Play@YSDC

November 2nd, 1880

Approaching Camp Verne

Travelling down the Nile had been pleasant enough on the Steamer Ruddy Wench, captained by an ex-military German by the name of Otto Spitzweg. The gruff man was broad of chest and had a nasty scar running down his left face, which distorted when he smiled. Fortunately Otto smiled often. He was a hard drinker had enjoyed many evenings playing cards with the ever nervous Doctor Wessex (who invariably lost), and the equally robust consumer of alcohol, Baxter (who was more often a winner).

A few hands help propel the ship slowly southwards, including a "native" nicknamed "Scar"; a retiring black man with tribal scarring over both cheeks who kept himself to himself and spoke only faltering English. Bantu was spoken more freely amongst the crew which were truly multinational.

The only other company on the ship was the lady Emelia, professing an undying love for Baxter, and who had turned out to be a talented cook (at least a lot better than Captain Spitzweg and his few men), and "Chuckles", the friendly chimpanzee who hopped around the deck gaily, stealing food and even the occasional bottle of alcohol. When drunk, Chuckles certainly lived up to his name, with much gay jocularity amongst the crew.

Still, steamers could only traverse so long down the Nile, and not to the Great Lake Victoria.

Last stop before disembarkation and the trek proper was Camp Verne, a run down french trading post run by a few soldiers and a missionary.

"Camp Verne," says Percival Carstairs, wonder in his voice. "I say, is it named after Jules Verne? He's my favourite author!"

"That's right" said Otto, scratching his livid scar.

"Its a French outpost. Last civilised stop, and it is not being the so civilised" he said in his German accent. Otto seemed to combine an extensive English vocabulary with a robust tendency to invent his own grammar.

"Some priest, his daughter, natives, French officers. Should be being civil, but remember, this is the Africa, and everyone wants to claiming it!" he said, a word of warning. It was a fair one too. The French were also trying to carve out and explore Africa, and whilst England and France were not at war, it was a sort of competition.

"Lots of natives are coming to Verne too, to trade with French. Careful. Some of tribes can get nasty, yes?" he added, pointing to his scar.

Burton threw down his cards on to the upturned crate which served as a table. "You've beaten me again, Mr. Baxter!" In a bad temper he quit his seat and went and found Percival who was leaning over the rail of the afterdeck. "Got any Verne with you, Mr. Carstairs? I really must read something other than these abominable occult ramblings."

He often checked on Munshi Singh who had spent much of the voyage resting. Although the Sikh was Burton's manservant an observer may have had a contrary notion.

During the voyage down the Nile he tried to strike up conversation with Scar in order to learn the rudiments of Bantu, "Whereabouts are you from?" and "Is Scar your real name?" he'd ask.

Baxter smiling at Burton's show of bad sportmanship, pushes back his seat. One hand reaches for his pipe and tobacco then he starts as a female hand pushes his pipe already filled towards him, "Thanks Emellia" he mutters as the good looking female strikes a match and holds it towards him.

Emillia was becoming a burden, one which should her husband track them to here might prove dangerous. However her cullinary talents were proving invaluable, and because of them he was loathe to send her packing. A thought crossed his mind, but he dismissed it instantly, good looking and skilled she might fetch a tidy sum in certain parts of this continent.

Applying the match to his pipe he puffed contentedly as he tucked the pound notes he had won from Burton into a top pocket, "Another hand Otto, and perhaps yourself Dr Wessex?"

Tabs wrote: During the voyage down the Nile he tried to strike up conversation with Scar in order to learn the rudiments of Bantu, "Whereabouts are you from?" and "Is Scar your real name?" he'd ask.

Scar was a short young man, more of a boy, really. He could not have reached a score in years. The observant would say he had grown up malnourished, although now, he had a wiry strength about him, working hard on the boat wearing little but ragged shorts.

"Just Scar now" he answered cautiously, grinning with an almost complete set of teeth. His scars had been cut deliberately, it seemed, on both cheeks. He explained it was a tribal custom. "Ward of bad spirits" he added, anxiously.

Scar was less forthcoming about where he was from, indicating that it was the past and he had forgotten.

Priest wrote: Applying the match to his pipe he puffed contentedly as he tucked the pound notes he had won from Burton into a top pocket, "Another hand Otto, and perhaps yourself Dr Wessex?"

Emelia pottered off, to make some tea. She smiled contentedly. Her marriage had been dull and quite possibly (in Baxter's estimation) abusive. She had jumped at the chance for a dashing adventurer and an equally dashing adventure. She was a short and tidy woman, and possessed of a fierce spirit and determination that was both admirable and vexing.

Dr Wessex threw his cards on the table and took to a very liberal swig of whisky.

"Why...damn and blast you Baxter you old rogue. No more for me, you have bled me enough for one day. I swear you have some ace tucked up your sleeve hrm? Come on, roll them up! Perhaps we shall see the seventeen of spades fall out?" he japed. Wessex was most adept at losing at cards, and more pertinently, losing his money. It was a good thing he was being paid well, and even then, that fortune was haemorrhaging fast.

Again Baxter smiled, this time at the red face Doctor, "My good sir, poker is an art and should be played as one would play a woman - gently and with imagination" he stops in mid shuffle of the dog eared cards and gazes towards the disapearing form of Emilia, "Also, one should play their hand carefully and beware of wagering more than they can afford"

He places the much used pack on the table, it seemed there would be little further opportunity to increase his wealth tomight unless, "Carstairs old chap, might I interest you in a hand or two, if you can tear yourself away from your books of course"

"As a matter of fact, I do, Mr. Burton," says Percy with a smile. He takes out his well-worn copy of Around the World in Eighty Days. "You're welcome to borrow it. I've read it numerous times already, and I have other reading material." He nods when Baxter approaches. "I'm not very good at poker, Baxter, but that probably only means you want me to join in more. I'll certainly give it a try, though."

Burton painted pipe black upon his cheeks in imitation of the tribal custom of Scar. "Like this?"

He acceted the book off of Baxter. "Thank you, sir," he said, and then settled himself down beneath a tarpaulin awning with a cheroot and cup of lime juice.

Shortly..

Scar had slunk back to the lower decks to power the steamer. He was nervous and surly.

"He is not liking it this far the south" explained Otto, with a shrug of his shoulder. "Out here is the wild of lands. Scar never is the talking about this far the south. I is never the asking. He works hard and is good the boy"

Chuckles leapt up to his shoulder and screamed cheerily, before snatching away Otto's hipflask and leaping off.

"Schweinhunt!" yelled the furious Otto who was already slightly intoxicated.

Perhaps the nerves were getting to everyone. The sun was nearly set, and dark was creeping in. Around them, the banks of the Nile had turned to jungle; not as thick as the depths, but still. Sounds and chattering came from the wildlife.

And in the distance, a few lit fires.

"See? Campe Verde! We making good the time. Nearly there..."

"You're quite welcome," Percy tells Burton. He stands at the prow and peers into the distance at the camp, shading his eyes from the rays of the setting sun with one hand.

Burton closed Around the World, got up from where he reclined under the awning, and joined Otto.

"Your English is excellent, Her Otto," said Burton, proffering his own hip flask while making a mental note to wipe its neck. "Bubbles: he is a naughty monkey--what?" he watched the animal capering around. "Joining with us at Camp Verne?"

Baxter moves to the rail. "So that is Camp Verne?" he sniffs, "Hard to see anything to get our young friend excited"

"I thinking Scar is not afraid because Camp Verne" sniffed Otto, wiping his sweaty brow. "You have the rumours hearing, yes? Something stirring in Jungles. Who knows what?" he shrugged. "I would not want your shoes being, as you English the saying. But, I am paying well for this, yes? I stay at Camp Verne over winter, picking you ups if...when you comes the back. I have much goods to be trade, and perhaps make friends with nicer tribes?" he shrugged.

CHuckles squarked, drinking the stolen hip flash merrily.

"And Chuckles is staying. Maybe I learn how to be cooking monkey from tribes, huh?" he hissed at Chuckles, who just jumped up and down in reply, grinning wildly.


A little later...

Camp Verne slid into view. It was nestled on one of the banks of the now thin and shallow Nile, practically amidst the jungle. It looked rather run down, but still functional. Two fires were smoking away, not large, but enough to cast some light into the night. There was, of course, no shortage of wood. The moon was full and had a slightly bloody look to it.

"<Ahoy! Friend of Foe!>" came the call in French. Two soldiers on a short rampart of sort, the guards of Campe Verde. They were French soldiers, in shabby dress and shabby, but still functional, rifles.

"<Friend!>" called out Captain Otto, before turning to the expedition.

"Thats the only French word I am the knowing. I hope you can speaking better than me!" he hissed at them.

"Not a word, I'm afraid," says Percy, looking a little concerned.

"I can get by in the language of Voltaire, Mr. Carstairs" replied Burton "as can Mr. Baxter." He cupped his hands and bellowed "Bonjour, mes amis, il est la Jeune Fille Rougeaude du Caire."

