The Howling Islands

The great hall of the Palace of Blois was bathed in a veiled light, filtered by the dusty stained-glass windows where the reflections of a dying sun danced. A funereal solemnity reigned there, suspended between the marble columns and the crimson hangings. That day, the court of King Louis XII was having its moment of curiosity.

Standing in the center of the circle formed by advisors, clerics, and members of the Order of Sheol, the Captain of my royal galley, Alain Beaujeu, looked as if he had just returned from the dead. Around him, the faces were grave, their hands clutching silver crosses, their eyes fixed in silent expectation. At their head, the paladin Uriel Clairvaux, erect as an altar, his gaze burning with an almost mystical glow, broke the silence.

— Speak, Captain. What you saw, what you experienced... we need to hear it.

The Captain didn't answer right away. His fingers trembled, his gaze wandered around the room. His beard was bushy, his complexion waxy, his features gaunt. Then, in a hoarse, raspy voice, drawn from the depths of his memory, he began his story...

—We set sail west, toward the New World, gentlemen, in the intoxication of the discovery of Atlantis. A fleet of five galleys and nearly two thousand men, carrying the standard of France and the hopes of a king. The crossing was harsh… But the return… was quite different.

The Captain then began to tell his audience about the raging ocean, the jaws of the Great Ocean open to swallow the living. He spoke of the storms, the colossal waves that shattered hulls like children's toys. He spoke of hunger, thirst, and bodies abandoned at sea.

Then came this island...

—One evening, it appeared. Unknown. Uncharted. And already, the stars were going out as it approached. The sky, like the sea, was betraying us. The north itself was slipping away.

Driven by despair, we landed. A vast, wild beach, enveloped by jungle and mountains whose peaks were lit by the moon. There, we thought for a time we had found peace and the land of all our desires.

After two days of exploring the beachfront, we met them… A woman at first, tall and strange. Then, about ten of them came towards us.
Charcoal-colored skin, golden eyes, and ears as elongated as felines. They all spoke a strange language, made of clicks of the tongue on the roof of their mouths, rolling letters, and squeaks of the throat. One of them spoke our language… without an accent. With a strange courtesy. And a message:

"Go away."

The court shuddered at the mere mention of it.

—Some of my men… couldn't hold their gaze. He continued, speeding up the pace of his story.

But man is pride. Man is conquest. And what man cannot understand…

"The man is trying to subdue him," the Paladin finished, frowning at the Captain, who shared the same observation.

The man continued:

—Our supplies had dried up… And death was decimating our ranks, and we were still without a bearing. They had given us a week to leave. Faced with this critical situation, my men and I considered a desperate action: attacking their village to seize the supplies we needed for the return journey. The idea of ​​capturing one of these strange women and trading her life for our survival seemed a justifiable option.

But that day they did not come.

In their place… a colossus appeared. Naked to the waist. Skin of ebony, arms carved from bronze and in combat. A spear crackled with lightning in his hand, as if struck by the heavens themselves. He was mounted on a giant panther, its mouth bristling with saber fangs, its roar making the palm trees tremble.

And in the jungle... countless blue eyes. Bright as will-o'-the-wisps, watching us. Like prey.

The man stood before us, fearless. Alone on this strange feline monstrosity. But… none of my men moved. Not one. Instinct knew what reason refused to accept: we were no longer the hunters.

He paused. He breathed out the next words as one confesses a sin.

—What followed was a nightmare without logic. My soldiers... my rowers... my sailors, all seized by madness, massacred each other. Biting, scratching, slashing, mutilating one another. A general frenzy seized them. The colossus, strewn on his panther, meanwhile... stood motionless in the midst of all this chaos. And we fought valiantly, yes... But against ourselves...

He looked down.

—I woke up on a raft. On the run. And behind me... my men, hanging from the coconut trees by their wrists, disemboweled, their intestines offered as a feast to the birds that were feasting on them. Their screams... their screams still echo in my head.

An icy silence followed this confession. Then, one after the other, the other survivors were questioned. All told the same story. The same women. The same gigantic man. The same madness. The same island. The same icy howls...

When everyone had spoken, Uriel Clairvaux stepped forward, sword of faith in hand and his gaze burning.

—What you faced, Captain, those you saw on that island… they weren't humans. They were Nephalem. The hybrids, half fallen angels, half children of men. As spoken of in the Old Testament. And you found yourselves by mistake, in their lands, in the land of Odon… A land forgotten for thousands of years, from which you miraculously emerged alive.

He stopped in front of Alain and looked him over for a long time.

—It was not chance that brought you here. It was the design of the Most High. The Order of Sheol firmly believes: these lands, these creatures, are a gaping wound in the side of humanity. You have returned to warn us. And the message is clear.

So, raising his arms to the skies painted on the ceiling:

—By the Holy Church... we must cleanse this filth. We must return there. And burn... to the last stone, these demons.

And no one, that evening, dared to contradict his words. Not even the King.