"The Jaguar's Claws" (Expansion IC)

[Pecario]

The sun was just rising over the small port of Gentillac, nestled in the heart of the lysian colony of New Amacia in Mesothalassa, in the year 1687. The air was heavy with the typical humidity of these tropical lands, and the cries of exotic birds echoed in the lush forest that surrounded the coastal village. By the water's edge, three men in military uniforms proudly displaying the lily flower of Lysia on their epaulets stood near a sturdy wooden boat. Their faces bore the marks of trials and the tropical sun, but their eyes gleamed with unwavering determination. In the center of the group stood a middle-aged man, wearing a uniform adorned with golden braids, a sign of his rank. In his right hand, he held a carefully sealed parchment with red wax, the crucial message he was tasked to deliver. He was a messenger in the service of the Lysian crown, and a perilous mission awaited him. The Lysian sloop, anchored offshore, loomed on the horizon. Its white sails glistened in the morning light, a symbol of hope for New Amacia. But a threat loomed. The Pecarians, coveting these resource-rich and strategically located lands, sought to drive the French from the region. 

The three officers, Captain Pierre Leclerc, Lieutenant Jean Dupont, and Sergeant Henri Martin, exchanged solemn looks. They knew that the fate of the colony largely rested on the shoulders of their messenger, a devoted man named François Dubois. Captain Leclerc spoke with emotion in his voice:

“François, you are our last hope. This message must reach @Florentia. From there, it will be sent to Europa, all the way to the King of Lysia himself. Our colony is in danger, and we rely on you to plead our case.”

François Dubois solemnly nodded, the precious parchment tightly held in his hand.

“I understand the importance of this mission, messieurs. I will do everything in my power to see it through.”

Jean Dupont added : “Beware of the Pecarians, François. They are cunning and determined. Avoid shallow waters and stay away from the coast as long as you can.”

Sergeant Martin placed a hand on François's shoulder.

“We trust you, mon ami. May the heavens protect you, and may the wind always blow in the right direction.”

The tension was palpable, but the unity among these men was unshakable. They shook hands, a testament to their camaraderie and loyalty to their homeland and colony. Gentle waves lapped against the boat's hull, and the sun continued its ascent in the sky. François Dubois made his way toward the rowboat, his heart heavy with responsibility, but his determination unwavering. He boarded it and, with one final glance back at his comrades, prepared to depart. The Lysian sloop waited in the distance, a symbol of hope and survival for la Nouvelle-Amacie. As François Dubois moved away from the shore in the rowboat, the three officers remained silent, their gazes fixed on the point where the horizon met the sea. The Lysian sloop gradually dwindled into a small white speck on the azure expanse, and anxiety weighed heavily on their shoulders.

Captain Pierre Leclerc, his face weathered by the sun and worry, was the first to break the silence.

“Let us hope François reaches the colony of Florentia safe and sound. Once the message is in the hands of the king, perhaps we will have a chance to strengthen our position here.”

Lieutenant Jean Dupont was more reserved.

“The Pecarians are numerous, and they will stop at nothing to seize our lands. We must prepare the colony for the worst.”

Sergeant Henri Martin nodded.

“It is time to fortify our defenses, gather our forces, and prepare for the worst, if necessary.”

The sea breeze blew gently, carrying with it an atmosphere laden with doubt and fear. The men gradually left the beach, lost in their thoughts and concerns. The Pecarian threat hung over the colony like a shadow, and the future was uncertain.

Finally, Henri Martin and Jean Dupont, after exchanging a determined look, rode away on horseback, escorted by two soldiers. They had to oversee the preparation of the colony's defenses, leaving Pierre Leclerc alone facing the sea. Rain began to fall, with fine droplets soaking his uniform. The colony's flag fluttered above him, a banner of hope in an uncertain wurld. Captain Leclerc, while wiping the rain from his face, murmured to himself :

“May the heavens be kind to us, and may François reach his destination. The future of la Nouvelle-Amacie rests on this missive.”

