Crosswind. The Beginning of the Story

[visual obsidian]

This is a short tale of events that unfolded long before the game begins. Think of it as an old map—simple at first glance, yet every line points to hidden mysteries and new adventures.
I don’t claim to be a writer, just someone who wanted to put these thoughts into words. If this story resonates with you, there will surely be more to come.
I’d be glad to hear your thoughts—feel free to share your opinion about this story; it would mean a lot to me.

Chapter One. In the Heart of the Jungle
The jungle descended upon the detachment with a heavy, suffocating canopy. It seemed that the giant trees themselves—grim sentinels of the ages—were holding their breath, unwilling to tolerate the presence of outsiders. The air, thick and sticky as if sealed in a glass jar, was saturated with the spicy bitterness of decayed foliage, the sickly-sweet fragrance of tropical flowers, and the heavy stench of marshy earth. Lianas intertwined with roots rose as insurmountable barriers; moss, like green velvet, wrapped trunks and boulders. Every step betrayed them with a treacherous rustle, and even the murmur of distant water—a silver thread in the ocean of green—sounded here as an ominous reminder that life existed beyond this tomb-like silence.

Two soldiers at the front hacked their way through the thickets with effort. Behind them moved the rest of the unit, slow and weary, stooping under the weight of their soaked clothing. Their worn and tattered uniforms bore silent witness to the long and grueling path they had already endured through this wild maze.
“How much longer are we going to wander in this damned green hell?” muttered a red-haired soldier hoarsely, struggling to catch his breath. His sun-scorched face, carved by fatigue, reflected despair. “Feels like we’ve been off course for days.”

“Quiet, Walsh,” the lieutenant retorted, adjusting the musket on his shoulder and scanning the ranks. “Our duty is to guard Mr. Harrington. Watch the path and don’t ask questions no one can answer.”
“Yes, sir,” Walsh grumbled reluctantly, but then shook his head and added, “By my honor, we’re marching in circles.”
“In these jungles, soldier,” the officer cut him off, “you may lose much, but never discipline.”
Harrington, walking ahead, paid no attention to the exchange. His mind was absorbed by maps, notes, and fragments of manuscripts. His keen gaze sought to pierce the green curtain of the forest and catch signs of a long-vanished civilization. He was an explorer by calling and a scholar by trade, a man whose name already echoed through the salons of Europe thanks to daring journeys where no European had yet set foot. It was to him that the British East India Company had entrusted the leadership of this secret and perilous expedition. The soldiers sensed their mission carried immense importance, but none of them knew its true purpose.
About a month earlier, a small ship had sailed out of Port Royal. For two long weeks, His Majesty’s brig Suffolk crossed the Caribbean Sea before finally reaching the wild shores of the Spanish Main. Then, for another week, the Suffolk glided along the coast, searching for the bay marked on Mr. Harrington’s half-decayed map. It was there that the harsh trail began, leading deep into the heart of the jungle, where, according to the diary’s entries, the expedition’s ultimate destination lay hidden.

Since then, another week of wandering had passed—through lianas and thorny shrubs, across swamps and bogs that clutched at their feet and greedily drained their strength. Many men’s confidence faltered; even the most steadfast began to grumble. It was the eighth day of their arduous journey. The detachment marched in silence, broken only by the labored breathing of exhausted men mingling with the sounds of the wild. The weight of the march bore down on each of them, and it seemed this endless green labyrinth would never let them go.
Suddenly, Harrington stopped and pointed to the roots of a giant tree.
“Look,” he said, his voice tinged with triumph. “These stones, this ledge, and that slab—clearly shaped by human hands… It means the goal is closer than you think.”
The unit revived, inspired by his words, and pressed onward, forcing their way through thorny bushes. The sound of water grew louder, and soon they emerged on the bank of a narrow but swift river.
“Rest,” the lieutenant ordered curtly. “Fill your flasks and catch your breath.”
The soldiers eagerly drank—some from flasks, some cupping their hands. They washed away sweat and dirt, then allowed themselves a brief moment of respite. One sank onto a rock, another pulled off his boots and plunged his weary feet into the icy water, as though blessed by heaven after the punishing march.
“Damn it, I’d give a month’s pay for a mug of ale at a Port Royal tavern,” Walsh muttered, sitting on a fallen log.
“And I’m sure,” his comrade remarked with a smirk, “you’d gladly sell your soul for a bottle of rum. So at least be glad you’re still breathing.”