<"Hello, my friends, it is the Ruddy Wench from Cairo.">

"Ah! English!" spat the Soldier with a laugh in passable English.

The French soldiers were not so much antagonistic as tired. Nearly half of them had come down with some ghastly fever. The whole camp smelled seriously of sweat, and faintly of the liquid brown excrement that freely flowed from the rear ends of those effected. The infirmary, if one could call the shambles of a shed that the men were confined to an infirmary, smelled something rotten indeed.

Dr. Wessex was a most welcome sight to the men, and their commander, Lt. Blanc.

Lt. Blanc was a shortish man who had a certain wiry strength to his body and spirit. He was a canny fellow too, quick to take up Dr. Wessex's offer of aide. He had no particular love of the English, but out here, he said, it was "us and them", by which he meant the Europeans and the Africans. Not that he could be considered disrespectful of the African natives. He paid them a very great deal of respect.

"Savages, of course. By ze standards of Paris or London. But out here, they are at home. Out here, ze rules are different. Mark my words, ze French, ze English, we are just visitors. And we must pray zat we do not outstay our welcome!"

He was sitting in the "officers hut", which was slightly less shambolic, sharing some wine with the three expedition members, Amilia, Mr Singh, Captain Otto, and sharing in some wine and passable stew of native Vegetables. The cook was no master of his art, but he was still French. Amilia still professed she could do better.

Present too, were Sven Lowen, a middle aged Swede, and preacher, who was attempting to convert, with partial success, the locals to the one true God of Chritianity. He was a big strong man, but somewhat intense and twitchy, with a puritanical fever to him. He was fiercely protective of his young daughter, Britt. And not without justification; for Britt was a rare beauty, with bright white blonde hair, and a strong body, full of golden bronzed skin that shone in that particular way of the Nordic peoples in the sun. Britt was devout, too, but had a certain wideness of spirit and outlook, demure but knowing.

Amilia gave her a nasty look and whispered to Baxter; "I bet she can't cook".

Lt. Blanc politely inquired to the three expedition members, whilst pouring another glass of respectable red wine, "Where are you going, then? What daring venture awaits you?"

"We're bound for Lake Victoria, and then beyond," says Percy, raising his glass. "Off to explore the uncharted interior reaches of Darkest Africa!"

Baxter, who already looks as if hes's had one 'snifter' too many, eyes the glasses of wine with contempt. Typical Frenchies, he thinks, all wine and smelly cheese. Still, he continues the thought, better French that Belgies. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out his, tarnished through use, hip-flask and shakes it slightly listening to the movement of the liquid within. Hmm, he thinks, need to refill soon.

He pulls the stopper and makes to take a mouthfull of the fiery spirit, "Bottoms up. Est-ce que ce lieu possède un bar où je pourrais être en mesure d'obtenir une bouteille de gin?"* Without awaiting an answer he swallows the gin with a slight grimace.

OOC:   *Does this place have a bar where I might be able to get a bottle of gin? hopefully

First things first, Burton promised himself never to drink anything unless it had been corked or boiled; dysentery was one way he did not wish to go.

To Lt. Blanc: "As you say, monsieur, the white men are just visitors here. Any unusual trouble with the natives?"

To Sven Lowen: "Was it the great Livingstone, who followed your vocation, that travelled the length and breadth of Africa over a period of years trying to convert the wayward children to Christianity; and had one follower?" Burton appeared not to be "ragging" the Swede. "I imagine your task to be difficult?"

Amelia whispered to Baxter. "She'll never need to cook" thought Burton of Britt, although, of course, he kept it to himself.

Priest wrote:"Bottoms up. Est-ce que ce lieu possède un bar où je pourrais être en mesure d'obtenir une bouteille de gin?"*

*Does this place have a bar where I might be able to get a bottle of gin?

A bottle of gin appeared.

"Oui, oui. An English trick, Monsieur Baxter. Gin and Tonic for ze Quinine. We have enough men ill at the moment. Please, my gift to you English. I know how you love your Gin" he said, graciously and a little intoxicated.

The Revd Lowen sniffed ungraciously at the liberal amount of alcohol consumed. He did not particularly like Burtons insinuation either. "It is difficult, Sir, but the book will overcome!" he said with a little grimness. He tapped his bible proudly.

Lt Blanc turned to address Burton.

"Trouble? There is always trouble. But, oui, we have had more of it of late. We do not know half of ze tribes deep south. But there are always tribal fighting. Sometimes, we take advantage, sometimes we get it in ze neck"

Captain Otto nodded. "He is being right correct. I remembering. The Crocodile People, just south of here. Can be nasty" he pointed to his scar.

"Zey are not so bad" replied Blanc. "Brave warriors when angered, but we can trade with them. But they are inflamed now. Lots of fighting further down south. Whole tribes wiped out. It is said it is Ze Tribe of the Toad..."

"Crocodile People" repeated Burton like he enjoyed the name; "what an evocative name. I would like to meet their chief--with something to trade of course! What do they value, I wonder?"

Lt Franc paused.

"Guns is what they value, Sir"

He took a drained his wine and threw his beaker away, gazing into the candle.

"Crocodile people have always been a tribe of warriors. They have an initiation right for the men...and women..." he added, making Amelia and Britt take interest, and Sven tsk in beratement.

"The girls and boys have to hunt and kill a crocodile. Kill it dead with nothing but knives and spears. Some die. Some don't. They wear the skin as a mark of adulthood. Tough people. But let me tell you, they are spooked now. All this talk of the Toad King, the Frog Tribe, whatever. I can't understand their tongue well enough. I have never seen the Crocodile people scared before. And that, gentlemen, scares me..."

"The Crocodile People want guns. Bullets. Give them a Gatling Gun and I daresay you would be the chieftan's dearest friend"

"Poor people. I pray God we can bring the light of Jesus into their miserable lives" answered Sven. Nobody, even his daughter Britt, felt much inclined to his view.

Baxter grabs the botle of gin and pulls it towards him, "My thanks Monsieur." he notes how suddenly the women seem interested in the local native customs, "You should see the wedding dances of the Zulu tribe, made many a fine Christian gentleman and woman flush with excitement" He notes the black looks his words get from the missionary and ignores them.

"So, these crocodile people people. Tell us of this toad tribe from further down the river, my dear Otto, for I fancy we've heard something of toads elsewhere"

Otto was getting drunk and maudlin.

"I haven't meeting them. I have meeting the Crocodile people. Quick to anger. I having run in with them a few years ago. Shot two dead, before the third one giving me present..." he said pointing to his puckered scar. "Paranoid people. You can deal with them, but don't insult them."

He gave a laugh.

"And be having kissing and horseplay with one of chieftan's wives! Haha!" he laughed, to the general amusement and laughter of all. Only Svan shook his head.

"My dear Captain Otto, it is not Christian, having more than one wife!" he said, furiously blushing.

"Tell that to Chief, I am betting man that you get more than my scar!" replied Otto, growling at Sven, who stood firm.

"As for Toad people, I only hearing a few times, when I spoke with Crocodiles. Before my becoming little accident. Only words, of course, but even Crocodile people do not like Toad people. Violent, Insane, worshipped some horrible god. Nobody knows where they is, probably down further the south than Victorialake..."

"Well, if we want to find out more about the Toad people," says Percy, sipping his wine, "our best bet is to find and ask the Crocodile people - carefully, of course! Where can we find their tribe?"

"Mr. Baxter's Bantu and Mr. Carstair's will prove invaluable" said Burton. "We should arrange a meeting with the Crocodile People?"--he includes Lt. Blanc in his question. "I wonder if we can purchase some rifles, Lieutenant, as a gift--and maybe promise the chief a Gatling gun in return for support?"

"Herr Otto, your boy Scar, is he one of the Crocodile People?"

Baxter coughs discreetly at Burton's naive statement about giving the natives guns, he had fallen foul of the authorities in various parts of the continent for alledged gun running. Now Mr Buton was proposing to a French military official that we might give the locals a gattling gun.

He stands and moves awy from the group to a position wher he can see the river, "Here Emillia my dear, you can see those birds I was telling you of"

Tabs wrote:"Mr. Baxter's Bantu and Mr. Carstair's will prove invaluable" said Burton. "We should arrange a meeting with the Crocodile People?"--he includes Lt. Blanc in his question. "I wonder if we can purchase some rifles, Lieutenant, as a gift--and maybe promise the chief a Gatling gun in return for support?"

Lt Blanc clearly shared Baxter's view on this and snorted.

"Non, monsieur I will not give a Gatling Gun, not to them, or to any African tribe. We sell them, as you English say, shooters of the pea, but I will no more sell them a Gatling Gun than slit my own throat. I do not mind them shooting at each other, for zey are poor shots. But what if they get a Gatling Gun? Non!" he said firmly.

"I will sell you guns, if you have the Franc or Sterling. If you sell them on to the tribes, I will not look. Camp Verne is here to make ze profit. If I sell to you, it is, as you say, no skinning of the nose, oui?"[/quote]

Tabs wrote:"Herr Otto, your boy Scar, is he one of the Crocodile People?"