Then, he remained there, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon, consumed by dark thoughts and uncertainty that weighed heavily on his beloved colony.

“Rapport de la Nouvelle-Amacie,” document preserved in the National Archives of Lysia in Lyrie.

Translation of the report into Anglish :

Sire Louis VIII of Asmavia,

In this year of grace 1687, under the banner of the Most High, I humbly address Your Majesty to inform you of the perilous state of our beloved colony of la Nouvelle-Amacie, located in these distant lands of Alharu.

Since our establishment in this New Wurld in 1665, we have ardently worked towards the building of this colony in your name and in that of the Crown of Lysia. However, dark clouds are gathering on the horizon of our endeavor. The newly founded kingdom of Pecario, primarily composed of Iberic settlers, is increasingly manifesting its intention to drive us from these fertile lands we have toiled upon with our Lysian hands.

Incidents at the border have already occurred, Sire, and it appears that the fragile peace we initially established with our neighbors is gradually unraveling. The settlers of Pecario have dared to attack our outposts, endangering the lives of our countrymen and threatening the stability of our colony. I implore Your Majesty, in the hope that our loyalty to the Crown of Lysia shall not be in vain, to consider this alarming situation. Our resources are limited, and we are in dire need of military reinforcements to defend our settlement against the expansionist ambitions of Pecario. We cannot allow our labor to be annihilated by foreign forces hungry for our riches and our lands.

We are prepared to sacrifice everything to maintain the sovereignty of Lysia in Nouvelle-Amacie, but without the support of our motherland, our efforts may be in vain. May divine grace guide Your Majesty in your decision, and may you ensure the preservation of our precious colony in these exotic lands. I remain at your service, Sire, awaiting your orders and your protection. With the deepest devotion and respect,

Charles de la Roncière, Royal Governor of Nouvelle-Amacie, 15 March 1687

Edited October 5, 2023 by Pecario
spelling (see edit history)

[Orioni]

On 10/2/2023 at 11:25 PM, Pecario said:

The sun was just rising over the small port of Gentillac, nestled in the heart of the French colony of New Amacia in South America, in the year 1687.

OOC. Within our Eurth lore, there exist no such places as France or South America. You might want to review and modify your post.

[Pecario]

OOC : The name of the colony of “Nouvelle-Amacie” is changed to colony of “Côte d'Émeraude” which suits it better and refers to the emerald hues of the beaches and emerald mines discovered on the Lysian colony.

---

After a fierce battle, Fort Gris, the main Lysian fortress of the colony, was smoking heavily, and some sections of the walls appeared to be on the verge of collapse. Flags fluttered in the wind, cannons had fallen silent, and weary men took a moment of respite after days of intense combat.

Within the Pecarian encampment, Captain Antoine de Fougeraie, wearing his impeccable uniform despite traces of mud and black powder, entered the tent where the Pecarian command awaited him. The Captain removed his tricorne hat and offered a swift military salute before locking eyes with his adversaries.

General Antonio Ramirez, his face marked by fatigue but still dignified, stood at the center of the Pecarian officers. Seated on a wooden chair, he impatiently twirled his impeccable moustache. A solemn silence hung over the room as the two men faced each other, each aware of the gravity of the moment.

“Captain Fougeraie,” Ramirez began in a grave voice, “We salute your courage and that of your men during this siege. Despite our material and numerical superiority, your tenacity and bravery do you honor.”

Fougeraie nodded slightly in a sign of respect. “Merci, General de la Vega. Flowery honors are unnecessary. I am a soldier, not a diplomat. What do you expect from me and my men?”

Ramirez replied, “You have done all that is possible to save your honor, but without reinforcements, our next assault will annihilate your garrison, risking, no doubt, your life.”

The Lysian captain interrupted the general and said confidently, “Reinforcements are on the way, General. Sergeant Henri Martin is already marching to our rescue. We will hold out until they arrive.”

There were some poorly concealed laughs among the ranks of the Pecarian officers. Ramirez smiled mockingly and, speaking to one of his men, said:

“La espada por favor.”

