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"As soon as I give them the last update, I'm done!" xD

And Canonized, for your own mental health, self esteem, whatever.. don't even try bringing that up as a defense.. You might be shocked by the effect.


One thing you can be sure of though: NOT updating certainly reduces your life expectancy :p


I kid, I kid...








..or do I?
 
Lol, you make it sound as if stalling the AAR was your only chance to stay alive :p

"As soon as I give them the last update, I'm done!" xD

And Canonized, for your own mental health, self esteem, whatever.. don't even try bringing that up as a defense.. You might be shocked by the effect.


One thing you can be sure of though: NOT updating certainly reduces your life expectancy :p


I kid, I kid...








..or do I?

We should stop. We'll scare him from the Paradox forums altogether :D

Haha , I thought you guys would be happy with the trailer for a few days ! But fine XD I should have the update between now and tomorrow .
 
Forzaa is clearly evil.

But the trailer was nice
 
*Adopts movie trailer guy voice*

TIMELINES!

You've seen the trailer...

Now see the update...



Oh wait... :p

Hurry up, daddy needs his crack fix! :rofl:
 
I won't challenge the evil-ness charge... But I'd like to know more about the "clearly".. since that's obviously not part of the plan.

Aren't you Dutch? So the evil-ness is clear by fact...;):p
 
*Adopts movie trailer guy voice*

TIMELINES!

You've seen the trailer...

Now see the update...



Oh wait... :p

Hurry up, daddy needs his crack fix! :rofl:

haha working on it ! it's actually almost done !

I won't challenge the evil-ness charge... But I'd like to know more about the "clearly".. since that's obviously not part of the plan.

Aren't you Dutch? So the evil-ness is clear by fact...;):p

Haha a zinger XD
 
Excellent couple of chapters! A pity poor Giles was killed, but I'm sure he's death was worth and he'll be avenged. As for the most recent chapter, I was left speechless. Superb naval battle and... a shower scene! Great work canonized. Now I'm join my comrades in the plea for a quick update! :)
 
Excellent couple of chapters! A pity poor Giles was killed, but I'm sure he's death was worth and he'll be avenged. As for the most recent chapter, I was left speechless. Superb naval battle and... a shower scene! Great work canonized. Now I'm join my comrades in the plea for a quick update! :)

Thank you very much ! Update is actually 90% finished ! I just need to proofread , add the picture , and upload . thanks for the wait and glad to see you liked the past few updates :D
 
Thank you very much ! Update is actually 90% finished ! I just need to proofread , add the picture , and upload . thanks for the wait and glad to see you liked the past few updates :D

I'm sure you won't dissapoint us with the upcoming update. You left me quite intrigued with some things from the previous chapters. ;)
 
I'm sure you won't dissapoint us with the upcoming update. You left me quite intrigued with some things from the previous chapters. ;)

Oh ? XD Such as ?
 
Oh ? XD Such as ?

You know, this and that. The fire in London, the outcome of the naval battle, this guy that appeared in Braun's house. Wondering if we'll have another shower scene soon :D You know, that kind of stuff ;)
 
temporarypuzzleplate3.jpg


Chapter CXXXIX: Recognizing Faces​

14 April 1643

**Special Guest Calipah Portion**

She looked at him with her green feline eyes, her rose-colored lip half bitten, a droplet of a consumed grape playfully tracing its way to the bottom of her chin. Gently, she pulled back her luxurious black curl and tucked it behind her ear whilst sipping from the crimson wine glass. They were sitting in the middle of the gardens; a moonlit night illuminated the fountain at their side as the budding roses quietly swayed with the passing of the midnight breeze. She licked her lips, a premonition of ta’arouf, of tender teasing and merriment.

“I am a sculptor, a molder of form” she whispered playfully with a near drunken smirk.

“In every moment I shape an idol” he retorted “but then, in front of you, I melt them down. I can rouse a hundred forms and fill them with spirit, but when I look into your face.”

She smiled, though a hint of sadness hung around her now “I want to throw them in the fire,” she finished.