Captain Otto, shrugged. "I do not knowing. The boy is scared, will not talking about past. But I never seeing Crocodile People with those scars. And I seeing them good close. I would remember..." he said, nodding sagely.

Priest wrote:"Here Emillia my dear, you can see those birds I was telling you of"

Emillia clung to Baxters arm with a smile on her face.

"Oh my dear Mr Baxter. It is quite charming. I feel so alive here, and in your strong arms!" she said, all dilated pupils and glorious smile.

"A faux pas?" remarked Burton.

"I'm sure Mr. Burton did not mean to offend anyone by his crude attempt at humour with his remark about the Gatling gun," says Percy in an effort to smooth things over. "It must lose something in the translation, and it is in poor taste besides. Isandlwana was not that long ago. I shudder to think of what the Zulus could have done had they had Gatling guns, considering what they managed without them."

Burton paused, did he sigh? "The" he whispered the next two words "Gatling gun was first mentioned by the Lieutenant, I merely took up his notion thinking that one, or the 'carrot' of one, could influence the Crocodile People to help us, and so further our ends. Happily I do not have one in my luggage. I've been pooh-poohed" he continued huffily "but what are your ideas?"

"Someone with the lingo should talk with Scar. As Otto said, he is not one of the Crocodile People, maybe he has connections with the Toad tribe?"

Baxter turns from the over amorous grip of Emillia towards the group. "I will try him with a little Nilo-Sharan and see if there is any response, it seems to me that if he is of these 'toad' people he will respond to a more southern dialect" However my command of the lingo no doubt suffers from lack of use"

He looks around,"So gentlemen, where is this 'Scar', and just what would you know?"

Scar was not far away, lurking in the corner of Camp Verne, playing dice with some French soldiers. Scar did not speak much French, and the soldiers did not speak much English; or Bantu. But dice were dice.

Scar was somewhat reticent, to say the least, when Baxter approached him. Amilia had insisted on joining her beloved saviour, and would not be shaken off, however magnificent the beard or virile the man.

"I not toad people" he muttered in his own tongue, a variant of Nilo-Saharan. Baxter could understand two words in every three. "I remember toad people. Bad people. Bad in head!" he said, tapping his temple in a universal symbol. "They take toad poison, made head bad"

He paused and touch his cheek scars, ritualistic patterns.

"I from bat people. Bat people made dead by toad people" he explained, before adding, in much more comprehensive English. "Mister Baxter, you do not want to go to toad people. They kill you, or worse! They do bad magic. Powerful..."

He touched his scars again.

"We protect against bad magic. But do no good..."

Percy knows little about the indiginous peoples of Africa, but he is prepared to take Scar at his word.

Baxter scratches his head at Scar's strange variation of Nilo-Saharan, then in English, "These toad people...bad people... do you know whereabouts they can be found?"

"Someone fetch a map lets see if he can pinpoint them"

Maps could easily be fetched, and duly appeared.

However, they were most unsatisfactory; large central portions of Africa were little more than "Here is Jungle", and rather hazy lines representing probably rivers or ravines; and individual maps of French and English were sometimes contradictory.

"It is not calling Dark Continent for the nothing" said Herr Otto, unsurprised. The torturous nature of the maps disinclined most, if not all, to traverse the Nile further south.

Nevertheless, broadly speaking the Nile was there, and Lake Victoria (in various configurations) was present. And Scar's finger pointed south of the great Lake.

"Toad People live by Lake"

"I see," says Percy, wondering about the wisdom of seeking out the Toad People. "And what about the Crocodile People? Do you know where they live? Have you had any dealings with them?"

Scar nodded, pointing to an area vaguely north of Lake Victoria.

Lt. Franc agreed; "That looks about right. They are south of here, they tend to stick near ze Nile, were the crocodiles are. But you have to understand Gentlemen, This is ze unknown territories. we know little about ze geography, and even less about ze peoples of the Jungle. They spread out, they move, it is not as simple as pointing a finger on a map...for ze map is mainly guesswork"

It was agreed that it was at least educated guesswork!

Burton sensed Carstairs' apprehension regarding the Toad People.

"It seems they are a bad lot who murder whole tribes from spite, Scar's Bat People are an example" he said. "By the way, I believe Scar's facial scars to be some kind of ward against bad magic . . ." and he sketched their pattern in his notebook.

He returned to the "gun running" idea, as Baxter would term it. "Maybe a box of rifles, old ones with limited ammunition, would be welcomed by the Crocodile People, and perhaps we could incite them to attack the evil Toad People?"

Tabs wrote:"Maybe a box of rifles, old ones with limited ammunition, would be welcomed by the Crocodile People, and perhaps we could incite them to attack the evil Toad People?"

Lt Franc seemed to warm for the idea after mulling it. "Zis plan is good. We are here to trade. Mainly trade. Un outpost for ze French Empire. I should probably not be aiding ze English, but on ze hand of ze other, as you English say, business is business. I cannot say I like or even trust ze Crocodile people. But I do respect them. On ze hand of ze other, the Toad people..."

He paused dramatically.

"If zey are scaring ze Crocodile people. We should all be afraid. Oui. Set a native on a native. Monsieurs. I will sell you guns for you to sell to ze Crocodile people. I will even give you a discount, courtesy of ze glorious Nation of France! Viva La France!"

"Viva La France!" answered the soldiers, as Sven put his hands in his head in despair.

"It is the Bible they need, not bullets!"

Baxter smiles at the very 'English ' pragmatism that the French officer displays, and opening his flask lifts it in salute. At the Swedes comment he almost breaks into laughter, "No Monsieur it is gin they need" he glances from the Swedes daughter, Erica, to the ever clinging Emellia, "Gin and women", he adds in a whisper.

Then without pausing he turns to Oto, "Your boy - Scar, he can be persuaded to aid us I trust?"

"I do happen to have a Bible too," says Percy to Sven in a reassuring tone. "Of course, it will do them little good in English. They need Bibles translated into Bantu. They need bullets too, however, for protection from those who wish them harm, such as the Toad People. Did not Jesus Christ tell his disciples before he went to the garden to sell their cloaks and buy swords?"

Burton spoke to Carstairs and Baxter alone: "Who do we want along for the trip? More the merrier? I was thinking the Lieutenant and maybe some soldiers? . . ."

Baxter joins the conspiratorial group, "If we are going to head off into the uknown, Burton might be right soldiers mean guns and guns mean a restful nights sleep" He glances around , "We will also need bearers to carry our equipment and the guns we seem to be taking to the crocodile people. Thats why I think we should convince Scar that he should accompany us, he seems to know the area and might prove useful in a fight"

Baxter is thinking of the scars on his face and just how effective primitive ju-ju can be, "Anyway chaps, say we find these Toad People, what exactly are we to do with them?" he gestures at Carstair's camera equipment, "Take their photographs?"

Burton had to think deeply himself. "Find out on behalf of Winston-Smythe if the Toad People are as degenerate as his mad book describes. So Mr. Carstairs taking photographs may be required after all." He taps Carstairs on the shoulder "When the spears start flying you'll be asking folk to keep still and pose. Good luck with that!"

"I'll have you know I can shoot with a rifle just as well as I can with a camera," says Percy, puffing out his chest.

"Of course, sir" said Burton "and a better shot than myself I don't doubt."

"Let's all go see the Crocodile People then, maybe a big group of whites will impress them. . . ."

There was, of course the matter of buying guns. Whilst the French were broadly sold on the idea of supplying the crocodile people with a goodly amount of firearms, Camp Verde was at the end of the day a trading post, and money needed exchanging. The nitty gritty bartering heaved this way and that. The expeditions funds were healthy but with limit. Draining the sterling to all but emergency funds gained the expedition several dozen rifles, and plenty of ammunition, but nobody could pretend that the firearms were anything other than old and poorly maintained. Still, they would do the job; bullets would explode out of one end. The crocodile people hopefully would grasp the right end of the broomstick.

GM

A couple of weeks later...

The Jungle was thick, now, and going was hard. The Nile was to the east, not far away, and (hopefully) leading to Lake Victoria. It was hot, and damp. Everyone was sweating profusely.

Scar was getting nervous. The young man had proved himself able in the Jungle, and had armed himself with a spear. He had even caught some food for them. Roast snake was a new delicacy for everyone. He had run from some horror even further south when he was a boy of just nine years of age. Yet some skills are not easily forgotten, even with the eight years he had spent wandering Africa since those events. His recollection of the events was blocked out, a memory he could not recount.

Sven and Britt Loren had come along, to try and convert the Crocodile people. They were both surprisingly strong of heart and body, keeping pace with everyone without difficulty. For all their relative ignorance of the realities of the Jungle, they were used to roughing it. Sven intermittently preached to the expedition. Britt kept her mouth shut and was kindly.

Emelia gave the beautiful swede glaring looks, and a different flavour of glare at Baxter. She was an able cook for the party, and had come alive in the Jungle. For her, it was goodbye to an oppressive husband and oppressive country. Here, she felt free.

