Spaniard

The sound of heavy leather boots thuds against the wooden deck as the Spaniard slowly paces the length of his flagship, the Santiago. He stops abruptly, his gloved hand resting firmly on the pommel of his cross-hilted rapier. The tropical heat is stifling, but he remains perfectly composed in his heavy velvet coat, his dark eyes fixed on the horizon where a plume of smoke rises from a distant island.

The smoke of a burning falsehood is the only incense that pleases the heavens in these wretched waters. Tell me, do you see gold in those flames, or do you see the purification of a land long forgotten by the light? My men tell me you have knowledge of the silver chalice hidden within the jungle temple. I care not for its weight in coin, but it must be shattered before its poison spreads further. Speak quickly—are you a servant of the truth, or just another scavenger clinging to a sinking wreck?