He clasped her hands in his reassuringly “My soul spills into yours and is blended. Because my soul has absorbed your fragrance, I cherish it.” She drew closer to him, her head now resting on his broad shoulder, her breathing now subsumed with the lyrics of Rumi. They swayed for a moment in utter silence, and nay for the distant droning of God’s insects, they were utterly alone under the suspended canvas that was the brilliant firmament above them.

He sighed and continued warily “Every drop of blood I spill informs the earth, I merge with my Beloved when I participate in love. In this house of mud and water, my heart has fallen to ruins. Enter this house, my Love, or let me leave.” She let out a hushed sob. Delicate tears began to stream from her eyes, her hands convulsing into tiny little grips of frustration. This was the poem he sang to her many years ago, under the nightingale’s gaze in Samarkand.

Days past of gaiety and youth, to be replaced by present sorrow and age. He held her tightly, closing his eyes as he uttered meaningless words of reassurance, the ‘tut tut’s one intones into the ear of a crying child. He caressed her long black hair, kissing her forehead over and over again. This was their last night together, and it would be months, perhaps even years, before they could meet once more. That is, if God willed that he would survive this tribulation, this test.

“You mustn’t go” she whimpered from under his chest “you mustn’t go.” Her movement bumped the wine glass lightly over the stone ridge of the fountain into the pool. It submerged wistfully, and with it spread the bloody hue of the Elburzi wine into the dark waters. A stain of death. He stared at it for a moment and then looked at her sternly.

“Mein ghalib, please make not this task harder than it already is –“

She screamed “Our son will die to the executioner’s scimitar and you go off to war? You abandon me here?!” she gritted her teeth “I have been tricked by flying too close to what I thought I loved. Now the candleflame is out, the wine spilled, and the lovers have withdrawn somewhere beyond—“ He arose stoically, and cast her a pained look. She, battered by the dual loss of husband and son, curled up feebly by the cold stone ledge, a pathetic cowering creature, a suspended image forever chiseled in the eternal tabula, a Karbala incarnate.

Women suffer, that is how it is, and that is how it shall always be. He puffed up with indignant rage “Khakeh pat'am” he yelled, letting the words dwell in the outer reaches of the stars “I am the dirt on your feet!” he growled “and you say this?!” He gave her his back. She continued to cry, her hands now covering her sodden face. “I go at the whim of the Shahinshah…” he sneered “this was supposed to be our last night together. OUR night, mein ghalibi, before I depart to some distant god-forsaken land and you decide to leave me with this burden of guilt?!I know of our son, but Allahu Akbar, you are merciless” he bit his hand as a tear rolled down his cheek “An assassin’s blade offers more quarter! Thank you dully a thousand times you have opened my eyes” he shook his head, ambivalent to her weak but growing supplications. “I love you, but I cannot come to look at you now, so let us spare ourselves empty farewells. It matters little that I live or die, for I have been murdered here in my own house by the treachery of words” he walked away as she howled into the night, his solid foot crushing a feeble grape as he briskly made his way into the mansion. He never looked back.

Farazdaqi Farazdaqi, You caught the cat by its tail, you caught the cat by its tail, Farazdaqi Farazdaqi, it claws you, it claws you, Farazdaqi Farazdaqi, you bleed, you bleed, Farazdaqi Farazdaqi

A booming canon cut through the fabric of his thoughts. He opened his eyes wildly, his vision blurry, and looked at his hand. A pistol was lodged there comfortably in his sweaty palm. Why? He could sense the movement of shadows around him, shots fired in slow motion at every direction. Where was he? He hears a voice calling him, at first merely a mumble, and now an audible “Mein Admiral! Admiral Farazdaqi, sir!” He turned to the source and looked at his aide, the Gulani Qubtan, who now asked in a worried tone “are you alright, sir?”

Now he remembers. Isphani. At an instant, everything was restored to its normal speed, the quick paced skirmishes of confused combatants, wayward bullets and the barrage of hastily armed canons. He assumed his commanding air and barked multiple orders, trying to make up for lost time. His men had already set up planks to the enemy deck, fighting their way across, scimitar locked in sword, in a desperate tango with Isphani sailors over the perilous waters. Amidst this, a couple of his men assaulted the enemy ship by swinging on ropes tied unto the beams.