Wessex was sweating profusely, and complaining about the hardship. He often lagged behind. It was apparent he had no wish to be here, but the money was just too good. And, he hinted, vital - he was in serious debt.

Singh was more than helpful, the large man hacking through the jungle and carrying more than his share of supplies. He kept curiously silent, though, something in Cairo had disturbed him.

FInally, two Frenchmen had come to supervise the gun selling.

Sergeant LeForge was a thin man, but fast. Fluent in English and able to speak Bantu, and brighter than your average grunt, he was a harsh military man, a bully able to keep his men in order. He always kept a revolver and a knife by his belt, and looked more than keen to draw them at the first sign of trouble. He had a healthy respect for the Crocodile people, but still viewed them as brutes. LeForge was a man with a touch of paranoia, maybe that had kept him alive.

Private Paris was his opposite, slow, but powerful. He was not the smartest man, and had a magnificenty broken nose that played over his face. He had a hugely loud laugh. Paris was taller and bigger than even Singh, and almost as strong. He could speak only limited English and basic Bantu, but he was dependable. He carried the standard .30-06 Rifle of the expedition, and was a good shot. He had recently arrived from Paris, and gave Doctor Wessex a knowing look. The man was a fighter, and professed to know Savate. Nobody but Singh dared challenge him on that.

Burton placed his compass upon a crude map and gently tapped its glass until the needle swung freely. "This direction to the lake" he said to Sergeant LeForge. "Had much to do with the Crocodile People, Monsieur?"

"It is" said LeForge with a grim smile. "We are in their lands now. The only question is whether they find us, or we find them..."

"Well, let's see if we can find them first," says Percy. "If they've been through here, they may have left tracks. If we find those, that will lead us to where they are now."

"Hmm" mutters Baxter, pausing to wipe sweat from his forehead and scanning the oppresing jungle, "What's this?" Obviously he has seen something of interest.

Baxter sees a movement.

Perhaps it is is just an animal. Could be dangerous, could just be one of Chuckles distant relatives hunting nuts.

Could be.

Then another movement. The dense jungle swam into different patterns.

There...

The Crocodile people.

How many of them, Baxter could not be sure. Maybe three, could be more. How long had they been stalking the party? Silent, masters of the hunt. Crocodile teeth adorned lips, ears, and more. Crocodile hide draped along their arms and neck in wild and ineffectual patterns. Leaves string to body to provide camouflage.

Little in the way of clothing; a loin patch. And at least one woman, bare chested.

Skin dark and black, hair even blacker. White shining eyes.

And spears.

All this Baxter soaked up in an instant. The crocodile people looked fearful and aggressive all at once, watching the party with malignant eyes.

One of them caught his eye and hissed. White teeth.

And pulled back his spear to throw...

Burton stopped dead. His eyes, they were almost as wide and white as the Crocodile People's, swivelled to Baxter: What was he going to do?

Instead of being startled by the sudden appearance of the warriors, Baxter smiles and raises his hands, to show that he has no weapons, "We bring trade goods and would speak to your chief" (said in Bantu of course).

At Burton's reaction he merely smiles and hisses, loud enough for the others to hear, "Stand still, and do nothing aggressive"

It happened fast.

The hunter threw his spear, just as one of the others to his left hissed "stop!" and pushed the man aside.

The spear flew through the air. Not for nothing where the Crocodile people considered fierce and brave hunters. The throw was strong, and powerful. But the shove had thrown the hunter off balance.

Boiiiiing....

The spear quivered, embedded in a tree a few inches from Baxter's head.

The moment held, like a terse breath.

"What do you want, Whitemen? Why you come with boomsticks?" hissed the second Tribesman, who had quite possibly saved Baxters life.

"Best stay away!"

"Tell him we've come to trade them the boomsticks," says Percy to Bazter, who knows enough Bantu to get the gist of the conversation but not enough to do the talking himself.

Burton slowly raised his hands, palm outward. "Carefully does it" he hissed to those around him.

Baxter maintains the smile, although the corner of his right eye ticks nervously and he feels the pull of his flask, "We bring boomsticks to trade for information" (Spoken in Bantu)

Without moving he hisses at the others "Quick what information do we seek?" (spoken in English)

Boomsticks was the magic word.

"You come to sell boomsticks?" said the Tribesman.

Cautious, the five tribesmen shifted from the Jungle, spears ready. Three men, two women. It appeared the Crocodile people were unusual in their gender roles. Emilia clearly approved.

In closer view now, they could be studied, if obliquely. They were thick set, short people, with little hair. Instead, they adorned their bodies with rags of crocodile hide; although surely tough, it would be of little use as armour given how sparsely it covered their bodies. They had piercings in lips and ears, presumably of crocodile teeth. They took their name seriously, it seemed.

Their eyes cast over the crew.

"Boomsticks good. We need boomsticks...but what do you want from the Crocodile people?"

"We come to spread good news!" piped up Sven, boldly, raising his book, to the tune of tensions raised.

"Good news, and also boomsticks," says Percy, trying to reassure the Crocodile People. "You can have both! The good news is free. For the boomsticks, we trade." He can see that the crocodile hide makes poor armor - it certainly hadn't done the crocodiles much good! Even so, he doesn't want a fight to start.

Hands still held palm outward, Baxter snarls, in English to his companions, "Forget 'good news' these people are warriors not some meek congregation in need of spiritual salvation"

To the Crocodile People, still edgy and tense, he continues, "We bring Boomsticks to help the Crocodile people fight their enemies, we would trade them for infomation on those called the Toad people"

At the mention of the Toad People, the atmosphere darkened.

The leader shook his spear. "What do you know of the Toad People?" he demanded. "They are possessed! Something evil in them!" he shouted, fear spicing his words.

"We captured one of them but a few nights ago, lurking by the great lake. He speaks a strange tongue, we cannot understand him properly. He told us that the great toad king will soon die, and be reborn again. He worships Tsuggotha, screaming the name at night. The Toad people are abominations!" he said, shaking. Terror and rage swirled inside him.

"Come, I take you to Chief. He will know what to do with you..." he concluded, beckoning the expedition into the Jungle.

"Well done, Mr. Baxter," said Burton, exhaling a long held breath; "it's a good thing they love boomsticks."

After the Bantu conversation had been translated for him, Burton remarked, "This Toad fellow sounds fascinating, I hope he's still alive. . . ."

A little later...

"He is alive!" snarled the chieftan of the Croc People to the expedition.

Chief Chipped Tooth was old and had a wiry look to him, bar a large pot belly. He had considerably more teeth adorning him than any of the other Crocodile people. He must have been a brave hunter in his youth, now, he just looked ill and bent. But he still had his tongue.

To his side, was a man of similar age, with thin limbs and bulging eyes. The man was without a fleck of clothing or indeed teeth, but instead had tattoos over his body, of primitive type; showing crocodiles, beasts, snakes, and all manner of things. He was the village shaman, Riverturn. Whilst far from in the prime of his life, he did not look so ill as Chief Chipped Tooth. Emelia and Britt engaged in a furious blushing competition when they saw the old man naked.

"I know it" he nodded, in agreement with his Chief, looking wise and sagely.

The Crocodile people were prodding the expedition every now and again, and perhaps prodding Britt and Emelia a bit more than the others. They started examining and feeling the guns. One could only hope one of the boomsticks did not go off in their inquiring hands.

The Chieftan scratched his magnificent belly once more. "I thank you for these boomsticks. It is not our way, to use such magic. But we must protect ourselves. The Toad people have a habit of destroying other tribes...like your boy..." he said, pointing at Scar, who was white with fright despite his dark skin. "...the Bat people. I remember the scars...."

"Protection..." murmured the Shaman, Riverturn.

"We captured a Toad people scout but a few days ago. Can't get anything from him. He is nearly dead, refusing water and food, driven mad but the sun..."

"Perhaps we could get him to talk," suggests Percy. "There's nothing to lose by trying." He isn't quite knowledgeable enough to determine anything further about the Crocodile People's health, nor does he know enough about their culture.

Burton considered the chief and the shaman, wondering how best to cajole them to aid the party.

His attention turned to the prisoner. "Toad chap first, in case he expires," he said, and then in Bantu (which is translated to him first): "Mighty Chief Chipped Tooth, may we look upon the evil one?"

Amused by the childlike behaviour being exhibited by some of the Crocodile people over the rifles, Baxter nods approval at Burton's excellent use of the Bantu tongue. He looks around at the tribal maidens in their scanty crocodile skin clothing, I do hope Carstairs is going to take some photos, he thinks.

Pulling himself together and dismising the images of nubile maidens, "Great Chief, may I ask where this evil creature was found, and would you be willing to lend us a few of your warriors that we might look at this place" (In Bantu)

Bantu,[url=http://orokos.com/roll/315220]Bantu Language 41%[/url]: [u]1d100[/u] [b]83[/b] Well something like that.

Chief Chippedtooth looked on and mused the situation.

