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Come on in, hop a seat, settle in for a treat. I’ve a tale for ye, oh aye, t’wer a ‘orrible story indeed. Scare the flesh roight off yer wee pecker it will. Wot’s that now? Fancy yeself a brave lass do ye? Then ye ‘aven’t ‘erd no tale like this, ‘aven’t had yer lib’ral sensibilities proper ruffled now ‘ave ye lass? C’mere yeh sad puss, let ol’ Mad Pete wet yer ears, and wet yer tongue. Grab a dram, first one’s on me.

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A throng of white sails bobbed against a blue horizon, as one dozen ships from the Holy Kingdom of Nivium made their trek toward the uncharted realm. The Isle of Lugos, with its rocky spires stretching into the heavens, grew ever larger as the ships made their final approach. Black rocks jutted upward, as if the island was clawing at the sky. For centuries, mapmakers inked this land with a mere question mark. No expedition ever returned from its jagged shores, save for one man who claimed to have been imprisoned for years by the island’s monstrous inhabitants, hideous creatures who harbor a fortune beyond all measure. For a time, his fantastical tales captivated the imaginations of sailors and treasure hunters, while striking fear into others that the big bad island dwellers would some day make it to the mainland for murder and conquest. But the islanders never came, and no ships that embarked to meet them ever returned.

Captain Markus Bolsum sat alone in his cabin, reclining in his creaky oak chair, smoking his favorite tobacco blend out of a gnarled briar pipe, and reading the journals of the sailor turned mad by years of captivity at the hands of monsters. The stories were too bizarre to be true, but Bolsum hoped nonetheless to glean some details which may aid the expedition.

A knock came at his door. Bidden, his first mate entered the cabin.

“Captain, we’ve spotted land,” he said. He tried to maintain his professional demeanor, but couldn’t hide his excitement. He was a young man, eyes still sparkling with adventure, fingers tapping with anticipation against his thighs, eager to hold all the diamonds he could carry. If the stories were true, he’d return to the mainland as one of the richest men in all Nivium.

“Change heading,” the captain responded, not looking up from his reading, “Circumnavigate the island. We’ll make our approach from the south.”

“You think..”

“Our predecessors were all dashed on the north rocks,” the captain continued. “But our friend, Midshipman Pete - Old Mad Pete,” he added, waving the man’s journal in the air, “Seems his boat avoided that fate. We’ll do the same.”

His first mate nodded, and just a little adventure vanished from his eyes. The captain looked up from the journal and frowned.

“Sorry Tomas, the fables were just that. There’s no monsters here. Just rocks wrecking boats and killing good men,” the captain said in a sympathetic voice. “But,” he hesitated, then added, “when we get home you can tell all the lovely ladies the giants you slayed. I’m sure they’ll be impressed.”

Tomas bit his lip, saluted the captain, and left. He was greeted by a salty breeze as he stepped onto the deck of the NSS Intrepid, heard the cries of seagulls as they patrolled the distant shore. Across the waters on the island it began to rain, as though its onyx peaks shred the clouds and drew watery blood. Tomas allowed himself a momentary gaze at those evil mountains, just long enough to rekindle hope for adventure and monster slaying, and of course, untold riches. Satisfied, he collected himself, and relayed the captain’s orders to the helmsman.

The ships corrected course, trotting along the outer rim of what Old Mad Pete claimed were the danger waters. As they neared the Island’s southern edge, Captain Bolsum was summoned to foredeck. A spotter greeted him, and handed the captain a telescope. Bolsum extended it, and peered through the lens.

“Clear waters, safe approach,” he muttered. He nearly folded the scope, but the spotter touched the captain’s shoulder, gently guiding him to another item of interest. Bolsum studied the object, its graceful, sloping hills, large tropical trees, its warm, welcoming beaches; it was almost the polar opposite of its twin.

“A second island?” Bolsum said, turning toward the spotter.

“That’s roight sir,” the spotter replied, “not on any chart we ‘ave.”