Yet the Isphani were putting up a stalwart defense. “Naffatun!” he shouted. At his command, a number of his men began to lob little orbs unto the enemy’s side. As the balls successfully made their journey across, they rolled nonchalantly for a few moments on the enemy’s deck before imploding in a dazzling display of fire and gunpowder. Engulfed in fire, the sailors of the doomed San Sebastian were caught off-guard.

With that breathing hole, the Admiral quickly relayed the signal for attack. His men surged forward and boarded the ship, and the Isphani –now hectically trying to put out the growing flames as well as fending off the Persians – were overwhelmed. The Habsburg standard was saved by a feather-light Persian sailor, and simultaneously with it, and to the total surprise of the Admiral, they had captured the enemy commander.

A double victory! The untamed and feral cries of joy emanating from the mouths of his men were startling, and he could hear in its wake the jubilant cheers of other Muslim ships across the Almeria. Heartened by the capture of the Isphani flag, the Persians redoubled their efforts, and, at the very same sight, the Isphani gave way to desolate dread at seeing their flagship overtaken.

“Bring him to me” he said with a wide and beaming grin. His aide bowed and yelled out in a hodgepodge of Turkish and Arabic garble to the men who were already making an orderly withdrawal from the doomed vessel. Once they abandoned the ship, the sailors dismantled the planks and steered their flagship away with the placid pushes of their pedals against the burning Isphani hull. He examined the crest-fallen Admiral, a startled and bewildered look on his face. “Welcome Commodore van Ossel'” he said in accented Castilian “I thought a Dutchmen such as yourself would join the uprising against the Spanish yoke” the Admiral rolled his R’s in the Middle Eastern fashion, enunciating the words as any late-learner of the language would.

He appraised the Admiral. A wrinkled face, wisdom borne of experience. He was old, this man, much like himself, and perhaps yearned, like him as well, to the freedom of retirement and early release. But how would one know if this was true? “Sardakuar, secure his person and his weapons. Qubtan, you may direct the cleanup of the enemy fleet. You are the commander now.”

**End Special Guest Portion**

One of the two Dutch observers who, until then had been watching quietly, now walked to the Persian Admiral's side. Upon seeing him, Admiral Farazdaqi grinned triumphantly and was about to loudly proclaim the victory but the Dutch representative moved forward to the captured enemy commander and glared at him contemptuously. There was a flare of recognition as he observed the other's face. “I knew the Spanish had become desperate when they hired someone like you, Ossel,” the representative ground his teeth as he spoke. “You are a traitor to your countrymen: a dishounorable collaborator. All of Holland is ashamed to have a bastard son like you,” and here the representative spat at Ossel's shoe before turning around. Farazdaqi had just watched along with the rest of his staff around him quietly stunned by the little performance and unable to understand the heated Dutch language that the representative growled out.

The captured Admiral was visibly exhausted. Small cuts and bruises spotted his expression and the residue of warfare and gunpowder stained his uniform. That face that had assaulted him with those words drew lines of recognition in his brain and he immediately remembered the Dutchman's name and office. Ossel slouched against the restraining grip of the Sardaukar attending him and slavered some words at the retreating representative in their native tongue. “Who's the real traitor, Admiral De With?” he said those last words with an unsteady tongue. “You speak of keeping our people free, yet you wish to discard one master only to crawl in bed with the heathens. I should have known I'd find you here—you would sink so low as to have the Persians do your dirty work for you. No wonder it's Tromp they chose to command the real Dutch sailors--”

Ossel stopped shortly as the other Dutchman had turned and raised his arm menacingly with a fist. It was only the Persian Admiral's steady grip locked on the Dutchman's elbow that stopped a sure blow. “I will not have my guests fighting amongst themselves, gentlemen,” the Persian spoke in the Spanish tongue between his teeth with a grave grin—something they could all understand.

De With fumed hot air out of his nose before lowering his arm. The overbearing grin of the Persian admiral was enough to subdue him and he turned once more to rejoin the rest of the Dutch entourage that had joined the Persian's flagship. Admiral Farazdaqi now turned to his prisoner. “I apologize,” the Persian smirked slightly, “your countrymen can be quite excited at times when they're not on their own ships, Commodore Ossel, but where are my manners. Mein Commodore, the man who has achieved the victory of blood over the sword, Zafardar Al-Farazdaqi from the fair city of Shiraz,” he introduced himself with a generous bow.