Harrington sat a little apart, unrolling a scroll with darkened edges. The paper had lost its freshness, but the lines, written in Spanish, could still be deciphered. These were pages found in a Seville monastery, lost fragments of Columbus’s diary. Between the lines lay cryptic words: “…a power that shall tame the waves and grant dominion over the seas… a key hidden in stone…”
How such documents had ended up in British hands, Harrington neither knew nor wished to know. Those who had delivered them made it clear: such questions were far too dangerous.
He traced a finger across the lines, frowned, then rolled up the scroll and rose. His mind knew no rest—too much suggested they were close to a revelation: stone outcrops, jagged ridges of hills.
Harrington approached the lieutenant. His voice was restrained but resolute:
“Time waits for no one. We must press on.”
“The men are spent,” the officer frowned, glancing at the soldiers greedily savoring their rare moment of peace. “Without rest, we’ll make it only halfway.”
“Every minute of delay could cost us success,” Harrington countered.
The lieutenant met his gaze, cold and demanding, then nodded. A moment later, his commanding voice rang out:
“Rest is over! To your positions!”
The soldiers reluctantly rose, pulled on their boots, and checked their weapons. The moments of respite vanished, and stern marching discipline reigned once again. The detachment was ready to delve deeper into the heart of the jungle.

The trail—if it could be called that—wound among trees and thorny undergrowth. The ground beneath their feet was damp and springy, roots snagged at boots, and long lianas clutched at weapons and uniforms, as though the forest itself sought to detain the intruders. The soldiers marched in silence: weariness weighed upon them, dampness seeped beneath their skin, and the constant strain robbed them of any desire for talk.
The sun was sinking toward the horizon. Its light barely pierced the dense canopy above, and twilight thickened on the ground, turning every rustle into a harbinger of danger. Harrington walked at the front beside the lieutenant, carefully scrutinizing every stone and vine. Amid the chaotic jumble of moss-covered rocks, he spotted something that could not be the work of nature. Straight lines and even planes stood out too sharply against the wild landscape.
“Look,” he said quietly, pointing to a barely visible ledge hidden beneath moss. “That is clearly the work of human hands.”

The lieutenant frowned but held back his comment. The soldiers exchanged glances, as though they had suddenly felt the breath of antiquity.
Step by step, the thickets thinned. The wind carried the smell of raw stone, as if it had broken free from the earth. Birds fell silent, insects chirped more softly, and a hush settled over the unit like an invisible shroud.
Soon a rise loomed before them. But it was no hill. Through the green cover emerged ruins: fragments of walls entwined with lianas, remnants of masonry touched by time. Ancient moss cloaked the stones, yet through it the faint traces of carvings could be discerned.
The closer they came, the clearer the shapes became. Tall columns, cracked and blackened, seemed to struggle to hold up an invisible vault. Upon their surfaces symbols and bas-reliefs could be made out: coils of serpents and birds, strange figures of beasts, and faces—whether gods or demons—distorted in a silent scream.

The stone walls were eaten with cracks like old scars, but the aura of former might still lingered in them. The entire place breathed menace and mystery, as if time itself had halted, leaving the ruins to bear witness to a bygone grandeur.
The lieutenant turned to his men. His voice was stern but controlled:
“Stay alert. Places like these always harbor danger.”
“Indeed,” Harrington confirmed curtly. In his eyes burned a spark of impatience. He approached a half-ruined column and ran his hand across the carvings: serpents and waves intertwined in a complex pattern, as though leaving clues for those who sought the way. He nodded to the lieutenant:
“We must examine the ruins thoroughly. Somewhere here must be an entrance.”
“Spread out!” the lieutenant ordered. “Search everything, check every corner. If you find anything—report at once!”
The soldiers dispersed and began their search of the ruins. One inspected cracks in the masonry; another struggled through a thicket of ferns. They tapped slabs with musket butts, listened for hollow sounds, sought gaps. At times someone would shout, “Found something!”—and the group would hurry over, only to discover yet another empty cavity.
The sun slowly sank beyond the horizon, twilight thickened, turning the ruins into a grim labyrinth of shadows. In the soldiers’ eyes irritation flickered more often, and in their voices—weariness from the fruitless search. But Harrington refused to let despair take hold: he moved from one man to another, himself probing walls, studying carvings, leaning close to slabs.