An officer nodded and left the tent for a moment. After a few long minutes of tense silence, he returned, carrying a shining rapier on his arms. Fougeraie stared at the sword for a moment, then at Ramirez, and then back at the sword. He seemed to be struggling with dismay but tried to conceal it. Ramirez interrupted his thoughts:

“Sergeant Henri Martin fell in battle. Lieutenant Alivendez ambushed him and his men near Lauvère. I am sorry to break your futile hope in this way. You are alone, and no help will come from Saint-Louis.”

Fougeraie remained fixed on the rapier of his deceased hope for a moment, then solemnly uttered these words : “What do you propose?”

---

The next day, the colony's banner was lowered, and the Pecarian flag was raised atop the fort. The battle of Fort Gris was over. Fougeraie watched sadly as the sun set in the distance, its orange rays reflecting on his men, who marched in a line under the watchful eyes of the Pecarian soldiers. All these men would live a little longer, but what kind of life? To languish in Pecarian dungeons, perhaps death, would be preferable…

They all passed by their captain, who looked at them with an almost paternal air: Dignified, tired, bloodied, empty, weary, and withdrawn faces. A Pecarian officer on a white horse ordered, in rough Lysian, for the captain to follow him. Fougeraie nodded and trotted his horse after the Pecarian rider. He cast one last glance at the place he had sworn to protect and would likely never see again, then moved forward to meet his future captors. The war for him was over.

[Pecario]

Thick black clouds dispersed on the horizon, the rumble of thunder echoing distantly in the sky. An emerald-green macaw perched on a branch of a tall tree entwined with vines. Its sparkling plumage was dotted with a few raindrops. It fluffed itself up and whistled joyfully, as if heralding the return of good weather. It was abruptly interrupted by deep human noises below. Annoyed, it flew off to another perch, weaving between the still damp branches.

Below, two men advanced stealthily through the thick undergrowth of the jungle. One wielded a sharp machete, the other a rifle ready to fire. The first man had long brown hair, his locks falling over his shoulders. He hacked at the branches with his machete, cutting with both force and grace. The second man seemed worried, focusing on the movements of his companion's machete. He wore a brown tricorn hat soaked from the recent rain and tried not to be distracted by the many droplets running down his forehead. Suddenly, the first man signaled his companion to stop. With a questioning look, the second man tried to see what had caused his partner to halt their advance. Then he heard the sound of coarse laughter and clinking glasses a few meters ahead. The two men lay down and hid in the thick ferns. The second man then asked:

"How many?"

The first man seemed to ponder, peering through the fern leaves at the human shapes moving ahead. He replied:

"Six or seven. I think I see one relieving himself in the distance."

The two companions remained there, scrutinizing the actions of the men, when one of the strangers they were observing approached the fern where they were hiding, preparing to answer nature's call. As the man drew near, the first man sprang up, placing his hand over the stranger's mouth to prevent him from crying out, and slit his throat. The man emitted a few muffled cries before a dreadful gurgling sound replaced them. The two men hid the body of their victim in the foliage.

"Take his pistol, Jean. Go right, try not to get spotted. We'll meet up."

With a nod of approval, the second man, named Jean, discreetly snuck to the right of the camp. He observed the guards getting drunk around a campfire. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the agile shadow of his companion silently taking down another isolated target from the group of drunkards. Jean spotted his first target, a man resting in a hammock strung between two shrubs. He crawled up to the hammock and suddenly stood up, plunging his blade into the heart of the unfortunate man. His victim's eyes flew open, showing a mix of anger, sadness, and surprise. Then the light in his eyes dimmed, and he slumped back into his hammock. Jean smiled with satisfaction and wiped his blade mechanically. Suddenly, he heard a piercing cry behind him followed by several others and an explosion. Jean quickly turned but saw only his companion triumphantly rifling through their still-warm victims.

"You're slow, Jean. You need to take more risks if you want to reach my level."