"You are welcome to see the evil one, my friends. But you are not one of the Crocodile people. We are hunters, and will only hunt with our tribe" he explained.

"If you can prove yourself as worthy of us, then we welcome white men as brothers, no matter how pale your skin and hairy your chin!" he actually gave a rather tortured nasty laugh, shuffling uncomfortably.

"But until then, you are only friend of Crocodile, not of Crocodile!" he said, fingering the teeth he had adorned on his body.

The Shaman, Riverturn, shuffled the party to a cranky and uncomfortable wooden cage. The wooden shafts looked like they had been bitten.

Inside, was a dry delerious man, near death, twicthing and mouthing. His skin was mottled, with patches of green, alongside multiple scars. Perhaps before his capture he might have been a strapping warrior, but now he could barely lift a finger.

His mutterings were in a different dialect, a variant of Nilo-Saharan, quite obscure and odd in canter and rhythm.

Baxter, as confused by Chiptooths reply as no doubt the cheif had been by his bad bantu, looks at the strange looking shell of a man within the wooden cage.

He listens with interest to the strange rambling of the mans speech
It has the cadence and pattern of the Nilo-Saharan tongue but it is so different that Baxter is unable to make sense of it.

Burton offered the prisoner some water. "What can we do?" he wondered, and asked Dr. Wessex: "Do you know what the mottled and green patches of skin indicate? We don't wish to catch some disgusting lurgy."

"Perhaps the preacher should try to get through to him," suggests Percy. "This man is clearly going to meet his maker soon. Sven may just be able to convince him to repent of all his evil and get him to talk before he does."

Baxter raises one eyebrow at Carstairs suggestion, then pulls his flask from his pocket, uncorking it, And just what differnce do you think the god botherer can do that the witch doctor here can't? This creatures gods will be far more terrible than anything out of the Bible."

With a shake of his head Baxter takes a swallow of gin

"If you have a better idea, Mr. Baxter, I'm open to it," says Percy. "I can't see how it can cause any harm for Sven to try."

"God works in mysterious ways," said Burton to no-one in particular.

Baxter shrugs, "Do as you like"

Then taking another swallow of gin he moves to wher Chippedtooth is standing, "So worthy chief, will you spare us a guide so that we might see where this miserable creature was found? After all we did give you boomstcks to make your people straonger"

Dr. Wessex was horrifically nervous.

"These people are savages..." he whispered, needlessly. It was highly doubtful any of the tribesmen were able to understand English.

He went white when he saw the husk of the man that presumably had been a toad person.

"My God! The savages! Keeping this man locked up here!" he said, fiddling with his fingers. "He is half - dead...probably in organ failure...I...I don't know what those green blotches are, to be honest. Never seen anything like it. A parasite, maybe, or possibly some kind of tattoo...I would have to..err...examine the corpse..." he said awkwardly.

Sven took his bible to his hands. "Dear God, have mercy on this poor soul...." he said, gazing at the heavens. He actually looked rather angry at the apparent cruelty of the Crocodile peoples treatment of their captive.

Chippedtooth was unphased by anyone. He slumped to a sitting position on a log, and pondered all and everything.

"Hah! I would not spare mighty Crocodile people for such a journey. It is death, going South" he sniffed, wiping his nose. "Besides, it is tribal custom. You must be Crocodile people to hunt with Crocodile people. We keep to our own". He gave a grin, missing a few tooth. "You ever killed the Crocodile?" he asked them, indicating he very well knew the answer.

"It sounds as if," said Burton in a laid-back drawl, "that to enlist ol' Chippyteeth's help we have to slaughter a crocodile."

"We have not killed the crocodile...yet," says Percy. "However, we can hunt the crocodile now and become Crocodile people. We have boomsticks of our own. Where can we find crocodiles to hunt around these parts?"

Baxter recorks his flask and returns it to the safety of his pocket. For a second he considers the chief's words and the offer by Percy, "I have a feeling he isn't talking about shooting a crocodile. Tell me Burton...Carstairs, have either of you ever killed a crocodile with a knife?"

Burton raised an eyebrow at Carstairs. "Not often," was his laconic reply to Baxter. "Don't tell me, sir, that you have?"

Baxter smiles at Burton, "Afraid not old boy, I like my hands and feet where they are not gracing the internals of some aquatic reptile. I have heard of people that have done so though, seems there is a trick to it, making sure that the beasts mouth is shut tight"

From his pocket he produces a length of cord and quickly fashions it into a draw loop. "Just slide this cord around the creatures mouth, pull it tight and hey presto it can no longer bite." he chuckles, "Now the trick is to just hang on to the beast and stab it until dead - simple. Now all we need is a willing volunteer"

Baxter looks around at the group, "Anyone?"

"Sorry, but I'm a bit too clumsy to try that," says Percy with a nervous chuckle. "Also a bit too attached to my own skin. That's a task best left to someone far more agile than myself."

"Boomsticks?" considered Chippedtooth, fingering one of the several teeth on his body.

"Nobody who hunted Crocodile ever used Boomsticks before..." he said uncertainly. It looked like he though it was cheating.

"For generations, we hunted them with spear and knife and ropes. A test of bravery, a test of strength, and most importantly, a test that we could work together. It is not enough just to kill a crocodile, it must be said by all that you are worthy of trust, that you will protect the blood of your tribe, even at risk to your own. We do not send our young out alone, but in groups of four or five. They must work together. Sometimes, they come back and one is hurt, or worse" he explained. "Then, we must see if the others had failed. For it is not those that hurt who are cowards, but rather those who let their tribe be hurt"

"Nobody ever hunted with boomsticks. It does not feel right. But it is, maybe, not wrong..." he wondered.

At the chief's words, Baxter looks to Carstairs and Burton, "Boomsticks would be best less chance of a lost hand or foot"

Turning to Chippedtooth, "So great chief, tomorrow we go hunt crocodile show you the worth of boomsticks. After perhaps you will lead us to where you found him?" he nudges the cage with his foot.

"Pfah!" spat Chipped tooth, aiming a rather unpleasant ball of phlegm at the insane prisoner.

"If you are a Crocodile hunter, we help. I do not seek war, but I hear the Toad People. They are madmen, and sooner or later, they will come North, to our peaceful tribe. Yes, yes, perhaps with you and boomsticks we can send them to your Christian Hell!"

"Amen!" said Sven, pounding his bible. "Let us drive Satan from these lands!"

Chippedtooth barely looked at the preacher.

"Who will join the Crocodile People?" asked Riverturn, his back straightening and his eyes glazing as he prepared to act some heathen rite of passage.

It turned out Dr Wessex would not. "Not in my contract" he explained, wiping his brow. Singh was more than up for an adventure, though.

"I'll join you!" says Percy, striding forward boldly. "In my land, we hunt with boomsticks all the time, and it's still a team activity. A boomstick is a weapon and a tool, just like a spear or a knife. You wouldn't hunt the crocodile with your bare hands, would you? We've trained to use boomsticks, but not spears or knives." He goes on to describe the English hunting tradition, making it sound more glorious and exciting than it actually is. "Tally ho! That's what we shout when the hunt is on."

Baxter flashes a look of mock horror at Carstairs overexuberance, "It's not a fox old boy, or some other form of vermin. You can't chase this beast on a horse, while wearing a scarlet jacket and blowing trumpets"

He turns to Chippedtooth, "I'll join you, View haloo!!"

"Quite mad, the pair of you," laughed Burton. "View halloo, indeed! If a croc. breaks cover, I'll certainly shout out, and with pleasure," and added, "I'm in too."

The Next Day...

Supping with the Crocodile people had been interesting. It was anyone's guess what was in the stew. Any nobody dared guess. Some things that floated in it were highly suspicious. Nevertheless, it did not taste so bad, particularly after many days of slogging through think jungle on conservative rations.

The next day was hot and sticky, much like any other day. The witchdoctor, Riverturn, lead them to the Nile river through invisible trails his many years had committed to memory.

Singh was uncharacteristically nervous. He fingered his sword, having foregone any firearm. He said he preferred the cut and thrust of steel to gunpowder in a fight. But he clearly didn't relish his choice.

Emelia had obstinately determined she would join. She was quite adamant the the Crocodile people were to be admired, as they treated men and women essentially equally. Here, she proclaimed, she would be accepted fully. Maybe that would be so. But first, the hunt...and for that purpose she had brought a rifle; something she had little experience with but plenty of enthusiasm in.

At the Rivers edge, Riverturn stopped. There were trees and plants all around them, and the chirping of birds, and...other animals. A monkey gave a hideous laugh at them all and fled when Singh growled at it.

Riverturn started mumbling some hocus pocus mumbo jumbo, and scattered some herbs onto the great river.

"I call the Crocodile!" he explained to the expedition. "Now..wait! It will not be long!"

He started climbing up a very tall tree.

"I shall be watching!" he said giving a most cheeky grin, wide and only partially toothed. His ascent was surprisingly swift for an old man.