“It’s on one chart at least,” Bolsum said, tapping his pocket which held the madman’s journal. “Right where he said it would be. Maybe Mad Pete wasn’t so mad at all,” he muttered to himself. He ran his fingers through his coarse black beard, plotting his next move. “Our mark is there,” he said, pointing to the tropical isle. “Signal the fleet, heading three zero.”

“Heading three-oh!” the spotter shouted in confirmation. The man turned, raised his hand, and flashed three fingers, followed by a zero sign. Repeat. Three, zero. Flags were raised with the corresponding heading, and the fleet turned course once again.

They closed distance. Behind them, the ominous isle stood black against an amber sky, the sun disappearing behind a great obsidian claw of malice. Death awaited the crew there, but they need not die that day. Death behind, fortune ahead. The choice was easy. Bolsum grinned. Mad Pete’s journals weren’t cheap to come by, but they were worth every pence. He chuckled to himself, his laughter the sound of gravel. Maybe Tomas would return home with his fortune after all. Fame, fortune, and-

“Women?!” the spotter shouted.

“What?” Bolsum seized the telescope and returned it to his eye. “My balls on toast,” he muttered with disbelief as he scanned the benevolent island’s sandy beaches. It was a sailor’s dream, dozens of women, helpless, certainly stranded, definitely desperate, generously proportioned, obscenely dressed, sunbathing on the shoreline. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. They were still there. Mad Pete never said anything about women. “Fuck me in all my sockets, what trickery is this?” Bolsum said, the gravel grinding in his throat. “Piss and cocks...”

“And breasts!” the spotter added. Bolsum smacked the man in his shoulder.

“Keep it together Samuels, and try not to gawk too hard,” the captain ordered, thrusting the telescope into the chest of its keeper. “But keep a close eye anyway,” he added in a low whisper. “I smell a trap. I need you alert, you follow?”

Samuels nodded. He had the keenest eyes in the fleet, and they would be at full attention in the days to come.

“Alright you sun-baked turds, listen up!” the captain shouted. The entire 600-man crew gathered on deck for his address. “We’re headed for shore. A landing party of 25 men shall secure the beach, scout conditions, and report back. Our eagle-eye has already spotted island natives. Women.”

The crowd gasped, then cheered.

“Quiet down!” the captain bellowed. “I know you’re all itchin’ to put yer peckers in somethin’ useful for a change, but it seems mighty possible to me these women are some sort of ploy to lead us into a trap. So I say we sneak our way to land at night, scope things out, and if all appears good and safe...” The captain paused for dramatic effect. “Let’s just hope there’s enough women to go around!”

The crowd burst into renewed cheer, turning into a rousing sea shanty whose lyrics are too unclean to put to paper.

“Smut!” a woman shouted above the crowd. “Degeneracy! Indecency!” She shoved her way between the men, marching with indignation toward the captain. “Profanity! Vulgarity! Impiety! Unreasonableness! Badness! Villainy! Um...” she stopped in front of Bolsum, searching for her next word.

“Misogyny?” Bolsum offered.

“Yes! And that!” she shouted, poking him in the chest before turning to face the crew. “Misogyny! Men should not speak so atrociously of women! You forget, while a man rules Nivium, a woman rules the heavens!” Her white priestly robes jostled as she waved her ritual staff in the air. “And the great goddess Marda will one day descend upon this realm, and she will SQUASH the patriarchy!”

“Oh God,” Bolsum muttered. “Not this again.” The captain considered tossing the woman overboard, but thought better of it. Maybe the locals will eat her. He grinned, imagining her in a large stew pot, with island women stirring chopped potatoes around her. Then he pictured the more likely reversal scenario, where he’s in the pot and she’s joining the natives. His grin disappeared. “Priestess,” he said, mustering whatever gentleness he could find within, “your moral clarity is truly Marda’s blessing to us.”