Van Ossel tried to straighten himself up as best as he could although there was a sharp pain along his right rib from the fighting. “You already know who I am,” Ossel replied curtly, “no doubt from your spies.” Ossel relieved himself from the grip of the Sardaukar as he stood up as best he could.

“Indeed,” the opposing Admiral smiled as he waved for chairs to be ready for them. “Please, sit,” the Admiral invited Ossel.

“I'd prefer to stand,” Ossel grunted, but both men knew exactly the reasons: Ossel was still watching the continuing engagement on the almost calm seas in front of a blazing Cadiz. The cracks and thuds of cannons still pervaded the air and every now and again a grey veil of smoke passed the deck of the Persian flagship like an angry phantom subduing their noses with acrid char. The Persian host waved away the little servants who had brought the other Admiral's chair.

“It wasn't just your name that our spies were able to gather. I heard you were going to retire,” Farazdaqi stated while servants placed a table between them as well as serving rose tea.

Ossel looked out at the fiery vessels left to sink while screams of men and cannon still reverberated far off in the distance. He counted that half the fleet had already sunk or was burning. When the other Admiral's words penetrated his thoughts he pulled off one of his gloves and started rubbing the back of his neck. “After delivering supplies to England, I would have finally gone home,” Ossel groaned as he averted his eyes from the painful sight to his captor.

“You serve a merciless master that doesn't reciprocate your dedication,” Farazdaqi added lowly as he passed his lips to his cup. His eyes were not facing the Admiral but had been watching the reduction of the Spanish vessels quietly. His words were stagnant, as if he was more talking to himself than to Ossel. His mind wandered to the mountains of his home city shining like bright beveled mirrors. He could recognize the misty faces of his family as he looked up at the looming clouds over the ocean. It was like a part of the Persian Admiral suddenly evaporated and he sunk a little into his seat. His mood had changed and he drifted his eyes along the swaying horizon listlessly. “Do you have any children, Mein Admiral?” he asked cautiously.

“No,” Ossel replied simply but there was a tension in the Dutchman's voice that made the denial fall like a broken chord. “I'm assuming you do, however,” Ossel tried to recover.

“Just a son,” Farazdaqi said while covering his frown with another sip from his tea. He quickly motioned for his servant to bring over the hookah.

“You're far away from your son, Admiral. You should be at home with him instead of bothering an old man hoping to retire here,” Ossel said before looking out towards the waves himself.

Farazdaqi rubbed his lips together and reached out for the end of the hookah pipe. “It's for my son that I'm here, Admiral. I have won a great victory and hopefully this means that the Shahinshah will spare my son from execution.” Farazdaqi curled a sardonic grin as he kissed the end of the pipe to take the smoke into his mouth. Ossel turned his head curiously to his host, but Farazdaqi continued on. “It's punishable by death, you know, in my country... to have your son elope with one of the Shahinshah's daughters. My son is lucky enough that his father is a good seaman that the Shahinshah cannot so easily discard...”

Ossel looked at the other Admiral quietly. Where the once exuberant commander was on his heels exulting after the rush of battle, Ossel now saw a man not too much younger than himself with his black turban sinking ponderously along his brooding eyebrows. The smoke that now curled up from his lip looked as if it was seeping into the creases that faulted along his skin. “You seem relieved,” Ossel couldn't help but say as he stared at his opponent.

The Persian looked up at him almost startled and straightened up slowly in his seat. “I'm just exhausted,” Farazdaqi almost laughed but was content just to let some smoke rise out from the corner of his mouth like some spent dragon. “I put all of my energy into winning this, and yet it will still be up to the Shahinshah if he wishes to take my son's life. But then I can do nothing but do whatever I can...”

Ossel looked at the other man for a few moments. Looking around also, he saw that none of the others seemed to be looking at their Admiral: they would either look out to the sea at the ongoing action or stare blankly forward according to their duty. When Ossel looked back again to his host, he saw Farazdaqi attempt a smile, but it quickly faded.