"You know, climbing a tree sounds like an awfully good idea," says Percy. "Riverturn has the right of it. From up high we'll have a better vantage point, and we'll be able to shoot at the crocodile where it can't get at us." He looks around for other trees suitable as snipers' nests.

Baxter looks around at the ground noting the thickness of the jungle and the enclosing nature of the trees and plants. At Percy's suggestion he nods, but he's not sure if taking cover in a tree is quite what Chippedtooth and the witch doctor had in mind.

"Hmm, this looks like it's going to be close work" he grins at the nervous looking journalist and pulls his pistol from its holster, breaking open the cylinder and checking the load.

"You may be accepted by the Crocodile People, dear Amelia," said Burton, "but you seem to forget a fundamental difference between yourselves."

"What the hell do we do now?" asked Burton, when Chippedtooth climbed his tree. "Do as Mr. Carstairs said and find one of our own?" He saw Baxter checking the load of his gun and hastily did the same with his pistol. "Munshi Singh can track. See anything that is crocodile-like?" he asked his manservant.

Percy scrambles up a likely-looking tree and positions himself in the branches, cradling his rifle in his arms. He takes a good look around, but there is nothing stopping anyone from seeing him.

Baxter glances to where Percy is scrambling into a tree, "It is believed that crocodiles can climb trees". He speaks loud enough for Percy to hear but as if to himself.

Winking at Burton and Singh "It seems young Mr Carstairs stil has much to learn about the ways of Africa". With a snap! he closes the pistol content with its loading. "Now stay alert chaps the beasts like nothing better than to creep up on you. Then before you know it, 'crunch!!' and it's good night"

spot Hidden,[url=http://orokos.com/roll/319098]Spot Hidden - 55%[/url]: [u]1d100[/u] [b]25[/b]

It was as silent as gently flowing water. The light was reasonable; a strong sun tempered by the thick Jungle around them and overhead.

It looked like a floating log. Until it blinked.

There it was. Not the biggest crocodile in the Nile; but that was all about dry printed averages and measurements. When the predator started glinding towards them it looked plenty big enough.

Emelia hissed at them through the upper branches of the trees. "Is it here? Is it here?".

The crocodile blinked again, and started gliding directly at them.

The slightest laugh from Riverturn floated through the air.

"It's here," whispers Percy. He takes careful aim at the crocodile, lining up a shot.

OOC,Can we fire at it?

Burton fired at the beast, kicking up dirt beside it. "Missed!" he whooped, exhilarated by the "turkey shoot."

Before the echoes of Burton's shot die away, Baxters pistol bucks in his hand spitting lead at the emerging reptile. Seeing the wild shot of the writer, Baxter smiled with delight as he saw his shot hit home, "A little more to the left Burton old chap...There that's how its done"

Percy's bullet flies true, but it doesn't seem to penetrate the beast's thick hide.

Another crack...Emelia took aim with her rifle and spat a bullet. Nobody saw were it went.

The Beasts hide was thick, and its eyes went a darker malign black. Its blood curdled into the Nile from Baxter's shot and it writhed around, furious.

Then, with surprising speed, it launched itself to the trees. Could it see them? It seemed it had some primitive idea of where its vexations had arrived. Up close and personal, the predators horrible size and strength were blatant, and it took a strong nerve not to gaze hypnotically at its rows of teeth....

"Missed again!" cried Burton, still excited, but much more serious this time round. "C'mon, Baxter, Carstairs."

"Not so My dear Burton, see you've hit the blighter" at that Baxter fires a second shot at point blank range. Again the monster is hit, "View haloo!" he yells.

"We are hitting it!" hisses Percy, lining up another shot. "The bloody thing just doesn't know how to die!" His rifle cracks again, and another bullet strikes home, this time penetrating its scaly armor. "Huzzah!"

The Crocodile was clearly in pain now. For one moment it looked upwards, peeling Castairs with its black, black eyes. A moment hung in the air. It was somehow old, in the way of millions of years of brutal evolution into a killing machine made you old.

And then its eyes narrowed. And then its eyes widened.

The Crocodile whipped into a frenzy, its tail and body thrashing, its jaws snapping. The trees were not made to resist such assault. Branches snapped and cracked like kindling, and the most furious turbulence hit the trunks, which shook like a tugboat in a storm.

Singh stifled a shriek, but dropped his sabre, both mighty arms wrapped around a thick branch.

"Shoot it, shoot the devil, Mr. Burton! Shoot it!" he pleaded to his "master". It was hard to tell if he was shouting or whimpering.

Emelia gritted her teeth and pulled up her rifle to take another shot, but was promptly unbalanced as the Crocodile smashed into her tree, sending her tumbling to the ground. She was too shocked and scared to scream. A useless crack of her rifle, and a bullet hit the sky. She, meanwhile, tumbled from branch to branch on the way down, and landed in an awkward pile in the undergrowth.

Baxters eyes narrow as the monster smashes the tree trunks in fury and Emilia in tumbled from the branches of her refuge, her rifle firing uselessly as she fell. "Quick Emilia get out of there. Mr Singh, for the love of God, help her"

As he speaks he lines up the pistol for a third shot.

"Do it!" shouted Burton at Singh, to rescue the hapless Emilia.

Again Baxter's pistol spits fire,and once more the shot hits home, but the crocodile, seemingly oblivious to his wounds, continues his mad attack on the trees. "At this rate we'll never kill the bloody thing. Has no one got a bigger gun?"

"I've got my knife," called Burton, a little panicky, but very angry at a beast who refused to die, "shall I stab the fucking thing between the eyes?"

Percy drops his rilfe and slips from the branch, but he manages to grab it with both hands and hang on for dear life.

At Burton's yell, Baxter's vision is filled with images of the Englishman leaping, knife between teeth like some kind of Pirate, upon the heaving, thrashing beast. Thinking it might distract the beast from the defenceless Emilia, he shouts back,
"Indeed it might be worsth a try, old boy"

Glancing aloft to where the valiant Carstairs is clinging for dear life to his wildly swaying tree, earlier such a fine refuge it had seemed, "Hold on Percy, brave Burton is going to poke the creature with his knife"

"Jo Bole So Nihal, Sat Sri Akal!*" Yelled Singh, his knife between his teeth, as he leapt from branch onto the crocodile.

There he stayed, a fraction of a second, balancing on the back of a crocodile, his arms wavering to keep balance...

...and then with a convulsion, he was thrown off, the Crocodile yelling in pain, enraged and furious. Blood and possibly other unpleasant biological material was being thrown like paint across the jungle, and the Crocodile was less than pleased. As it was, if anyone had the calm mind to study the matter, it would probably not survive its wounds, but it was still, right now, alive, kicking, and most pertinently, biting...

Singh gave a groan as he slammed into a broken tree.

OOC:   *A Sikh war-cry, apparently! 'whoever utters (the phrase following) shall be happy(fulfilled), true is the Holy God'

Percy hauls himself back onto the branch. Without his rifle, there's not much he can do about the crocodile, but an idea occurs to him. Seizing a vine from the tree, he fashions a lasso on one end with a slip knot and dangles it down in an effort to retrieve his fallen rifle.

Burton jumped at the crocodile. He tried to match Singh's impressive war cry, but instead gave out a terrified Tarzan-like yell.

Baxter readies himself to fire again, ignoring the sudden appearance of a vine lasoo from Carstairs lofty perch, when without warning the air is split by a strange gurgling scream and without any further ado Burton sails through the air onto the still wildy, thrashing bulk of the crocodile. Baxter holds fire interested to see what happens next.

The crocodile grew taught, furious and still...and its black eyes focussed on Emelia, who could not help but scream as she started to cock her rifle, awash with fear and determination.

She pulled back her feet just as the Croc snapped onto her, its teeth missing her by a hairs breadth. Half of Emelia's impracticle skirt was torn off. At this point, she was most grateful. Victorian modesty was put to one side, the capacity to run faster without getting tangled up was a well received boon.

The Crocodile wriggle a moment, and spat out her boot.

Burton's thighs clenched the beasts back as he stabbed at the crocodile's brain, but the blade was turned aside by the reptile's thick, scaly hide.

Baxter watches the shennanigans with amazement, holding his fire for fear of hitting the mad Englishman, "Ride him cowboy!!" he yells his excitement growing.

Percy, his rifle once again in his hands, takes aim at the crocodile. He's close enough and confident enough in his abilities that he can hit the crocodile without risking his companions' safety. He is correct, as the crocodile makes a big target. The bullet barely penetrates its scales, however.

With a shrug of resignation, Baxter fires for a fourth time. However the insane Englishman, Burton, in his desperation to hold tight to the thrashing target, atttracts the bullet. "Whoops, sorry old boy"

"God damn you to hell, Baxter!" screams Burton.

"Master!" gasped Singh, emboldened by Burtons bravery and injury. He gritted his teeth, and jumped at the Crocodile, knife in hand, stabbing furiously. The beast twisted at the wrong moment, and Singh was brushed away by the tail of the beast, cursing as he tumbled into the jungle.

