The Sanguine and Blackbeard's Cutlass
Rogers' estate must be the largest on Nassau. As his man, Dampier, welcomes you through the front gate, you can’t help but be mesmerized by the beauty of the finely trimmed flora, statues, and mansion. Someone of your nature always appreciates high-quality things, and can’t help but wonder at its worth. Several guardsmen patrol through the well-maintained garden keeping a close eye on their employer’s guest.
The mansion itself looks freshly built. There isn’t a single crack or flaw in the paint, and the roofing tiles are placed perfectly together. As you draw near to the front door of the building, you see two, obviously Spanish, sculptures upon either side of the entryway. The things you’ve heard about Rogers seem to be true. He made his wealth preying upon the Spanish fleet.
You follow Dampier into the mansion and to the dining room. Sitting at a long mahogany table, is Woodes Rogers. The table looks as if it can seat about twenty, and seeing a single man using it is almost comical. The first thing you notice about him, besides having a table too big, is the massive scar upon the side of his face. It looks as if he ate a bullet, and probably a Spanish one if you had to guess.
“You know they have priests for that,” you say sitting down and gesturing towards your face.
“Pointing out someone’s scar is hardly a way to begin a conversation,” he replies. “Oh well, since we’ve found ourselves here, I should explain myself. Yes, you’re right. Any priest worth his salt could heal a simple scar, but I would not have this one healed.”
“Why not?” you ask.
“I like what it represents.”
“Getting shot?”
“The reminder of mortality. At any moment, I could lose this life at the simple pull of a trigger.”
“I’m sure there are other ways of reminding yourself,” you say. “Ways that are…more visually appealing. Marriage, for instance, comes to mind.”
“I am already happily married, Captain. Sarah is back in England with my son and daughters. I did not ask you here to discuss familial matters.”
“Of that, I am glad. I’d need a few more of these to get through that discussion,” you say holding up a dainty wine glass from the table.
“What do you know of Blackbeard’s cutlass?” Rogers abruptly asks.
“I know it’s probably lost at sea along with the rest of Queen Anne’s Revenge,” you reply. “I also know it was rumored to harness immense power. The kind of power that makes you the most feared man in the Atlantic…if you believe that sort of thing.”
“I know where it is.”
“Then why are you still here?” you retort.
“Ha, fair point. I know where it’s supposed to be.”
Rogers pulls a map from his inner jacket and places it on the table. “Blackbeard was slain near the Carolinas far north of here,” he says placing a finger on the map.
“I’m well aware of the geographic location of the Carolinas,” you say.
Ignoring your comment he continues, “And what do you know of the Cult of Quetzalcoatl?”
“Next to nothing,” you answer. “They’re ancient Aztecs obsessed with a wind serpent and dark magic.”
“That’s more than most people know,” Rogers says. “My expeditions have discovered a smaller sect of the cult. Guardians of a powerful artifact supposedly forged from a scale of the wind serpent. Does this look familiar?”
Rogers pulls another object from within his coat and places it next to the map. He carefully unravels the scroll displaying the image. The entire image is different shades of charcoal. In the center stands a massive pyramid-shaped temple with an almost unending staircase upward. Storm clouds gather at the very top. Within the clouds, a snake-like creature can barely be seen. You have to squint to make out its shadowy form. Upon a pedestal, in the center of the image, lies a single cutlass.
“Sweet mother Mary that’s—“
“—Blackbeard’s cutlass,” Rogers finishes for you with a grin. Looking back to the map he continues, “Without an owner, the cutlass returns to its home where it waits for a worthy member to claim it. The ancient protectors believe whoever claims the cutlass is Quetzalcoatl incarnate.”
“And you know where the home is?” you ask.
“I do.”
“Where?”
“An island in the Gulf. Only visible by viewing with a Quetzalcoatl headdress. Luckily, my expeditions have uncovered one.”
“So why do you need me?” you ask. “You seem to have everything that you need.”
“Alas, I cannot leave Nassau now. I’m in the middle of a big proposal with England that will very likely result in governorship. If I were to disappear for weeks, all my work would be for nothing. I can’t afford to send one of my own men because I’m fearful a rival would catch on. I need an honorable captain with no ties and the ability to prevail in dangerous circumstances. I need you, captain.”
“I suppose this is the part you make me an offer I simply can’t refuse,” you say.
“Even better. I’m making you an offer you don’t want to refuse,” he replies. “I’m well aware of your ship’s condition and will finance the entire repair. Going a step further, I’ll finance the overhaul for any on-board improvements you see fit. You can keep whatever treasures you find just bring me the cutlass. Oh, and should you decide to accept my repairs and run, I’ll put a bounty so large on your head that every privateer and their mother will be out for your blood.”
