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"The Jaguar's Claws" (Expansion IC)

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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 by Pecario
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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.

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  • 4 months later...

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.

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