“There is sense in this,” he would say. “If the temple still stands, then somewhere there must be an entrance.”
His words, spoken with such conviction, worked better than rest: the soldiers would return to their search, as though that certainty lent them strength.
The search continued—each step a trial. Beneath the leaves lurked pits, in the cracks—scorpions; one soldier, having squeezed into the shadow of a fallen colonnade, nearly stumbled into a nest of venomous snakes. Every careless movement threatened disaster.

At last, when night had nearly fallen upon the ruins and torches were the only source of light, Walsh’s voice rang out:
“Over here! I’ve found something!”
Within minutes, the entire detachment, including the lieutenant and Harrington, gathered by the section of wall. The lieutenant struck the stone with the butt of his musket—the dull sound echoed faintly, confirming the suspicion: there was emptiness behind the wall.
Harrington bent down, traced a finger along a hidden line of carving, and said quietly:
“Here. This is the entrance.”
Two soldiers stepped forward and, bracing their shoulders, heaved together against the heavy stone. The slab gave way with a drawn-out groan, as though eternity itself protested against intrusion. Fragments of moss crumbled away, and in the gap appeared a dark opening.

From within came the odor of dampness and centuries-old dust. The soldiers shivered involuntarily, gripping their muskets more tightly.
“Bring the torches forward!” the lieutenant ordered.
The flames tore fragments of darkness apart, revealing the first steps of a stone staircase. On the walls emerged ancient patterns—hieroglyphs intertwined into fantastical silhouettes of animals.
“Forward,” said Harrington. His voice sounded hollow, as though he already belonged to the gloom reigning in the subterranean temple.
Harrington stepped in first, the lieutenant following close behind. The stone steps had been polished by thousands of footsteps—whose, no one remembered. They led downward, into the bowels of the earth, where primordial darkness reigned.
The soldiers, exchanging glances, moved after them. Each step echoed loudly, dampness and chill seeped into their bones, and the air grew ever thicker and heavier, saturated with the smells of earth, moisture, and something else—ancient and incomprehensible.
Harrington, walking at the front, examined the carved walls. Symbols, waves, interwoven shapes, monstrous faces—in the flickering torchlight they seemed alive.
“Careful!” the lieutenant barked, suddenly halting the men.

Ahead, the corridor narrowed sharply. The floor gleamed with water trickling down the walls, and Harrington noticed small slits scattered across different sections of stone.
“A trap,” he said.
The soldiers froze, their breathing the only sound. The lieutenant frowned, pressed his blade against the nearest tile. A slight push, a metallic clank—and from the wall sprang sharp, spear-like metal spikes, piercing the air. Another instant—and they retracted, leaving only empty holes.
“Devil’s work!” Walsh growled.
“Forest, sea, or stone—it is all the same,” the lieutenant remarked dryly. “Nature and man are equally inventive in their ways of killing.”
“There must be a way past these spears!” Harrington exclaimed. “The answer lies in the floor tiles. Not every slab triggers the mechanism. We must examine them. The men who built this temple were master craftsmen.”
Harrington began to study the inscriptions on the side walls near the deadly corridor. Time dragged on, yet the solution eluded him, and it seemed the passage was a dead end.
Thoughts surged restlessly in his mind. He could not return empty-handed—the expedition was too important. He paced back and forth, searching for the key, until at last his eyes fell upon two images that stood out from the rest of the symbols: on the right wall—fire, on the other—water.
“Of course… how could I not see it at once,” he muttered. Raising the torch, Harrington stepped closer to the corridor. The wet floor tiles changed shades as the light fell upon them.