The priestess turned to face him. Her lips scrunched into an almost comical scowl, eyes narrowed to menacing slits, her gaze fixed slightly downward at the burly captain who she stood a few inches above. She was an imposing woman, tall, with stern features and strong hands. Very little else of her was discernible under her baggy, unflattering frock, even her hair was hidden completely under a ceremonial mitre. She had been a thorn in Bolsum’s side for months, but the church was a financier of the expedition, and her wishes had to be respected.

“I assure you, I am sending my advance guard to ensure these island women’s utmost safety,” the captain continued. “Though most of us have forgotten what a woman looks like, err - other women - the ones besides you, your ladyship. And in fairness, you have left much to the imagination,” he added, bobbing his head side to side as he surveyed her obnoxiously-proportioned robe.

“Captain Bolsum,” she began, regathering her composure, “I am a holy emissary, not an object of some salty sailor’s salacious fantasies.”

“Of course.”

“And I will be on the first boat to shore, where I can ensure these island women are treated by your crew with the utmost dignity and respect.”

“Wonderful,” Bolsum said, wearing his most insincere smile. “I’ll see to it you’re personally escorted by my most dependable man.” He looked over her shoulder at the gathering of his first-rate crew behind her. “It will be... Ummmm...” the men did their best to avoid eye contact, but poor Tomas was too slow to realize what was happening. The boy panicked, meeting eyes with the captain, shaking his head in a last ditch plea for mercy. “Tomas,” the captain decided. The boy’s head sunk into his jacket collar.

“Come, Tomas,” the priestess said, grabbing him by the arm and tugging him toward the rafts. “You can even carry my trunk of personal effects to the island.” The boy grit his teeth, glancing over his shoulder at the captain as the two walked off.

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“Oh okay, so what you’re saying is...” Bolsum squinted into the telescope, then turned back to Samuels. “What are you saying?”

“Look at the trees, Cap,” Samuels said.

“Alright.”

“Now look at the women.”

“Right.”

“Trees.”

“Yeah.”

“Women.”

“Yep.” Bolsum pondered the comparison for a moment longer, then ventured a guess. “Well. Seems pretty obvious to me. This island has some small-ass trees.”

“They’re palm trees,” Samuels insisted.

“Yeah, little ass palm trees.”

“And the women are just walking up and taking the coconuts - by hand - from the tops of those trees. Doesn’t that sound odd?”

“I don’t really know much about trees,” the captain muttered. “Do they make trees that small?”

“The women are fucking elephants, man!” Samuels exclaimed. “Coconuts look like bloody almonds in their hands!”

“Is there a problem?” the priestess asked from just behind the two men.

“No,” Bolsum said.

“Are there elephants on the island?”

“No,” Samuels said.

“Something wrong with the coconuts?” she pressed.

“No!” the two men shouted in unison.

“Fine,” she said, flitting her fingers in the air as though brushing the matter away. She slumped back into her seat aboard the raft, and covered herself in Tomas’ jacket. Sitting next to the priestess, her escort whispered silent curses as he shivered against the evening’s chilly breeze.

~ ~ ~ ~

That night the crew landed, disembarked the raft, and unloaded all the necessary supplies to make camp. Tomas grunted as he carried the priestess’ clothing chest. He stumbled awkwardly across the sand, then suddenly stopped.

Thump.

“Are you kidding me?” the priestess’ voice rang out. “You’re the best man he’s got? You can’t even carry my luggage! Pick that back up and.... Oh........ Oh my goddess....”

The entire landing party stood in quiet disbelief, all 25 crewmembers gawking upwards, frozen in fear. Two of the island natives emerged from the forest to greet the crew, they were twin sisters, blonde, buxom, leggy, clad in bikinis scrapped together from animal hides, and 30 feet tall.

“Samuels,” the captain whispered, “those are definitely regular-sized trees.”

~ ~ ~ ~

Well now, did ye get so scared yeh dropped yer anchor? Forgive me son, ‘at’s a bit o’ nautical talk for brownin’ ye trousers! Now don’t go runnin’ off just yet! ‘Ere’s more to the tale, I swear! This one’s got it all. Sex, vi’lence, betrayal, intrigue, emm... And fuckin’ and stuff. Stick around!

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