Jean mockingly slapped his colleague's arm and replied:

"I prefer not to tempt fate, Pierre. I have a wife back at the colony; I'm not the most notorious womanizer in Saint-Louis..."

Pierre chuckled at the mention of his nickname.

"Well, you only live once; might as well enjoy it. Besides, none of them ever complained..."

Jean smiled, then became serious again, eyeing their victims.

"That's the third Pecarian unit we've ambushed this month. It's becoming worrying."

"Indeed. The fall of Fort Gris allows them to infiltrate further south into our lands. But they're still foolish enough to scatter in the jungle."

Jean sighed. War was raging between the Lysian colony and their powerful neighbor. Every week, Pecarian soldiers seemed to advance more and more. Pecarian forces would soon occupy Grandes-Chutes, Besanciennes, and Arcadie. Saint-Louis would be the final blow to the colony. Pierre approached Jean and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Stop thinking about the future. Focus on the present. We've done our task for today. Let's go. Here."

He handed Jean a Pecarian rapier and walked away, inviting him to follow. Jean took one last look at their victims' camp and followed his friend.

They trekked for a long time, slipping under the flows of a crystalline waterfall, skirting steep cliffs draped with vines. They reached the top of a cliff and admired the view. From here, they could see the entire Petite Baie Lysienne within the Grande Baie (now known as Manamana Bay). The sea was calm, and they could see some fishing boats from the colony floating in the distance, never straying far from the coast for fear of encountering an enemy vessel. In the distance, Pecarian warships jealously guarded the passage out of the Grande Baie, making it hopeless to expect any reinforcements from that direction; the colonists from Florentia wouldn't risk such a risky and costly expedition. Despite the governor Charles de la Roncière's futile reassurances that the Roy would send reinforcements soon, Jean knew it was all in vain. Côte d'émeraude was left to its fate. He looked down towards Saint-Louis. The small town awaited the giant enemy that would wake it with the sound of its weapons. Jean got lost in his thoughts, watching small monkeys jumping from tree to tree and disappearing into the underbrush. Pierre snapped him out of his reverie, accompanied by a new arrival, a tattooed native with tied hair and only wearing a loincloth. Jean recognized him; he was a member of a small tribe that had refused to ally with the Pecarians and their indigenous allies, at least those who had survived. Jean shook his hand:

"Peopeo! Mon ami. How is the tribe?"

"Well, mon ami. My father greets you."

Peopeo and Pierre descended the cliff with determined steps, Pierre giving his colleague an insistent look.

"Come on. We're heading back to Besanciennes. We need to be there before nightfall. Peopeo will guide us."

Jean nodded and followed his companions down the muddy path leading downward. The three disappeared under the trees' foliage, under the inquisitive gaze of the carefree macaw watching them from its new perch.

[Pecario]

Benoît was sitting in the green grass. It had rained last night. The lush vegetation seemed to gradually emerge from its shower to let the purifying rays of the sun dry it. He was on a high point overlooking the beach of Saint-Louis. The crystalline water sent bright glimmers into his pensive eyes. In front of him, galleons were anchored, bearing the Pecarian flag. Benoît sighed and absent-mindedly threw a pebble into the clear water. It skipped before disappearing into the depths. He got lost for a moment in the flashes of the sea before a hand rested on his shoulder. Benoît turned his head to see Jean-Marc. He removed his hand and sat down next to him. He sighed before saying:

“We'll have to go soon…”