“There it is!” he said triumphantly. “All that remains is to discern which tiles can be stepped upon without forfeiting our lives.”
The lieutenant’s sabre had disturbed one of the darker tiles—so the safe ones must be those that shone lighter.
“Hold the torches so the light falls upon the floor,” Harrington commanded. “Step only on the bright slabs. For the love of all saints, do not touch the dark ones—or we remain here forever.”
Cautiously they passed the deadly stretch, keeping close to the walls, holding torches before them, stepping over the lethal tiles, until at last the corridor widened again.
Their wandering through the ancient labyrinth continued. The darkness thickened, and the torches barely held it back. The walls seemed to swallow the light, unwilling to surrender their secret.
No one counted the hours spent in the underground. It felt like an eternity had passed; no one knew what awaited above—was it still night, or had the first rays of dawn already broken through? Weariness and despair pressed down with renewed force.
They checked every passage, every branching corridor. Harrington led the unit with certainty. His experience as an explorer enabled him to steer the men away from traps left by ancient craftsmen. Yet even his keen insight could not guard against chance. One of the young soldiers stumbled, and a hidden mechanism in the floor came alive with a distinct click. From the wall whistled a volley of short darts.
In an instant the detachment would have lost a man, but Walsh, acting more on instinct than thought, yanked the youth back by the shoulder. The ancient darts whizzed past; only one struck, carving a deep gash in the soldier’s arm.

“Ah!” the young man cried, barely keeping his feet. Blood soaked his sleeve, his face twisted with pain. “Damn… it burns like molten iron!”
“No wonder,” Walsh snorted, holding him by the shoulder. “Were you trying to find out what it’s like to be target practice? Well, I’d say the experiment was a success. A little closer, and we’d be carrying your body out of here,” he muttered, supporting his comrade. “And I’ve got more than enough burden already.”
The youth grimaced, forcing a smile through the pain.
“Seems I owe you a mug of good drink.”
“Owe me?” Walsh smirked. “Perfect. On your tab I’ll write down not just a mug, but a whole barrel of the finest Jamaican rum—when we make it home.”
Despite the gravity of the moment, Walsh always found room for humor and irony. Such was his nature.
The lieutenant, who had been standing nearby, stepped closer. His voice sounded almost fatherly, warm:
“Hold on, soldier. The wound isn’t fatal, but don’t tempt fate again.”
The fatal outcome had been narrowly averted, but unease lingered. In the field, even a minor wound could prove a death sentence: blood poisoning, or venom, which ancient tribes often smeared on their weapons. The injury was washed and tightly bandaged, though all understood—the young man’s fate now lay in time’s hands. The lieutenant ordered that he be watched over; it was all he could do in these conditions.
The men’s morale sank with every passing minute. Even Walsh’s optimism and sharp remarks began to fade.
The expedition now resembled a cruel game where a single misstep could mean death. Danger lurked around every corner.
And just when it seemed there was nothing but dank corridors and half-ruined columns covered in forgotten inscriptions, a narrow passage led them to a massive portal.

It was adorned with images of the sea. Beyond it opened an immense hall with a ceiling lost in darkness. Colossal stone columns rose upward, supporting the vault. The floor was etched with lines and patterns forming circles and stars, all converging at the center.
There, upon a stone pedestal, stood a small chest of gray basalt, decorated with strange carvings. Symbols of starfish, serpents, and waves intertwined upon its surface, as if guardians of a secret never meant for mortal eyes.
Harrington stepped forward first. His breath quickened, fingers trembling as he braced against the heavy lid. The stone resisted with a drawn-out groan, as though eternity itself objected to the intrusion.
When the lid shifted, inside there was no gold, no pearls, no precious stones. In the darkness rested something strange and unsettling: a fragment of a skull, etched with patterns, and in its eye socket glimmered a golden disk. The torchlight slid across it so that Harrington discerned faint symbols upon the disk—marks resembling the ancient coins Greeks placed with the dead to pay for passage across the Styx. He pressed his lips together, restraining the thought he dared not voice aloud.
The soldiers gathered around the chest froze as if turned to stone. One whispered a prayer, another crossed himself, a third exhaled through clenched teeth:
“Bloody hell… what is that?”
Harrington abruptly closed the lid. His face remained pale, but his eyes burned: in them flickered the fire of hunger for knowledge and discovery.
“An antiquity,” he said curtly. “That is all you need to know.”