalocoatl. Thank you, everyone.”
His silent prayer finished, Deacon sets his eyes toward the exit, prepared to take on this Great White nuisance. Before he could get to that, however, Deacon found himself with a preliminary test: one of Rook’s crewmembers, a Doberman standing over a plate of food that was dropped in awe of the Godlike demonstration, was in the doorway.
“...You saw nothing.”
The Doberman, not convinced, reached for both his knife and a radio, about to alert the others on the ship
A call to arms amongst a ship of people, all likely angry for a past stained in blood. He wished that he could convince them to stand down…but the tensing of his muscles, the raising of his hands, and the blood rushing in his veins, pushing him toward the cowering dog told him the truth: He wanted this to happen. The doberman yelped, trying to gain distance by stepping back and pulling out a knife. He didn’t take in account of Deacon’s wingspan, which allowed him to snatch the dog-man’s wrist to pull him towards the glaring snake.
“I warned you.”
Those cold words were the only words Deacon spared the dog before squeezing the dog’s wrist. The yowls of pain made Deacon wince, but he knew this was no time for charity. Twisting the dog’s wrist, he assured the dog’s disarming, and tearful surrender. Sadly, Deacon couldn’t take a chance with a crew under a vengeful captain. A push on the dog’s chest made him stumble against the wall behind him. The jostle of his head on the wall dazed the dog, but didn’t harm him. This, of course, was the intent of the snake: the true pain was barreling toward the dog. The Snake took a big step forward, putting his weight on his knee as his body twists, positioning himself for the blow.
Deacon breathes in, then breathes out gently.
Then, he explodes.
“GUH-!”
The Doberman squeaks in shock as he finds himself sandwiched between Deacon’s back and the wall behind him. The impact of the Bajiquan shoulder strike put the dog to sleep almost instantly, and the Dog slumped into a seat when Deacon stepped back. The recoil pain on his back felt like a mere tickle.
“...Hm. They probably want me alive, but I’ll need to be careful. If a Shark can hold a grudge, so can everything else here…”
A wave of doubt crept into his mind, but Deacon drowned it out with his Mother’s voice. Wonderful form, she would say, and powerful follow through. Keep this up and you’ll be untouchable. He prayed to Tlalocoatl that this was the case. He flicked his fingers, and the gourd filled with Tlalocoatl’s water was returned to Deacon’s hand. Now free to roam about, Deacon continued on his quest to stop Captain Rook.
The scent of fish cooked on a stove tugged on the back of his mind. The taste of spices on his tongue pulled him toward the source of more shipmates…if he was lucky, he would catch Rook by surprise. Following the scent, Deacon rounds a corner to find a sort of mess hall on the ship. The wide open space had some tables bolted to the ground, with a kitchen in the north populated by otters. River Otters.
“W-what th- HOLY SHIT THAT DUDE ESCAPED!”
Deacon’s head snapped to the closest water weasel, of which appeared from a bathroom door closeby. Sharp claws and teeth were bared as he ran toward Deacon with pure Malice in his eyes. “You’re DEAD, Monster Kid!” Despite being the tallest of the weasels, they were still smaller than he was and that was a problem for someone as tall as he. Relying on his heritage, Deacon’s reflexes had kept him from feeling the enraged water noodle’s claws raking across his body. The other Otters were starting to rally behind their brother in arms. The pressure was mounting upon Deacon, and, knowing that all it would take was one lucky hit to get piled on, he took matters into his own hands.
“A-AGH! MOTHERFUCKER, LEMME GO!!”
Slippery, damp fur met Deacon’s hand. Gripping the wrist forces control, Deacon thought. Memories of having a sore arm brought his mother’s teachings back into his mind. Stepping behind the obscenity-spewing otter, the Second came to Deacon in an attempt to circle around and smack him with a frying pan! A perfect opportunity…for Deacon, that is.
“Let’s see how quick you are…”
The pan wielding River Otter took that as a challenge, and lunged at Deacon with his weapon held over his head. What the poor otter wasn’t aware of was that he spoke of Tlalocoatl’s blessing. He’d soon find out this was the case as a rush of water shot from his gourd like a bullet.
SLAP!!
The impact echoed in the mess hall. The otter’s mouth, previously open in a war cry, was slammed shut like a hungry gator who smelled food. The otter was out cold on impact, spinning in the air before falling on his back.
“As fast as Humboldt…Wonderful!”
One down, and one about to break his wrist out of his grasp. The proactive priest puts pressure on the otter, grabbing his neck and bending him forward and making him grunt in irritation rather than agony. “Get this asshole off me!!” was the shout to get the third Otter in gear. With a kitchen knife, the snarling, far otter reeled his arm back, and threw that knife like a baseball star. Gasping, Deacon pulls the otter in his grasp up to stand. With the knife headed their way, the captive otter screamed for his life before the Knife found his mark.