Benoît remained silent and continued to stare at the horizon. He nodded to show he had heard. Jean-Marc seemed satisfied because he got up and left, not without giving a friendly pat on Benoît's back. Benoît let himself fall into the green grass. He looked at the blue sky, pure, empty, only a couple of white clouds swayed by the winds disturbed the purity of the blue expanse. Chattering seagulls briefly flew over the sky before disappearing from Benoît's field of vision. He listened to the surrounding noises, dominated by sporadic footsteps and hoarse voices shouting in Iberic. Benoît slowly lifted his back and turned his head to the right. He saw a now familiar figure named Charles de la Roncière talking, looking worried, with three high-ranking Pecarians. His blue uniform was all crumpled, his famous mustache was all blackened and dishevelled, he had one arm in a sling. He seemed to have finished his discussion because he shook hands with the Pecarians and walked towards Benoît. He quickly turned his head away. He didn't feel like talking, to anyone, not now. Yet, he heard heavy footsteps in the grass and understood that the colonial governor was standing beside him. He turned his head to see him looking at the sea. He then rummaged in the pockets of his uniform and took out an ornate pipe. He smiled and lit it, blowing smoke towards the horizon. Smoking seemed to calm him, for his worried look softened. Neither of the two men spoke for a long time, only the surrounding noises and the waves lapping on the sand in front of them disturbed their silent dialogue. Then, Charles spoke, in a calm and articulate voice.

“Do you know Taren Beach? In Lysia? It's a beautiful place. It's where I met my wife, rest her soul. When I was little, I used to fish there every week with my father and brother. It was a good time. This beach reminds me of that place. Time has passed, I no longer fish, nor does my brother, and my father…”

Benoît saw that he was pensively nibbling on his pipe. A bitter light in his eyes. Charles cleared his throat before continuing:

“Let's not regret anything, young man. These moments are the most precious in the wurld. Let's cherish them. We don't know what the future holds.”

He glanced behind Benoît and then looked away. He threw a sidelong glance at Benoît.

“So think of a moment you cannot forget. One moment you cherish deep within you. It will reassure you. We did our job here. We could do no more. Such was our destiny. It was written. Now think of a good moment, soldier, and en avant ! Let's not keep them waiting.”

The governor took one last look at the ocean and turned around, his slow steps in the grass resonating for a moment in Benoît's ears. He slowly nodded. Charles's words, though simple, resonated deeply within him. They evoked memories of his own childhood, moments of peace and simplicity he had long forgotten. He thought of Isabelle, at the ball in Lyrie. Her smile, her red hair, her freckles, and her green eyes. Benoît smiled. The sun cast its last rays, the voices behind him grew louder. He heard several footsteps coming from behind. He turned and saw Jean-Marc, looking embarrassed, accompanied by two stern Pecarian soldiers. Benoît stood up and took one last look at the ocean. He thought of Isabelle.

“Vamos!” said one guard.

He followed them. He gave Jean-Marc a friendly pat on the back, and they joined the column of prisoners. Behind them, Saint-Louis still smoking, witnessing the conflagration that took place. The wind blew briskly and lifted the flag of the Lysian colony. The banner flew up over the ruins and trees before descending towards the sea. It landed on the warm sand of the beach and let the sea and the waves carry it towards the unknown.

[Pecario]

Under the crushing sun of the Emerald Coast, the atmosphere at the port was heavy, not only with heat but also with mixed emotions. The constant movement of Lysian colonists marked the time for farewells, as the Iberic galleons anchored in the calm bay, their imposing silhouettes reflected on the crystalline waters. Among them, a few discreet Lysian boats also awaited, ready to take the settlers who wished to leave for Florentia, the closest Lysian colony in the region.

In the distance, the remnants of Saint-Louis could be seen, the city that had valiantly resisted for months before finally succumbing to Iberic power. Now, its few remaining walls still bore the scars of battle. Yet, the city was already being reborn. Under the red and gold banners of the kingdom of Pecario, workers busily reconstructed what remained and built what would be, the sound of hammers and saws mixing with the cries of merchants and the laughter of children. Those who had chosen to stay were already scattered at their tasks. The former Lysian settlers seemed to be slowly adjusting to their new reality, accepting their fate, abandoning the mirage that was once their colony.

The atmosphere at the port was different. Those who were leaving prepared to board, casting one last glance at the land they had cherished and defended, but that had ultimately slipped from their grasp. Some smoked, pipes clenched between their lips, their gazes lost on the horizon, while others silently tended to their wives and children, burdened by thoughts too heavy to share. The air was thick, saturated with heat, but the occasional tropical breeze brought welcome relief, stirring the palm trees lining the bay and lifting the feathers of colorful birds that, oblivious, fluttered above, brightening the otherwise gray atmosphere that hung over the scene.

