Chapter 202: The Jaguar Stirs
As Windchaser closed in on Corozal’s longest concrete pier, Coop was leaning against the bow rail, mouth agape. He was worried that he was losing his mind. When he left the small town behind, he could swear there were barely 100 people digging in. The local profession masters had been joined by the warriors of the Crossroads and were coordinating in the defense of the Outpost, but that hardly accounted for what he was seeing. Using his knuckles to rub his eyes until he saw stars, he considered if maybe he had spent one too many days at sea, but when he opened them, the sight was unchanged.
Instead of a sleepy fishing town with a few patrolling indigenous warriors monitoring the traps, he was gazing upon a burgeoning city, packed to the point that it might burst. The pathetic citadel he had left around the mana pylon was nowhere near large enough to provide a final sanctum for the crowds of people that were spilling out of the town. He took a wild guess and decided that 20,000 people had filled the town, filling it beyond even its pre-mana population.
Coop asked himself if he had somehow underestimated the demand for a proper settlement that stood as a bulwark against the Cult of Chakyum. There were strangers camped all along the coastal road, filling every building’s first and second floors, sitting together on roofs while sharing simple meals, lining the sea wall with their feet wet from the waves, resting cross-legged around campfires on the eroded pavement, and even bunking in the edges of the forest where they didn’t seem to fear Ruin Nebula ambushes.
Combined, the strangers gave Coop the sense of exhausted athletes utilizing their last opportunity for a break before the final leg of a marathon. He recognized the weariness in their posture as they rested their hands on hips while standing, or leaned forward with their elbows on their knees where they sat. They displayed the stances of people who hadn’t had a break in a long time, and weren’t sure how long the current calm would last. They had the restless energy of people refusing to stop for fear that they wouldn’t be able to start again. It was a type of fatigue he was all too familiar with.
The strangers almost universally held crude, handmade weapons, from bows and arrows and slings, to pitchforks, thick wooden clubs, short knives, and even well-worn examples of Coop’s original weapon: the machete. The way they kept the weapons prepared, even while relaxing, demonstrated an unnatural familiarity that Coop instinctually recognized as combat readiness. No matter how tired they seemed, or how nonchalant they appeared, they were prepared to fight. Their eyes were constantly darting around, subconsciously keeping track of every movement, even while they had casual conversations amongst themselves. It wasn’t that the ones bunking at the edge of the town didn’t fear the Primal Constructs, and were brave enough to relax while in danger, it was that all of the people Coop could see were being equally vigilant. They demonstrated habits that could only come from being under constant pressure.
They were clearly a wide combination of different groups. Some were dressed like the indigenous warriors of the Crossroads, with dark colored flat-brimmed hats, short cloaks, and tightly wrapped or completely bare torsos. Others wore cowboy hats with dirt-stained flannel shirts that were tucked into thick jeans, belts with oversized buckles, and muddy boots that confirmed the outfits weren’t just for show. There were still more with straw hats and overalls or suspenders, women with brightly colored patterned dresses that almost reached the floor, but were marred with dust, and plenty of others wore simple solid colored t-shirts or tank tops with worn jeans. It was like a cross-section of pre-mana regular people that had been transformed by struggle into grim-faced fighters. Where Ghost Reef was forged in the crucible of the siege event, these people had habits developed by the simple struggle to survive in the untamed territory of the assimilation.
“Chief?” A gravelly voice interrupted Coop’s continued assessment of the strangers. “That don’t look like what you described. Was your intel a bit stale?” The newer companion wondered.
Coop frowned slightly as he sought the answer for himself. “It couldn’t be that dated. I only left a week ago.” He explained while watching mostly unfamiliar faces prepare to secure their vessel to the concrete pier.
This wasn’t the nearly abandoned town that had fooled him into thinking it was uninhabited when he first arrived. The one who asked simply grunted, unconcerned with a simple change in expectations, and perfectly willing to adapt to the new information.
“They seem like reinforcements.” The humorless woman the other two called Captain observed. “What do you see, Dan?” She asked the third of her party.
Of the three blood curse victims, Dan seemed to be the most traumatized. Coop couldn’t blame the guy for lacking confidence. Amanda’s exploration-heavy Outrider class was risky enough, eschewing some combat skills in exchange for scouting abilities, but Dan’s class took noncombat to another level. If Coop was to exchange places with the guide, he would prefer to sequester himself somewhere safe, far from any sort of combat. He gave credit to the timid guy. Despite his hesitation, he was still venturing beyond the security of established settlements.
“Scary.” Dan stated after hesitatingly gazing across the landscape, taking a moment to admire patterns only he could see in the sky. The Captain raised an eyebrow at him and he took the hint to elaborate. “Potential Field Bosses, mana fonts, and unnatural waves in all directions, but mostly that way.” He pointed in the exact direction that the Yucatan settlement should have been, despite Coop never clarifying the location. “It’s like a tub being drained.” He added.