“When I said I did not have a son,” Ossel began to say, though he was not sure why, “I meant that I don't have one right now. I had one once; and a wife. Both died at the birth of the boy.” Farazdaqi's eyes shifted to Ossel's quickly. “Perhaps I'll have that chair now,” Ossel added with a tired smile. Farazdaqi hesitated for a moment and then quickly waved his servant to provide a seat for his guest.

“Our holy men say,” Farazdaqi began relaying as Ossel took his seat, “that those who die at childbirth are birds of paradise.”

“Maybe,” Ossel grunted as he leaned back on the cushioned wooden chair, “but I didn't think so at the time: not when my wife died as well. Ever since then I cursed at God and married the sea instead. I ran the trade routes between Manila and Amsterdam.” The Admiral paused as he examined the teacup sufficiently before sipping it—how he wished it was Brandy instead. “I might have fathered another son—I'm not sure,” he gave a silly chuckle at that. “At the time I wasted the swarthy nights in the company of Indian women or mistresses of the beaches that were hungry for Spanish gold or a tall man. Those were the kinds of bitter children I had with the ocean... salt-water tears and salt-water sweat.”

Farazdaqi shifted the smoke inside of his mouth with his tongue before releasing it into the air. “So why did you enter into the service of the Spaniards?” he could not help but ask. “You could have stayed at sea all you wanted.”

“Because he's a coward who was seduced by the heads of Spanish kings minted on coins!” came a disturbance from down the deck. The Dutchman De With sneered once more as he looked at Ossel from where he stood along the edge of the ship.

Farazdaqi, obviously perturbed, glared at his other guest. “A coward does not fight until he exhausts himself on a sinking bridge nor does a greedy man who only thinks of Spanish gold charge against an enemy armada with a half worn flotilla,” he chastised the Dutchman who turned back to the ocean angrily. Farazdaqi turned with an apologetic frown to Ossel.

“I'm afraid our friend Vice-Admiral De With is correct in this case. I had joined at first because I needed money. My company was failing—mostly due to the large sums I wasted on rum and women and not enough on maintaining ships and crew. At the time, the Spanish were offering quite a bit of money for mediocre seamen so long as they had experience being captains or officers so I went. But after a while, the reason I was there changed. Even though I couldn't describe what it was, I stayed with the fleet. I was never too good of a commander so it took a very long while for me to advance to this rank.”

“Do you know what it is now?” Farazdaqi asked him gently, coaxingly, as if he was watching a tree grow. “What it was that gives you courage and conviction?”

Van Ossel smiled as he looked out at the failing light of the day, but his smile quivered gently in the harsh cold salt-wind. He clenched his mouth together firmly for a moment before speaking. “I found it out on that bridge,” Ossel let out painfully as he gripped his glove in his fist. That smile forced itself again on his tired face stretching it into creases along his brow and under his eyes, but already he could not hold back the burning sensation behind his eyes. “My flag captain was a younger officer. Pied, a Frenchman. He was from another 'conquered' land. Today he gave his life for a Dutch Admiral in the service of Spanish governors.” Ossel paused respectfully. “Pied believed in something that united Frenchmen and Dutchmen with those Spanish sailors. It was something greater than the lions and the castles and the chains and the stripes and the eagles and crowns that flew above us... I had seen it before on my tours. When I had been just a merchant I only saw my own people and the occasional foreigner, but on those Spanish fleets, there was something growing there. A kinship that made me regard that Frenchman as my brother.

“At that moment I realized that all this time I had been staying with those men because I felt like I had to help them somehow, but I was too jaded and too blinded by the scars in my heart to see it for what it was. I understand how you feel, sir, because I feel it too: love of family. I feel it because I know somewhere in Gascogne or Provence, Pied's sons and wife are waiting for him and it is for them that he resists invaders. When I held up the flag, when I gave them orders. I felt like I was protecting them as well: my grandchildren and daughters-in-law. I wanted them to inherit the kind of kinship Pied and I had.” Ossel cast down his eyes. “But, as you can see, I have failed them today... All I could do was watch my next of kin succumb to a scimitar aimed for me.”

