NationStates Jolt Archive

Fijisoa, an island in the Republic Chain

From the endless expanse of the bright Pacific Ocean arose a small, insignificant lump of volcanic stone, jutting upwards from the water. A great, jagged tooth of bare grey rocks capped by a green blanket, over which presided a central peak that climbed upwards seemingly forever, it stood as mute testimony to the powers of nature. At its centre lay the island’s long-extinct volcano, that had given birth to it and now, perished, became part of its creation.

Above were clear, blue skies, rolling away to infinity, occasionally punctuated by clouds, silent, flying galleons that scudded, white and fluffy, on their way to distant shores. Below, ascending palms were perched upon the tops of the islands grey peaks, reaching upward as if to touch the heavens, dripping with dew from the constant mugginess of the forest’s air, and teeming with life in all shapes and sizes, except that of man. Men were not a part of the forest’s infinite variety of life, and, plagued by nagging primal fears that refused to leave them in spite of twenty millennia of evolution, men were inclined to remain so. Instead, they were content to use the island as a place from which to strike one another down in their various conflicts, and had left upon it various signs of their tribulations; but the forests swallowed them up, poured scorn upon the minute creatures who scuttled about and killed one another above and in their green mazes of life, and shrugged off man’s ephemeral creations, keeping their eternal peace.

However, it had not always been so. Within the oppressive heat and damp of the creaking jungle, a trace of humanity remained, a symbol of the glory long-lost from these ancient expanses of green. Hidden from the eye for aeons, it would soon be revealed again, and with it would be revealed secrets that should have remained unfound…

OOC: More tomorrow, I'm a bit tired. *Looks tremulous, is first IC post in NationStates*

OOC: Not a gravedig. I've had stuff to do, and haven't been able to write very well.

IC:

Through the leafy mass of the jungle, a long, straggling column marched. Clad in what might be called the archetypal garb of the archaeologist, they tramped monotonously over mile after mile of moist, soft earth, brushed at constantly by leaves and twigs, surrounded by insects, their backs bent with the weight of their packs.

Somehow, Tosa Yasakuro had never quite envisaged that this was what archaeology would be like. The lecturers had never mentioned plodding through endless distances of fetid jungle, or carrying a heavy, cumbersome satellite radio set on his strained back. The pack pressed his moist shirt against his skin, sliding slickly around and forming yet another component of his discomfort. No, this was not the way to spend his summer. He totally failed to appreciate the beauty and variety of the local flora and fauna, having been plodding through them for the past three days. Their base camp lay far behind, lost in the steam of the jungle, and their goal – assuming it was even where it was meant to be – was still some way off, buried in the trees. The party was navigating by maps and GPS, but neither was particularly helpful. Their goal had last been seen over one thousand years ago, after all, and was not particularly well documented. It might be days away, or it might be just round the corner. Being a pessimist, Tosa tended to assume the latter.

“Eh, Tosa!” Tosa started, suddenly aware that he had stopped and was staring, glassy-eyed, into the greenery. “Keep moving, we’ve still got to march y’know!” A red face grinned from between some leaves. It was Raman again. Tosa chuckled – Raman’s skin had been sunburned from the first day of expedition, and no amount of sun cream or anything else would prevent it; the result was that Raman looked like a small tomato nestled in among lettuce leaves as he passed.

Tosa called back, “keep quiet, tomato! At least I don’t set fire to trees as I pass!” He waited while Raman jogged up, seemingly unperturbed by the equally heavy burning on his back. Tosa found Raman’s boundless energy quite astonishing; he seemed personally dedicated to finding the Temple and exploring it in minute detail, ‘come hell or high water,’ as the British said. He chuckled as Raman approached, his tall, lean form weaving between branches and tendrils. “Got a light?”

“Yeah, sure.” Raman fumbled within his pockets, finally extracting a battered Zippo, and flicked it, watching the dancing flame as Tosa lit his pipe. It was a strange accessory, but he seemed happy with it, and Raman didn’t much mind the strangeness, for it was a homely, quirky strangeness; in these forests, they would doubtless find many more unnerving things. “How long, do you think?”

Tosa’s pipe gurgled. “Not too long, I think. Maybe another two or three days. Heck, my GPS says we’re within about nine hundred metres of the search box. It’s got to be here somewhere.” He gave the floor a thoughtful look. “Then again, nine hundred metres is a long way in this jungle.”

“Ach, what’s nine hundred metres now?” asked Raman, seeking to lighten the mood. “We’ve come this far. It can’t be long before we find it now. And hey, you never know what else we might find!” With that, Raman bounded off to rejoin the column, and Tosa wearily heaved his pack onto his aching shoulders, and pursued him.