“Rogers, you have yourself a deal,” you say offering out your hand and a grin.
The mansion itself looks freshly built. There isn’t a single crack or flaw in the paint, and the roofing tiles are placed perfectly together. As you draw near to the front door of the building, you see two, obviously Spanish, sculptures upon either side of the entryway. The things you’ve heard about Rogers seem to be true. He made his wealth preying upon the Spanish fleet.
You follow Dampier into the mansion and to the dining room. Sitting at a long mahogany table, is Woodes Rogers. The table looks as if it can seat about twenty, and seeing a single man using it is almost comical. The first thing you notice about him, besides having a table too big, is the massive scar upon the side of his face. It looks as if he ate a bullet, and probably a Spanish one if you had to guess.
“You know they have priests for that,” you say sitting down and gesturing towards your face.
“Pointing out someone’s scar is hardly a way to begin a conversation,” he replies. “Oh well, since we’ve found ourselves here, I should explain myself. Yes, you’re right. Any priest worth his salt could heal a simple scar, but I would not have this one healed.”
“Why not?” you ask.
“I like what it represents.”
“Getting shot?”
“The reminder of mortality. At any moment, I could lose this life at the simple pull of a trigger.”
“I’m sure there are other ways of reminding yourself,” you say. “Ways that are…more visually appealing. Marriage, for instance, comes to mind.”
“I am already happily married, Captain. Sarah is back in England with my son and daughters. I did not ask you here to discuss familial matters.”
“Of that, I am glad. I’d need a few more of these to get through that discussion,” you say holding up a dainty wine glass from the table.
“What do you know of Blackbeard’s cutlass?” Rogers abruptly asks.
“I know it’s probably lost at sea along with the rest of Queen Anne’s Revenge,” you reply. “I also know it was rumored to harness immense power. The kind of power that makes you the most feared man in the Atlantic…if you believe that sort of thing.”
“I know where it is.”
“Then why are you still here?” you retort.
“Ha, fair point. I know where it’s supposed to be.”
Rogers pulls a map from his inner jacket and places it on the table. “Blackbeard was slain near the Carolinas far north of here,” he says placing a finger on the map.
“I’m well aware of the geographic location of the Carolinas,” you say.
Ignoring your comment he continues, “And what do you know of the Cult of Quetzalcoatl?”
“Next to nothing,” you answer. “They’re ancient Aztecs obsessed with a wind serpent and dark magic.”
“That’s more than most people know,” Rogers says. “My expeditions have discovered a smaller sect of the cult. Guardians of a powerful artifact supposedly forged from a scale of the wind serpent. Does this look familiar?”
Rogers pulls another object from within his coat and places it next to the map. He carefully unravels the scroll displaying the image. The entire image is different shades of charcoal. In the center stands a massive pyramid-shaped temple with an almost unending staircase upward. Storm clouds gather at the very top. Within the clouds, a snake-like creature can barely be seen. You have to squint to make out its shadowy form. Upon a pedestal, in the center of the image, lies a single cutlass.
“Sweet mother Mary that’s—“
“—Blackbeard’s cutlass,” Rogers finishes for you with a grin. Looking back to the map he continues, “Without an owner, the cutlass returns to its home where it waits for a worthy member to claim it. The ancient protectors believe whoever claims the cutlass is Quetzalcoatl incarnate.”
“And you know where the home is?” you ask.
“I do.”
“Where?”
“An island in the Gulf. Only visible by viewing with a Quetzalcoatl headdress. Luckily, my expeditions have uncovered one.”
“So why do you need me?” you ask. “You seem to have everything that you need.”
“Alas, I cannot leave Nassau now. I’m in the middle of a big proposal with England that will very likely result in governorship. If I were to disappear for weeks, all my work would be for nothing. I can’t afford to send one of my own men because I’m fearful a rival would catch on. I need an honorable captain with no ties and the ability to prevail in dangerous circumstances. I need you, captain.”
“I suppose this is the part you make me an offer I simply can’t refuse,” you say.
“Even better. I’m making you an offer you don’t want to refuse,” he replies. “I’m well aware of your ship’s condition and will finance the entire repair. Going a step further, I’ll finance the overhaul for any on-board improvements you see fit. You can keep whatever treasures you find just bring me the cutlass. Oh, and should you decide to accept my repairs and run, I’ll put a bounty so large on your head that every privateer and their mother will be out for your blood.”
“Rogers, you have yourself a deal,” you say offering out your hand and a grin.