Emelia fired her gun in a panic, just grazing the beasts hide. The bullet appeared to rebound, flying upwards and splintering the end of the branch that Baxter lay on; in an ironic and poetic riposte to his own friendly fire.

The poor girls luck was out; the Crocodile jammed forward and closed its jaws around her Torso. Her piercing scream soon died as she passed out. Her blood hit the trees and seeped to the ground, and the Crocodile entered a blood-driven new height of frenzy.

"NO!" cries Percy, horrified. He levels his rifle at the beast and shoots it again, but the bullet fails to penetrate its scaly hide.

Burton suffered a gaping wound to one buttock. "You bastard!" he yelled, and if he dared let go of the crocodile would shake his fist at Baxter. "I've got a second arsehole now." His blood pumped out. And then Emilia was snapped, virtually in two; Burton is drenched in her blood, like a clown had thrown a bucket of red paint over him. In fury, he lunged at the beasts eye, striking home and hammering at his knife butt with the palm of his hand.

The Jungle drenched red and the Crocodile shook in pain as Burton plunged the knife into its brain. This was a brutal business! The beast was dying, but not yet dead...

With a savage roar and a gout of acrid smoke Baxters pistol spits death toward the crocodile. However this time he aims more carefully unwilling to chance another hit on the brave Englishman. Yet it seems that in his effort to make certain of missing Burton, Baxter also misses the crocodile.

"Damn and blast!" he yells in frustration as his fith bullet careers off into the jungle.

"I can't hang on much longer!" cries Burton weakly.

The beast was lost to whatever dim reason it had, in a blood lust, its last day on earth bathed in fury.

Snap.

Emelia stumbled back, convulsing and collapsing, blood shooting from her neck. Her body was without head, said organ jammed in the teeth and maw of the beast...the sheer brutality of the sudden death hung in the air for a moment, as the horror of it seeped into consciousness.

Percy is too furious for his mind to process what he has just witnessed. Filled with rage, he fires his last bullet into the croc, but the blasted thing doesn't even notice.

Burton stabbed again. He wondered how one applied a tourniquet to one's arse?

Burton watches in horror as the crocodile beheads Emilia, "Emilia no!!!" Then as Carstairs' bullet seems to make little impact, and Burton, still gripping the beast for dear life, plunges the knife towards the scaly creature he springs tiger like into action.
Taking carefull aim, using a two handed grip, realising that this will be his last bullet, he yells, "Hold the damned thing still man, and Singh stop loitering and finish the bloody creature or move aside. I've already potted Burton and I have no wish to make a pair"

Despite the apparent inability of Burton to steady his mount, and the fierce Singh to assault the beast with his sword, Baxter, his lip curled in a savage curse, pulls the trigger on his pistol.

Once again the scene is momentarilly obscured by smoke from the pistol's barrel, and for a brief moment Baxter awaits a blood curdling scream from the explorer announcing another hit on his nether regions. Yet this time it seems his aim is true and the final bullet in the pistols chamber strikes home on the creature...

And so it ended, not with the bang of Baxter's pistol, but with a whimper.

It was already dying, and now, the pace of death had quickened. It chocked, rolling left and right, a head lodged in its mouth. Its limbs and tails fell underneath it, the tail twitching horribly.

Its one baleful remaining eye gave Burton a look of malice, a look of agonising pain, and then, it started to fade, not like a switch, but like a slow horribly red sunset. Blood oozed into the ground.

Singh lost it, screaming at the unconscious beast, and started to hack it to pieces with his sword, his muscles twitching and sweating with seemingly unending exertion, the Jungle silenced by the screams of Punjabi curses.

Baxter calmly breaks open his pistol and proceeds to reload it.
"I say Singh old boy, I think the creature is dead. Perhaps you might want to save a little of that energy for aiding Burton"

Showing very little concern for the headless body of his ladyfriend, he stares off in the direction where the old witchdoctor had taken, "Its okay you can come out now the nasty thing is dead"

"It's alright, Munshi," gasped Burton to the frenzied Sikh, "it's DEAD, man!" he yelled, and then collapsed--swooned ?--sliding off the crocodile's back, and did he mutter, "I hate you Baxter"?

Singh collapsed from exhaustion, panting and sweating, his sword stuck in the spine of the beast. Tears in his eyes.

"Beast! It killed her...it killed her! was it worth it?"

The naked and crinkled witchdoctor, Riverturn, slowly climbed down from his perch. Whilst slow and spindly, he was completely at home in the trees, and the jungle.

A brave kill" he explained in Bantu. "She was without fear, and the loss was not due to lack of courage, nor of strength. You are all, even the dead, blessed by the great crocodile spirit" he said, bowing to the slowly flowing waters of the Nile.

"And now we consign her body to the waters, that it may feed the Crocodiles. I have not the strength..." he asked, looking around to see who would throw the womans headless body to the Nile.

Percy numbly climbs down from the tree and reloads his rifle, going through the motions without thinking about it. "We never should have brought her here," he says, shaking his head. "Mr. Baxter, you were closest to her. Would you like to do the honours?"

Baxter, having finished reloading his pistol, holsters it and looks around as if hoping that someone else will volunteer for the distasteful task. Then with a resigned shrug and a narrowing of his eyes, he moves towards the headless body, "I don't think this is a job for for one".

Stooping towards the familiar, yet now unfamiliar body of the woman who had so recently been the object of his affections, he stops in mid flow, "A little assistance perhaps?".

A most unagreeable job, yet a strange code of honour demands that he must do this thing.

Munshi Singh offered to help, clearly upset. The large man had little difficulty in hauling his end of the body, although he made some mild protestations against the method of disposal. He would have preferred a cremation, as per Hindu custom, or burial, failing that. But despite his faith, Munshi was a man of the world and broad enough in spirit to be flexible.

The body floated an uncomfortably long while, whilst the head, retrieved from tooth and maw, sunk quickly.

A short walk later...

With Riverturns testament, the four men were proclaimed members of the tribe. Sven and Britt were upset to hear the death of the woman, and Sven started to rant about primitive cultures, fuming at the barbarism of the initiation. The Frenchmen were both impressed with the hunt and saddened at Emelia's death. Scar was phlegmatic about the whole matter.

The Chief was willing to hive his help, after a feast of crocodile flesh that night, complete with dancing, singing, and ceremonies which sounded exotic to say the least.

Percy doesn't feel that much like celebrating after Emilia's death, but he does participate in the feast, extracting a small measure of revenge by eating part of the creature that had killed her.

Burton, leaning upon Singh's shoulder, limped into the tribes' village. He was gently placed beside the missionary. "You are right to be upset, Sven, but these people are literally barbarians, what can one expect from them? I'm glad you and your daughter didn't witness the killing of the crocodile or the death of Emilia . . ." Burton paused, was it emotion? He shifted to one side, further away from his injured buttock. "Perhaps you would say a prayer at the riverside?"

Baxter, armed with several buxom female natives and one of his seemingly never diminishing botles of Gin, lurches past in a drunken attempt at a tribal dance, "Hurrah! Burton old chap...hic...great party? Later I am having a tribal tattoo etched on my back." he raises the bottle and takes a large swig, "Speaking of backs...Hows the old derriere? No hard feelings old boy"

The line of grimacing females sways slightly to the left, a movement that has the drunkard stumbling and almost falling. However with an amazing display of dexterity he manages to keep his feet. Then as the group begins to move off he raises the bottle in a salute, "How about you Sven? When you've finished bothering God, maybe you'd like to indulge?"

Say what you like about the Crocodile people, they made great crocodile steak. The one-armed chef, Meatgut proclaimed proudly, and accurately, that it was a fine feast. A few of the feasters cracked tooth on lead, but this was considered by all a sign of good luck.

Sven stomped off to the Riverside. "She deserves a Christian burial. And no, I will not indulge!" he said, angrily. Britt looked away, almost shamefully. The big Swede, anger inflamed, would not be stopped. Even Munshi gave way to him.

"I do hope you will forgive his Passion. Rome was not built in a day, and neither is the faith of these people. He only see's barbarity. I think there is some beauty and nobility in them too..." she said, wistfully.

Sergeant LaForge was partying hard with the Chief and Baxter, refusing Gin and plying cheap french wine. The poor chief could not decide which poison was finer, but soon formed the opinion that being drunk was most agreeable whichever road was taken. Alas, he would be of different opinion in the morning. But for now, his high spirits and intoxication had made him most agreeable, and he had sworn solemn vows, on his own crocodile teeth no less, that two of his hunters would guide the expedition to the infamous Toad People.

LaForge raised a toast to Baxter.

"Damn savages! But I confess the Chief is a merry old drunk, and that was a heroic story, Mr. Baxter! I dare say Camp LaForge will be doing good trade now!" he said happily, as the Chief finished a bottle of wine, smiled vaguely, and burped.

A bare breasted beauty of flawless skin and wide hips put a pendant of crocodile teeth around Carstairs neck, informing him that the teeth where his, and giving an enigmatic smile.