The Iberic guards lazily monitored the boarding process. They chatted among themselves, some with idle smiles, others exchanging a few words with Lysian officers. Once enemies on the battlefield, these men now greeted each other with a strange camaraderie, smoking together, exchanging handshakes sometimes marked by respect, sometimes by distrust. This bitter war already seemed distant to most, though in the eyes of a few, a quiet resentment lingered.

On a hill, slightly apart from the port and its bustle, François La Chapelle sat alone. He had found refuge on a granite rock, a serene lookout that overlooked the harbor. From his vantage point, the port appeared like a hive of activity, but he felt strangely distant from it. His eyes absent-mindedly followed the ships and the comings and goings of the colonists, but his mind was elsewhere.

He pulled the letter from his pocket, the letter that had reached him earlier that day by a ship from Lysia, now that the end of the war had lifted the blockade of the Bay and allowed mail to flow again after a long delay. The parchment still carried the scent of the past he had tried to escape, the bitter perfume of nostalgia. A weight settled in his chest. The bronze ring he had once given to her, a symbol of their youthful days, lay beside the letter. He rolled it between his fingers, a memory of simpler, calmer, more innocent times.

The warm breeze stirred the trees as a flock of seagulls rose into the clear sky. The voices of the colonists grew distant as François sank deeper into his thoughts. Here, far from the men, far from the bustling port filled with farewells and departures, François felt as though he were suspended in time. He took a deep breath and, with a hesitant hand, finally broke the seal on the letter.

---

Letter from Marie d'Angeville to François La Chapelle

Lyrie, September 1688

My dear François,

I hope this letter finds you well and alive.

It took me much time and courage to write these words, and yet I fear it may be too late, for both you and me. But perhaps fate has decided otherwise, granting me this last chance to speak to you through this letter. 

There was a dream in us, a dream of pure and infinite love, but now I see that it was only a mirage. It was beautiful and blinding, like those distant landscapes you chased relentlessly, with a thirst for adventure that consumed your soul. You were always searching for something, François, I always knew that. Was it freedom? Was it some inner peace you thought you could find in those wild lands? Perhaps you were trying to escape yourself, that guilt you never dared to name.

I still remember how you spoke of the colony of the Emerald Coast, as if it held the key to all your dreams. A new life, a new wurld, they said. But reality quickly tore away the veil of those illusions. Today, I imagine you in that besieged, starving colony. The Pecarians have cut all contact, and I hear terrible rumors here about what you must be enduring. In Lyrie, they will not intervene; Father told me so. They are either too afraid or too indifferent. Your fate no longer interests the aristocracy, nor anyone else, for that matter. This unequal war you’ve fought, this war that has shattered so many lives and dreams, has only confirmed what I always feared: you lost yourself in an impossible quest.

I often think of what we could have been, of the life we will never have. I mourn what we have lost, what we left behind even before you embarked on that distant land. Perhaps if we had had the courage to face our own demons together, everything would have been different. But you chose exile, and I remained, a prisoner of my own sorrow.

François, I do not write to blame you. I know you always believed you were doing what was right. But I have learned, in the solitude of these years without you, that some quests lead nowhere. And I fear the one that has bound you for so many years is one of those. You sought to escape your past, your pain, your guilt. But wherever you go, François, you can never flee from what you carry inside.

I once loved you with a deep, sincere, and powerful love, and I still love you, but in a different way. I love you with the tenderness of memory, with the softness of a grief finally accepted. I am no longer the young woman you left behind. I am someone else, just as you have become someone else. Perhaps this war has changed you as well, perhaps more than I could ever imagine.

I leave you this ring, a symbol of a love that was once so strong, but that, like our dreams, was perhaps only an illusion. Whether you choose to stay in this collapsing mirage or to leave for other horizons, know that I will never forget you. But it is time for me to say goodbye to what we once were. We are both free now.

