The Cliff of Cries

Araceli stood atop jagged basalt cliffs that jutted into an unbroken expanse of cerulean sea. She was a priestess of ink and fire, her lithe figure swathed in the dyed shadows of obsidian black, a far cry from the glinting golds and bright carmines of her sister-priests. The tunic she wore grazed her thighs, a sleek garment of woven palm fiber tinged with midnight hues, its ornamental olive-green serpent patterns shimmering faintly under the high midday sun. A leather belt with polished green jade clasps cinched the garment close to her waist, accentuating her lean frame. Around her ankles, obsidian shards clinked gently in rhythm with the wind—a symbolic ward crafted to protect her against the sea deities’ vengeance. Hair coiled into intricate loops—braced with gold pins marked with Mayan runes—crowned her head, lending her an air of celestial grace.

The scene below her roared with life. At the cliff’s base, waves battered against immovable stone in a cacophony that felt older than time itself. The horizon stretched unbroken, yet the air carried the acrid sting of smoke, whispering of warships off in the distance. The bright turquoise water dimmed to a murky jade near the shore—a tell of the blood spilled in sacred rituals earlier that morning.

Araceli’s gaze was fixed unwaveringly on the vast horizon, though serenity eluded her. Somewhere beyond what her eyes could see, the invader-ships, the Tonalli Empire’s obsidian-prowed serpent boats, slid across the tides like specters. It had been said that the emperor himself was on board, his mouth ready to proclaim a city’s annihilation should its rulers deny tribute. Araceli’s orders from the temple elders were clear: prepare the holy site for resistance and await an omen from Chaac, storm lord and life-bringer.

Yet waiting was the cruellest act. The priestess flexed her long fingers against the damp stone, her olive complexion kissed by the sun’s molten gold. She calculated the timing of each booming wave below, as if in conversation with the drowning world. Above her, thunderclouds stirred listlessly, uncertain whether to roll away or collapse in electric fury. There would come a time when swift action would tear her from these frozen moments, but for now, her body became the horizon’s anchor, her expression a mask of impenetrable resolve.

Arrival

A sudden gale tore past her, rushing upward from the ocean as if the waves themselves sought to speak directly. Araceli turned her head sharply, her green-gray jade earrings chiming like distant bells. It was then that she saw him. A boy clad in battered cloth drank heavily from a goat-hide water pouch, scaling the cliff as though climbing from the sea itself. His body bore markings unfamiliar to her—a blend of painted circles and unending spirals—impossible to mistake for locals. His age placed him barely in manhood, though his stance betrayed years of hardship.

“You’re far from where you should be,” Araceli said, her words cutting like flint as the winds carried them to his ears. She remained still, though prepared to spring. The snake blade hidden at her waist whispered possibilities.

“And where should a dead man be?” he retorted in a dialect rough but intelligible. His footing failed on the last stretch as a wave crashed below, drenching his back, and he collapsed onto the plateau near her feet. There, he gasped for air in a fit of feral defiance.

“Why would you come here if you knew death awaited you?” Araceli demanded as curiosity cracked through her stony demeanor.

“Because things greater than death demanded it,” the boy said. With trembling fingers, he clutched wooden shards tied with tightly wound sinews—an object meant for divination. The faintest hum pulsed through its geometric grooves, the music of something alien.

Had she been anyone else, Araceli might have called the boy mad. Yet the relic burned in his hands as though alive, and something deep in her soul whispered to listen. Something greater than storms awaited them both as the air tantalized her senses with incoming meaning.

An Impending Choice

In that moment, the sea roared anew—not merely in anger, but in desperate prayer. The boy rose shakily, offering the object with trembling hands. “Take it. Or condemn your seas to ash.” His words were conviction given breath, unshaken even by his near collapse.

Araceli hesitated for only a fraction of a heartbeat. Acceptance of the relic would mark her as an outcast in her own city—but refusal could doom oceans beyond those of the empire. Serpents and gods alike sharpened teeth in her mind. A choice, mayhap, the gods themselves would envy.

Her hand closed over the artifact, and the skies above shattered into fractals of unnatural color. Between the roar of the waves and the thunder of the storm, Araceli finally smiled.

This story is in the genre of historical (ancient Mayan-setting) fantasy.