Prime Minister's Private Residence, 20 miles outside Krasniy Novgorod

The sun beat down equally heavily on the rich woodlands surrounding the capital city. One of the city's saving graces was their proximity, allowing its inhabitants to escape the constant rumble of factories and engines, and journey into peace and seclusion, away from fumes and thronging crowds. The rulers often liked to go there, and allow themselves to think in peace. So it was today, with Marcus Jones and the Interior Minister, the recently-appointed Hiro Sujiyama, sitting on the creaking wooden porch of a small, cheerfully-painted hut.

Jones poured himself another mug of tea and gazed out into the woods, watching the woodland creatures scurrying about their daily business. He envied them, in a way, for they seemed constantly content. You never have to think about a damn thing, unlike me. Sujiyama was the bringer of bad news, and Jones knew it; he just didn't know its exact nature. With a sigh, he set down the mug and looked towards the Minister.

"Hiro, be honest with me. What's the mood of the population?"

Sujiyama shifted uneasily in his seat. "I cannot say exactly, Prime Minister." He looked into the trees. "But I know that there is a general feeling of discontent. People are becoming tired of constant arms expenditure, tired of war scares, tired of propaganda and hard living." He shook his head. "And to think military service was meant to annihilate such weakness."

"It is to be expected, Hiro. They are after all mere civilians." Jones reclined in his chair, an air of superiority about him. "They know nothing of the necessities of our work. Besides, if we curtailed defence spending half of them would be out of a job." He chuckled dismissively. "Let's see the Liberals mention that in their manifesto."

"They are more of a threat than you think, Prime Minister," cautioned Hiro quietly. "Their manifesto appeals to men having to work long hours for intangible benefits. It especially appeals to those who are more native in origin. The Liberals propose to create an affirmative action programme, after all."

Jones snorted angrily, "affirmative action! What the hell for? Have they no self-respect?"

"Money and food are more important than respect, sir. The welfare system cannot provide more than the basic necessities of sustenance." The Minister's voice had dropped to barely a whisper, and now he sighed a sigh that suggested he was endlessly repeating himself. "People want peace, and an easy life, more than national pride."

Jones simply contined staring at the trees. You're right, damn you. We're going to be stopped from doing our work, and with so much at stake, and so little time...

Tosa slumped on a large, flat stone, breathing deeply and heavily, running an arm across his sweat-soaked brow. He must have died; this had to be hell. He’d spent much of his life wandering the jungles of these sun-beaten islands, but never in his life had he felt such fatigue. His muscles were screaming at him with resentment, aching in places he didn’t even know could ache until now; his vision danced, adding to the heat-shimmer, and salty sweat ran in rivulets to his mouth. He closed his eyes and swallowed what little moisture could manage to reside in his parched mouth, wetting his throat a little, and listening to the jungle’s noises. His eyes flashed open after only a moment’s listening, for he had heard the trickle of water. Somewhere close by, there was a stream.

Tosa heaved his exhausted body off the stone and attacked the brush, stamping, crushing, pushing his way through the mocking, obstructing leaves, hacking at it with his machete, cursing the humidity and the leaves, the trees, the animals that were so happily adapted to this place. The sound of the stream was close, so very close, but he still couldn’t see it; the jungle stretched away in front of him, an impenetrable canvas of green leaves and indiscernible, nascent wildlife. Still he kept pushing. Surely he must be near it now! He could almost feel the water on his face and body, and he assailed the foliage more savagely than before, blundering through it angrily, his brain aching and body feeling like it was about to come apart. He swung his arms wildly at the greenery again – and then there was nothing in front of him.

The drop was not far, a mere six inches, but Tosa had no idea this was the case. He let loose a terrified scream, mingling fear and rage, only for it to be smothered as his face plunged into the icy water. He emerged from it gasping, an expression of shock covering his soaking visage, then pushed himself back into it, gratefully swilling the clear, cold water over himself. Presently, he regained his composure, and unscrewed the cap of his flask, eager to refill it with the life-giving fluid. Sitting down on a convenient log nearby, he gazed around as the stream tugged gently at his arm. He raised the flask, toasted the world at large, and was poised to take a long, long pull from it, when something caught his eye. Something big. Something that rose above the peaks of even the tallest trees, eclipsing them with unnatural, symmetrical perfection. Behind it, more spires rose, disappearing into the distance like withered, bony fingertips pointing toward the clouds. Tosa slowly drank, then screwed the cap back on his flask. He had already decided that he would not radio the others; this place was something he must investigate himself. He tramped through the stream, still gazing at the distant spires, and marched away into the jugle, checking his compass to be sure of his direction.