I wish you peace, François. The peace you never found in those distant lands, the peace you did not find, it seems, by my side, and the peace you deserve. Wherever you are, whatever you decide, I hope you finally find what you have been seeking for so long.

Adieu, my dear François.

Marie d'Angeville

---

François remained still for a long time after reading Marie’s letter, the words tumbling in his mind. A sense of emptiness filled him. The letter now lay between his trembling hands, like a final link to whom he once was, to the life he had abandoned in pursuit of dreams of adventure and freedom. Slowly, with mute sorrow, he let the parchment slip from his fingers, the tropical wind gently carrying it away, lifting Marie’s words into the heavy, burning air.

The sun beat down on the hill, but François did not feel it. A strange mixture of relief and bitterness filled him. The dream was over, it had dissipated into the suffocating air. Marie was now just a memory, a shadow of the past. The love he once believed to be eternal had dissolved in the harsh reality of their separation. There was nothing left for him, neither in this colony nor anywhere else. The wind made the ring roll across the rock, the one he had once given to Marie. He left it there, in its place. He no longer needed it. Rising slowly, François cast one last glance at the port below. Down there, the Lysian settlers who had chosen to leave were busy boarding the ships, their silhouettes bent with fatigue and resignation. The sea sparkled under the midday sun, its shimmering waters seeming peaceful in contrast to the bustle of the bay.

As he descended the hill, a Lysian captain, his face marked by battle, an eye hidden under a bandage, approached him. His wrinkled uniform, stained with dried blood, bore witness to recent battles, to the desperate efforts to save what could no longer be saved.

“François, are you coming with us? There’s still room aboard, we’re heading to Florentia. I'll try to take the next boat there to Lysia. Nothing awaits us here.”

François looked up at the officer, his features tired and drawn, but imbued with a strange serenity.

“Non. Nothing awaits me there, either. I’m staying here. Adieu, mon ami.”

The officer, surprised by the reply, looked at him for a moment in silence, then nodded. Without a word, he extended his hand, a final sign of respect, a last recognition between two men who had shared battles and shattered dreams. François shook his hand, a firm but brief grip. 

“Adieu, La Chapelle. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

François nodded simply. Without looking back, he walked away, slowly descending toward the ruined town. The streets of Saint-Louis were alive with reconstruction, newly cut stones piled high, and workers hammering wood and stone, building a future under the colors of the Iberic kingdom. The houses were being rebuilt, but in François’ heart, everything was in ruins. As he walked through the bustling streets, he gradually blended into the crowd. He was just one man among many now, a survivor, a ghost of the past who had chosen to remain in the land that had both broken and freed him. He disappeared around the corner of the street.

[Pecario]

Lysia, Lyrie, Palais de Gervillon, February 1689

The heavy carved wooden doors of the Palais de Gervillon, located in the heart of Lyrie, opened loudly, revealing the delegation from the kingdom of Pecario. The audience hall gleamed with a golden glow, its walls adorned with portraits of Lydian historical figures, kings, and victorious heroes. But today, the heroes in these paintings seemed to silently observe a very different scene: the signing of a treaty marking the end of Lysian influence in Mesothalassa in a colony they had failed to defend.

The Lysian delegation, led by the Minister Charles de Villeroy, was already waiting at the other end of the long black marble table. He wore an indifferent, almost contemptuous expression, as if he was simply waiting for the ceremony to conclude. Beside him, a few powdered-wig officials exchanged discreet whispers, barely interested in the matter at hand. On the other side of the room, the Pecarian delegation entered, walking with a confident yet measured step. Their leader, Guillén Quispe, a man of noble bearing, dressed in a cloak adorned with eagle feather patterns, could not conceal his pride. Beside him was Hernando Ávila, Pecario’s chief diplomat, sporting a magnificent handlebar mustache he absent-mindedly stroked, along with several advisors. For them, this day marked a historic triumph: a young and growing kingdom had managed to defeat one of the greatest Europan powers of the time. Guillén Quispe cast a glance around the room. Every detail of the space, from the tapestries to the gilded chandeliers, seemed designed to remind visitors of Lysian grandeur. But today, that grandeur seemed like an illusion, a façade hiding a defeat that Lyrie preferred to ignore.

