Golden Scorpion
 

The island Nimy, of the Akim island range just north-east the warm Africa, was a brilliant place for trade, geographically speaking. As the Spaniards sailed west to the Americas this island stood out prominently as something of a re-stocking station. The people, however foreign and oddly colored by the sun, were willing enough to trade with the passing ships. Slowly, as slow as the Spanish explorers did anything in this age, the Spanish came to find a large mountain on the island, named Atem for the tribal people’s Holy Father. This mountain had great veins of gold which swam through the rock and rubble. The native people used very little of this gold and what they did use was simply for art and offerings to their Father. No commerce ran through gold as it did in the west.

The Spanish began to mine.

The native Sekstet, or Venom Tail, people found little problem with this so long as the mining expeditions remained small. Some of the Sekstet would even go so far as to help, so long as they were paid with strange and exotic things the Spanish explorers brought with them.
But the explorers, as explorers are wont to do, began to expand.

As the mines grew deeper they led into a system of tunnels etched in darkness. Against the advisement of the Sekstet, the Spanish entered it armed with swords and torches. They did not return.

The royal government of newly formed Spain has threatened war and the conquering of the island people if the man-swallowing mountain of gold is not given over to the government entirely.

The Sekstet would not give over the holy mountain.


A god may take many forms. None are so deceiving as the form of man.

Atem watched the latest Spanish ship sail away towards the Americas. Poor fools. He thought bitterly, I hope the gods there know what the white-men will get them into.

The Spanish were building a dockyard and a colonial settlement now. Thankfully, they were closer to the shore than of the Sekstet lived, but it was only a matter of time until the Spanish saw fit to expand.
Atem grimaced.

“Venom Tail!” One of the white-men called. Atem snarled, he hated that name.
“Venom Tail! If you’re not helping the construction you need to get back to your village!”
Atem turned on the man with a poisonous glint in his eyes.
“Are you going to make me?”
He looked about the shore. There were far too many people here to do the terrible things that he wanted to do to the white-man. The wrath of god would need to wait.
“If you want me to.” The white-man replied.
Atem had no response other than some well articulated curses.

This was only the latest in a long line of events in which Atem was being forced away from his own lands.

Itziar fumbled with the rolls of paper in the sleeve, angry that her assistant managed to make the order disorganized again. She hated this settlement, it was dirty and not at all how she envisioned to spend her years as an ambitious widow. But, both her father and former husband were involved in this business and it would be easiest for her to become more respected… and employed as a translator, if she made connections amongst the Spaniards here. Although her ultimate goal was business and fortune. Not that she had been entrusted with such important things as that yet.

Aye, if only my husband were still alive! Itziar mused, fondly remembering the enterprise she had worked on back in Spain, which now laid abandoned in her family’s current financial ruin. She hated relying on her father, as sweet as he was, to get her a job here.

But a good many Spanish here were idiots, like her assistant, who couldn’t fathom working for a woman at all. It made getting any respect at all in her few shorts months here next to impossible.

But just where was that bumbling man?

The woman peered out from the makeshift tent she had called home for the last month and saw that he was nowhere within sight. Angry, she stalked around the camp, until she saw a figure run off into the distance, towards a local. And shouting.

It made Itziar rather angry. He certainly had a lot of free time, despite the duties he had been given. In a fit, Itziar stormed up at her assistant, and with a terrible frown, glared down at him.

Itziar was taller than most Spaniards, and most men. She was imposing enough to this pitiful excuse for a man.

“So, you muddle my documents… important documents and contracts and go off criticizing some local? It’s not even your job! Your job is to work as my assistant!”

She huffed, looking at Atem, and spoke in the local tongue as if he were less than human and couldn’t even understand her slightly broken Sekstet. “What you doing here? I know workers in camp, you not among them. It is a poor matter to criticize our mining, it will continue. Off now!”

Though she was more fluent than the rest of the Spaniards, her speech was just barely coherent under her heavy accent, and her attitude was far more demeaning than the man’s, although perhaps not nearly as physically threatening.

((If you would like me to change to word 'bastardization" I will. I'm not sure what your standards for cursing are. ))

Atem's gaze was drawn away from the man to a large and rather impressive woman. Of all the Spaniards he had seen thus far, she was one of the few who looked like she might be able to live in his warm home without having to resort to complaining for the comforts of her home.
His admiration of her essentially ended there. The simple fact of her having Spanish blood made Atem dislike her immediately.

There were gods of other islands who had the ability to read minds. Atem was not among them. There were times, such as now, when he found that the ability would be extraordinarily useful. He had to strain to understand her words.
Spanish was easier to understand than her repulsive attempts at Sekstet. At least it was better than the lot of other Spaniards who had tried it.

"You're brave for one of the white-men's women." He said in his own tongue, "You might be attractive if all you Spanish women weren't so... dainty." He said the last word with something almost akin to disgust.

"It might be worth informing you that I had chosen this beautiful piece of land to stand on and watch the sea. I wasn't saying anything to him. In fact," Atem's lips grew into a broad smile, "If I had it my way," When I have it my way, "I'd never talk to you Spaniards again. Much less invite conversation."

Atem began to laugh.
"Should I speak slower for you? Your bastardization of my language is terrible."

Off now!
He had let them into his home. He had allowed them to take some of his unused golden blood. Any other tribe would have been content with that. Not the white-men. When he had called at them to stop, they ignored him.
And now he was no more than a pest to these people. No more than a thorn to be plucked away and forgotten.
Atem couldn't help but to suppress a wicked smile. He would show the Spaniards what thorns really were.
There were no thorns as sharp as those in wild Africa.

"And who are you to command me? You do not own Nimy. You do not even own Atem." He said scathingly as he gestured up towards the vast mountain.

"Father Atem will see you punished."

He most certainly would.
The war started now.