The Chief rolled and staggered to Burton. "Whatever you want, you shall have! Today, you join our people! May you slaughter a hundred of the toad-people!" he roared, joyously.

"A man with his liver should not be drinking..." whispered a nervous Wessex into Burton's ear.

Percy smiles at the woman, trying to look at her face and not below. "Thank you," he says. "All of us hunted the crocodile. May I ask why you've chosen me?"

Burton, with a straight face, said to Sven: "Baxter has taken the loss of Emilia, his--er--maid, very hard, poor chap."

No hard feelings old boy"

"None taken," responded Burton to the old sot. Sven storms off leaving Burton, sat on a soft, wicker stool-thing, beside Britt.

A bare breasted beauty of flawless skin and wide hips put a pendant of crocodile teeth around Carstairs neck,

"Hmmm, interesting," he mused, wondering what Carstairs would do next. "I do understand your father's passion, Miss Lindstrøm,*: he is a fine christian man."

*,what was Britt's surname?

"A man with his liver should not be drinking..." whispered a nervous Wessex into Burton's ear.

"Who?--Baxter or the chief." He turned to Britt, and spoke confidential-like, "That devil Baxter shot me. It's very painful. . . ."

The buxom woman who lay crocodile teeth around Carstairs gave a smile, a little coy, a little joyous. "All who have hunted may wear the trophies of the kill" she explained. "It is freely given. Come and enjoy the celebration!" she asked, inviting Carstairs to dance; a rather overtly sexual dance, but the whoops and gyrations of the tribe, fuelled by some European alcohol. She did not exactly answer the question of why she chose Castairs, but did not exactly evade it either, mere suggestion and whimsy.

Britt Loren took Burtons hand. "You are a brave soul, Sir, and a good man too. I fear what you will find. I am not like my father, but still I am a Christian, and wish to spread his love. The stories of these toad people; I fear that they have sunk beyond even God's love..." she explained, worried. "Pray keep you soul safe, and those that go with you..."

She was even more beautiful in the evening light.
Wessex interrupted again, whsipering to Burton. "The chief; he is an ill man, maybe cancer, but certainly with advanced liver disease. The alcohol could kill him!" he muttered, concerned. He wiped his ever moist brow. His armpits were sodden with perspiration from heat and fear.

A large belch announces the reappearance of Baxter, still entwined with his dancing group but as yet tattooless, he nods approvingly as the the buxom female tries to entice the gallant photographer to the shadows. He raises the three part empty gin bottle in a salute, "Go to it young man. View halloo!!" This followed by a burst of drunken laughter that almost seats him on his arse, if not for the alacrity of his entourage disaster might surely have prevailed.

For a few moments he gazes at Burton, Brit and the heavilly perspiring Wessex, trying to focus his eyesight on whether the doctor is whispering to the Captain or trying to lick his ear. "Problem Doc?"

Doctor Wessex was quite flustered at the dancing and the dancers, and the nudity, and kept mopping his brow.

"I believe...if I am not mistaken...that our good host, Chief Chippedtooth, has liver failure. Caput Medusae, mild jaundice. I speculate that it is the sign of cancer. That so, he will be most ill advised to drink, it would cause most upset to his vigour, possibly in lethal!" he blubbered, as the King roared a toast to the tribe, before attacking some of Baxter's Gin.

Baxter himself was being accosted by the tribes tattooist who was attempting to ply his trade on the gentlemans' back.

OOC:   Whilst largely academic, you may wish to make a psychology roll to note that Spoiler: Doctor Wessex eyes seems rather drawn to the male dancers rather than the female ones

Percy rises and joins the woman in the dance, letting himself go a little. He notices something interesting about one of the other participants, but he has other things on his mind at the moment. "My name is Percy," he says. "What's your name?"

"Hells bells!" exclaimed Burton ill-temperedly--he had been about to suggest that Britt apply some oil to his wound. "C'mon, Wessex," he said to the doctor, "Looks as if ol' Chief Chippyteeth is going to rupture something." He made straight for the chief, hauling the doctor along too, "Do you speak Bantu, doctor?"

Wessex bumbled along, not knowing where to look. "Bantu? Er...no my deal fellow. I dare say I speak good French, and I probably remember my Latin, but Bantu is not part of a standard English education!" he said. It was probably fair to say Wessex had picked up the odd word to two, but that was very strictly it.

In the pale moonlight, one could almost imagine the Chief was turning yellow. Whilst in defiantly jovial mood, he had the shade of nausea that comes when the pleasure of alcohol starts to curdle.

"My friend Burton Mad-Leap!" roared the Chief, giving Burton his new name based on his antics. "This Jeeen of Baxter Fire-Ass is a mighty spirit!"

"I say," says Percy, noticing the commotion, "what's wrong with the Chief?" He's my chief now too, he thinks, with no small measure of pride. I'm now one of the Crocodile People.

"Where's Baxter?" shouted Burton above the throng. "Ah, Carstairs! You speak the lingo. Tell the chief that if he doesn't stop partying and rest--er--evil spirits will kill him, say Mad-Leap said so, and to let the doctor here"--Dr. Wessex--"to help him."

"Pardon me," says Percy to his dancing partner. He hurries over to the chief's side and translates what Burton had said into his best Bantu, which isn't very good. "In fact, in my land, we refer to gin and other strong drinks as spirits," he tells the chief. "I'm sure Sven can tell you all about how drinking gin lets all sorts of evil spirits into you. For many people, the spirits just make them act crazy and do things they'd never do otherwise, but in your case the evil spirits are trying to kill you. Mad-Leap said so, and he's never wrong about anything. If you drink any more, or if you exert yourself further, I fear they may succeed. You need to rest and let Dr. Wessex help you."

The Chief was just starting to feel ill, and duly slumped to his rear end, pot belly wobbling. He did not take the news of Dr Wessex kindly, or well, but he did take it, grumbling all the time about pouring cold water on the spirit of the feast. And yet, it appeared the advice was taken in the nick of time; for he was soon asleep, bar one episode of profuse vomiting in the middle of the night.

And so dawn came, with much hangover but with good spirit, the tribe and its guests well fed and proud.

Burton knelt beside Chief Chippedtooth's sickbed with someone to translate his words into Bantu.

"Chief, we journey to the Toad People's village. We will destroy them! But we need your support in our quest--although the gods are with us, I pray, they alone are not enough. Give us warriors from among your brave people?"

To Sergeant LeForge, speaking in French, "Join us, mon ami. We need your courage if we are to confront the Toad People, and rifles!"--Burton grins knowingly--"You, and your men of course, will share in the loot . . . !"

Also, Burton will seek out Riverturn.

Baxter appears in a morning after stagger, his head heavilly bandaged, no doubt from some after dark misadventure, and a strange looking tattoo of something resembling a crocoldile crawling on his back. "Whasup chaps?"

Percy has slept well, all things considering. He hadn't overdone it at the feast, unlike at least one of his companions. He goes to visit the Chief to see how he is doing this morning and to help Burton convince him to give them more help against the Toad People.

" 'Whasup chaps' ?" repeated Burton, "I must say, Mr. Baxter, you are a disgrace to the white race." He is still a little peeved about his aborted seduction of fair Britt; when he returned to her, after quieting the partying chief, he found her gone to bed. "Percival Carstairs and I," he says haughtily, "are garnering support for our trek to the Toad People's village."

"Indeed" mutters a somewhat disheveled looking Baxter, you can tell by the way his eyes keep narrowing and widening as if in pulse to some unheard rythm, that he is somewhat the worse for wear, "My back hurts as though Satan himself was roasting chesnuts back there" he turns his head in a ill advised attempt to look over his shoulder, with a piteous groan he clutches at his bandaged head. "I say Burton old bean, have a look and see whats up"

Burton does as asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow at Carstairs.

The Chief was ill disposed. Wessex feared the worst.

"He is a dying man, alas. I fear that Baxter's Gin has hastened his end, but there is solace of a sort in alcohol" he conceded. "Although it seems the Crocodile people have stronger narcotics than that" he explained. Wessex had been seen trying some local herb the night before and had passed out with a smile on his face soon after.

The Frenchmen, both the thin and harsh Sergeant LeForge, and the big, powerful Private Paris were somewhat hungover too. Neither jumped at the chance to fight the Toad People. Sergeant LaForge however did recognise that the matter was serious. Perhaps it needed official permission, but the matter could not be delayed; Chief Chippedtooth was on his last days, and should he die, the support of the Crocodile people could not be assured.

Private Paris was no coward. He would do his duty.

So the Frenchmen agreed to come. Alongside them, Chief Chiptooth sent two of his scouts to lead the way. They seemed capable enough, a young man named Shatterspear who was strong and nimble, and an eagle eyed woman, slightly older, called Nighteye. Both had their fair share of scars, and Night Eye was missing two fingers. Whilst their spears were strong and knives sharp, their clothing, if it could be called that, was spartan at best.

Scar was most reluctant to come; and yet something pulled him too. Like a moth to a flame, the young lad was wide eyed with dread, but the memories of years ago had some magnetic grip on him.