Villeroy, still standing, gave a slight bow as a formal greeting, but without any real warmth.
“Messieurs,” he said in a neutral tone, “I presume we are ready to conclude this matter.” His words dragged slightly, as if even the name Pecario weighed heavily on him. Guillén Quispe, locking eyes with the Lysian minister, replied calmly, but with a flicker of satisfaction in his voice:
“We are ready, Señor. This moment is a great honor for our young kingdom.”

Their gazes met, laden with unspoken meaning. For Villeroy, this war had been a minor loss, a skirmish in a distant part of the wurld that had never truly warranted Lysian attention. The colony of Côte d'Émeraude had never brought the crown the wealth or glory it had hoped for. But for Guillén Quispe and the Pecarians, this victory meant much more: it was proof that even an old and powerful kingdom could bend before the will of a determined people. The two sides finally sat around the table. In front of them lay a long, carefully drafted document: the Treaty of Saint-Louis, named after the ex-colony’s main city, which the Pecarians had renamed San Luis after their victory. The text stipulated that Lysia officially ceded the territory of Côte d'Émeraude to Pecario, ending all territorial claims in the region. The Lysian colonists who remained had a choice: leave for the lands still under Lysian control, such as Florentia, or stay as subjects of the King of Pecario.

Villeroy broke the silence:
“This treaty puts an end to an insignificant quarrel, and I believe we can all be glad for it.”
His tone suggested that he saw this peace as a mere formality, a distraction from more important matters in Lyria.

Guillén Quispe, maintaining his composure, responded:
“For Pecario, this is just the beginning. It was in Lysia's interest to abandon this colony. Our fight was a total victory.”

Villeroy raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. But for the Pecarians, these words carried heavy significance. Hernando Ávila, their chief diplomat, added with a hint of irony:
“We understand that Lysia doesn’t have time to concern itself with a small, distant war. But know that this victory will echo through Pecario’s mountains for generations.”

The Lysian minister did not reply, instead signing the document with a speed that betrayed his eagerness to conclude the matter. Quispe then approached, and with a certain solemnity, took the quill to add his own signature. For him, this gesture symbolized much more than a diplomatic agreement: it was confirmation that Pecario had triumphed not only on the battlefield but also in the eyes of the wurld. The two parties exchanged polite handshakes before each went their separate ways. The Pecarians left with victorious smiles, while the Lysians had already begun discussing other matters deemed more important, such as the ongoing construction of the Palais de Selzeaux.

Outside the palace, the city of Lyrie buzzed with activity. Merchants shouted their prices in the cobbled streets, and coachmen cracked their whips to navigate the crowded roads. Most Lysians had no idea what was happening inside the Palais de Gervillon. They had barely heard of this distant colony, and those who did knew little and cared even less. The war against Pecario had never garnered much interest, and the fall of the Côte d'Émeraude had been met with widespread apathy.

The conclusion of the war between Lysia and the young kingdom of Pecario was thus met with general indifference in Lyrie. For the Lysian aristocracy and ruling classes, this defeat was merely the loss of an insignificant colony, Côte d'Émeraude, a territory that had neither the grandeur of Florentia nor the valuable furs of Lysian Colombia. The conversations in noble salons, along with the rumors buzzing through the streets of the capital, focused on other matters: the next court dance, the construction of the Palais de Selzeaux, or the movements of Europan powers. History had passed its judgment—blood had been shed, but in the end, it was all for very little. The jaguar's claws had torn through the Emerald Coast. It was over.

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OOC : And so ends my expansion roleplay and the fall of the Lysian Emerald Coast. Let us now turn the page to new adventures.