Farazdaqi looked at his counterpart intently. There was a vast silence between the two of them as if evening had come early on the ocean and hid them from each other with a black quiet. A cough interrupted his examination of Ossel. Turning to the direction of the noise, he noticed his Qubtan standing next to him. “What is it? Have you finished off or chased off the rest yet?” the Admiral asked quietly.

“Sir...” the Qubtan replied slowly, “I'm afraid it's not over... the Spanish have sunk five of our ships and are launching a counter-attack as we speak...”

Farazdaqi stood up quickly and grabbed the spyglass out of the Qubtan's fingers. Extending it, he nearly jabbed himself through his eye as he looked out towards the dimming horizon. The tattered banners of the Spanish Habsburgs were flapping angrily in his direction.

“You're relieved, Qubtan. I'll deal with the rest of this.”

interlude2.gif


Interlude​

“Well!” Lei said with a finalizing single clap of his hands, “you should look more relieved, Dr. Braun! I'll deal with the rest of this for you.” He smiled as he calmly approached the living room that was separating him from the professor.

“Stay where you are!” Dr. Braun said quickly as she continued to aim the weapon at him and struggling to keep the towel hoisted on her body.

“Trust me,” Lei started saying, “if I could find where they are, the others can. Trey's not safe here.”

Dr. Braun seemed bewildered and she clasped onto her weapon as if it was the only thing anchoring her to some sense of reality. “You're going to stay where you are--” she tried to repeat.

“Are you going to shoot me, Dr. Braun?” Lei asked incredulously. Lei could already see the professor quivering although that could have been the work of the morning chill against her recently soaked body. “I know you wouldn't shoot someone, Dr. Braun. Not you of all people. I know you're going to listen to what I need to say.”

---​

“So what do you think we should do now?” Trey asked as he leaned a bit more forward looking down the gentle hill that separated the house from the lake.

“I'm not sure,” Randall replied honestly. “Dr. Braun said we should probably stay here until she can figure out what's going on.”

“I can't ask her to do that,” Trey said quickly.

“It's not like we can do much else,” Randall shrugged groggily as he slouched some more onto his own lap. “I don't know how much I can even trust the police at this point... I have no idea what's going on.”

Trey looked out once more at the still water of the lake. The children that had been playing were already returning to their homes along the other sides of the lake: no doubt their parents had called them in for toast and orange juice. Trey pushed himself off the edge of the wooden rampway and rose to a standing posture. Randall looked up tentatively before following suit.

Without a word, Trey turned to walk back up to the house with Randall behind him. It was then that Dr. Braun, with a towel dangling precariously over some her body, burst out of the sliding glass doors. “Run!” was the only thing she said. “Run!” she repeated as a dark figure seemed to come up behind her.

Before Trey could even react, Randall's arm had grabbed his shoulder and twisted him around. Two pairs of shoes slammed against wood as both wound their way down the path. Randall banked left and nearly pushed Trey one of the edges, but Trey hopped the small gap between the last ramp and the shore of the lake and made it to where Randall had pulled him. Both began sprinting down the side of the body of water hidden from view by a tall embankment. Dr. Braun watched them with a worried expression before turning back to the room.

Sporadic applause greeted her and a smiling Lei moved a few steps closer. “Nicely done, Professor. You made the right choice. Shall we have some breakfast?”

“No more games,” Dr. Braun protested pulling the towel tighter around herself while pointing her pistol once again in Lei's direction. “I listened to what you said so now you're going to tell me what happened. Where are you trying to push them to?”

Lei touched his chin curiously and narrowed his eyes as he looked up intently. “I guess... you could call it a trap.”

Chapter CXL: It's A Trap! (coming soon)
 
As I knew, you didn't dissapoint me canon, Caliph's contribution was very good, I really enjoyed his descriptions and the atmosphere he created. The conversation between Ossel and Farazdaqi was really interesting and the conclusion of that section of the chapter, with more Spanish ships coming, was just magnificent. And what to say about the second part. This Lei character is quite intriguing and I'm really wanting to hear what he has in his mind. As always, excellent done!
 
There better be a picture of Admiral Ackbar for the next update...:D
 
The naval battle was beautiful and Calipah is a god of romantic prose.

Something important happened among the roar of cannon. I'm sure you'll tell us more about it later.

And I was spot on about San Sebastian, no?