The screaming stopped, and the knife-throwing otter looked on in Horror. The captive Otter gasped, and found himself fine; the knife thrown was caught in a floating mass of Water. Deacon let out a sigh of relief.
“...Sorry about that, I’m not used to knives thrown at me.”
The otter in his hand slumps, scared into submission. Perfect for Deacon, who uses this to his advantage. With a twist of the waist and planting of a heel, the young priest launches the otter toward his brethren, who had broken out of his horrified trance all too late. His attempt to flee was cut short as his companion collided with him, turning both otters into unconscious wet rugs.
“A wonderful performance, my Disciple!”
The praise of Tlalocoatl caught Deacon off guard. He jumped with a start as he found himself being glanced at by the sudden appearance of his God’s watery avatar.
“For one so non-violent, you are QUITE observant to the flow of battle!”
Deacon’s cheeks flushed with red, with his pride under the layer of embarrassment. “It’s not exactly violence if it’s self-defense,” Deacon walked over the otters to venture deeper into the ship. “And my parents were adamant that I learn to take care of myself.”
“Great wisdom! I wonder where they learned it from?”
The watery God was met with silence.
“...Surely this was an easy question, my disciple.”
Again, there was silence. Glancing at their disciple, the aquatic avatar saw their collected disciple stare ahead at him with their jaw opened in shock. A quick turn down the ship’s hall revealed to Tlalocoatl the source of such disbelief: An effeminate feline male.
“Connor?!”
Deacon’s shout made the cat boy yowl in shock. Scrambling away in a blur of frizzled fur, The restaurant tending cat forces Deacon to give chase. Although halls were thin, Deacon’s physique was powerful enough to keep pace with the terrified cat, even when hitting walls on sharper turns. Connor was fast, but Deacon’s blessing of water, which splashed under Connor’s feet and flash freezing, was faster.
THUD
Connor’s slip onto the ground was surprisingly loud, given his lithe form. Groaning, he scrambled to rise to his feet, but screamed once he felt himself pulled by the scruff of his neck by a firm grasp.
“P-p-please!! I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!!”
“And yet, here you are,” Deacon turned Connor to face him, and the cat couldn’t look into those glaring, slitted eyes. “Squatting on the same ship as a man willing to turn me into sushi…”
“Please! Don’t hurt me! I’ll be your good little kitten! R-remember? I offered to give you a ‘discount’...!”
Connor’s seduction only caused Deacon to grab him by the collar, and push the yowling cat against the wall. “Connor!” Deacon’s voice hissed loud enough to echo in the hall. “Where. Is. The Captain?”
The flash of those massive fangs before Connor’s eyes was more than enough to get the message across.
“H-he’s back on the Port! He’s looking for gunpowder and metal! I swear! Please, I’m not with them, they just paid me to sleep with them! They threw in extra just to bring you in!! I’m begging you, don’t hurt me!!”
Sobbing in fear, Connor pulled his hands up to protect his face from an attack that wouldn’t appear. Even without his God’s watchful eyes, Deacon could see that this sly cat wasn’t worth attacking. Unfortunately, the talk of gunpowder had intrigued the young priest. He brought his face closer to the cowering cat, glaring into his eyes.
“Why does the captain need Gunpowder?”
“I-I’m not sure, S-s-something about ‘bringing the Hunt back’ ?! I don’t know!! He had a fat cock and moneyyyy!”
The breakdown into tears and fitful crying told Deacon that this was the extent of Connor’s knowledge. He released the cat, letting Connor scurry deep into the ship to find a good spot to hide. “...Gunpowder is rather obsolete for a common firearm,” Deacon mused to himself. “Whatever that damn Rook is planning is going to be explosive…” He knew his Father’s strength was immense, but even a draconic being like him might not be able to take an explosive blast. He ran through the Halls, his heart racing ever faster. This quest for Revenge had already endangered him, but if his hunch was correct, Rook was about to put everyone else at risk!
“Great Lord Tlalocoatl,” Deacon prays, rushing to the exit of the ship. “A great darkness plagues this rogue Captain’s mind. Grant me the Strength, Wisdom, And Courage to stop him before he harms everyone. Let it be-”
Deacon’s lips were hushed by a watery tail. The one responsible flicked his tongue as it rested atop Deacon’s head, adopting a smiling visage. “I WILL let it be so, thank you very much,” hissed out a laughing Tlalocoatl. “Onward, my Disciple. Show me your resolve!”
Deacon sighs with a smile, and rushes out of the ship’s lower deck to meet the large, orange sun setting in the West.