Unyielding as the trees were, Tosa pushed through them with energetic determination. The spires called to him, guiding him through the thick walls of leaves and tendrils as though he was attached to their stone by a tether and being reeled in by some colossal fishing line. Hacking, swinging, pushing and pulling his way through, his eyes peered through the jungle, catching sight of the grey structures, guiding his wild swings towards them, piercing the forests that had hidden them for so long.

And then, without warning, they were no longer hidden...

Tosa’s mouth hung open, his tongue hanging out like that of a panting dog as he ascended a small flight of steps. Before him stood a mammoth, shadowed arch which, though covered in plants’ tendrils and marked by the weathering of countless years, still towered above him, imposing and mighty, challenging his senses to be unimpressed by its height and strength. The grey stone’s smoothness was not quite total; here and there, markings were still visible, chiselled deep into the stone by unknown sculptors. Tosa peered at them, attempting to decipher the text, but without luck. Their mysteries would have to wait until later to be unravelled. He looked around – surely there had to be someone here – but could see nothing but the leaves and vines of the forest, covering to the best of their capacity the last vestiges of the structures all around. Between the stone and the greenery, occasional, furtive movements caught his eyes. The jungle never sleeps, he muttered, and fumblingly unholstered the TT-33 pistol at his hip. He knew that in all probability he could not bring himself to use it in this place, but nonetheless, he would feel safer with the weapon ready. Just hope that if there is anything eying you up, it comes from a direction away from the stonework.

Craning his neck to see, he proceeded through the arch, taking in the structure only dimly, noting with the small portion of his mind that had remained circumspect and scientific that the magnificent stonework of the temple was unusually well-preserved, and that the place appeared to be somewhat devoid even of the normal wildlife. The rest of his mind, for the time being, took a lead from his mouth, and gaped. His route was lined on both sides by pillars, long and thing, stretching towards the skies like the gaunt, clean-picked ribs of some corpse top which the vultures had already attended, the roof they had formerly supported long disappeared. Ringing each worn column were more of the symbols he had seen on the arch, equally incomprehensible, and bearing little relation that he could see to the modern tongue of the islands, which was a composite of Japanese and the native language, Patiki, inlaid with English and more recently Russian, the results of colonial rule and post-Soviet Russian migration to the Republic, comprising mainly loyal Soviets who had resolved to build a new life in this welcoming island chain. He bounced from pillar to pillar, staggering drunkenly, gazing upwards and outwards at the grounds of the temple, their flagstones still occasionally visible through the carpet of mosses covering much of the weather-beaten floor. Tosa’s mind reeled as he stared, marvelling at the structures around him. They had to be at least 2,000 years old, he thought, possibly older still, and yet they seemed almost unaffected by the encroaching rainforest around them. The eerie quietness and bizarre preservation made him shiver slightly. As though the old gods still protect their former palace. For all his training and education, Tosa’s mind still had, deep within it, the primeval fear and ignorance of the wild beast; and as he skulked through this vast place, the primitive fears came alive again, to pick at the corners of his reason and erode his certainty. The temple was simply too quiet, too still, for it to be natural. He pressed himself forward, tense and alert, into the ruins.

Another flight of steps, this one steep and rough, took him to a new height. He stopped, panting, and gawped at the complex that spread away in front of him, a maze of interconnected rooms and crumbling walls, covered in an inviting, verdant blanket. But it was not this which held his stare. Instead, his eyes traced along the ground, following the great black shadow that lay upon it like a discarded cloak, and widening as he saw its origin: a trio of colossal stone towers, three seven hundred-foot eminences silhouetted against the sun and rising towards the heavens as mute testament to the exertions of their creators. Mouth agape, Tosa stood in awe of these gigantic spires; the spires, in their turn, looked down upon him with haughty contempt, as a giant might look upon a fly; right at that moment, he couldn’t help feeling that he was indeed a fly as he tremulously approached their eminences, making for an entrance at the base of the tallest spire. His approach allowed him to make out the detail of the spire, and to his surprise, he found that it was not, as it had appeared, simply a perfect ogival shape. Huge, flat discs emerged from its sides, tapering towards the top, never any wider than the base of the spire; as though a pagoda had somehow been subsumed wholly into the stone. Shaking his head, Tosa readied the torch at his belt and peered in through the surprisingly small opening, watching cautiously for any movement, but nothing stirred within the stygian gloom. He bent himself low, a sudden impulse commanding him to enter.

Then something did move…

And he moved with it, bolting from the entrance, running like a rabbit as a torrent of blackness pursued him, screeching in rage at his intrusion into its peaceful home. Running blindly, he fell over a stone and found himself entering a group of bushes backwards as the mass surged overhead, a cloud of flapping wings. Wait. Flapping wings? Sighing, Tosa heaved himself from the bush, which supply returned itself to its previous shape, and walked wearily back to the spire. He’d never been able to deal with bats.