[HS] High Seas - Recruitment/OOC

[Cracklord]

Here we go. My usual brand of original fiction to help immerse ourselves in the setting, detailing the Free Republic, and the civil war that occurred ten years ago. I'm beginning with the declaration, and leaving out quite a bit, though I hope to include the part the British navy had in all this.

This particular story ends with Blackbeard's famous duel with Whitebeard, and also details how he broke his sword, but who knows if I'll get that far. Anyone else has some ideas to flesh it out, excellent!

Spoiler: Chapter One - The Articles of War

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Where your ship to have made berth in Nassau not ten years past, you would have found the harbor full to choking with ships, each flying the dreaded black flag. Ships enough to take on the Grand Armada, or loot and plunder Paris, should they get the idea into their heads.

It was a brilliant morning, the sky a luscious periwinkle blue speckled with plump clouds like new-spun fleece, the sun high and bright but not fierce, and the water twinkling brilliantly beneath it, a rich green that stretched as far as the eye could see. From the port, the warves stretched out like long fingers into the sea, and the piers they jutted from were choked with bodies come ashore. In short, it was a pleasant day, the seas did not boil, the skies did not darken, and there was nothing to mark this moment but the ships that had come to hear.

For in the town square, where on other days markets would be set up and traders and thieves would come to flog the wears taken from honest men at the point of a sword, there was a gathering of assorted scallywags, rogues, and scoundrels equal to those who met six months past, to elect their king.

The two who had called it needed no introduction. Edward Teach - none other, was a fearsome sight, big as a house-side and nimble as a cat, standing six foot five inches and making every centimeter count in his bearing. His face was hard and brutal, creased and cracked and roughened by wind and sea, and he wore his dark beard long, hanging past his chest and braided with fuses. His dreaded sword hung in a plain scabbard, and he was festooned with pistols, his arms were folded against his wide chest, and his eyes were cruel and pitiless and utterly without mercy.

Beside him stood the man who would have been King of the Brethren Court, and who could say he wasn’t, since the vote had been tied when The Old One had abstained, leaving the legitimacy of the vote in question. And with the dubious prospect of democracy a failure, their recourse had been popular uprising, if not open civil war. Edward Kenway was dressed all in snowy white from breeches to head-kerchief, the clothing at once reminiscent of the robes of a priest and the uniform of a soldier. He was lean and wolfishly handsome, almost as tall as his companion, with fine scars tracing along his stark features, and a cutlass strapped to either hip.

Around them, thronging the square, all that would come had gathered. Cruel bearded faces in the shadows, earrings, head scarves, hairy drawers, dirty shirts open to the waist, bad breath, great buckled belts, cutlasses, knives and pistols gripped in gnarled and sweaty hands, and eyes that watched for the first sign of weakness.

“Gentlemen...I find meself gladdened at heart t' find ye all here at t' call. Circumstances be a shame, however, and it saddens me that in t' midst o' such a happy reunion I be raised t' wroth and choler." Blackbeard growled, in his thick Somerset accent. It had been decided that he should do most of the talking, given the terror most of the other captains felt in regards to him they were less likely to offer complaint or resistance. They needed to control the mood of the crowd, or else they'd likely kill each other over old grudges and feuds.

"We be free men, gentlemen o' fortune with no designs but those we build upon. Kingship be a gift we give, not one stolen by those with drawn blades. But I will submit neither t' man or devil, and if a fight they be wantin', they will not go wantin' for long."

He paused then, surveying the gathered men. More then he'd feared had sided with him, but less then he'd hoped. Some he trusted, others he was less sure about, but all he respected, if only for the strength they displayed in getting here.

Olivier Levasseur was there, strutting and twirling his mustache; tall, lean, rakish Levasseur, pretending to elegance in tawdry finery, with an embroidered coat, plumed castor, lace ruffles, and fine Cordovan boots with red-lacquered heels. None of the articles were in the least practical for a self-respecting sea-dog, and all had seen better days, however Levasseur knew they were the height of fashion, so he wore them despite it all, and nobody was fool enough to point out how scuffed and threadbare his assorted articles were inevitably becoming, given his primary form of acquiring clothing was taking them from those he skewered, and there was a shortage of readily available fops on the High Seas.

He was a sad case really, although he looked anything but. A gutter snipe, he yearned for gentility, having observed something of it as a bare-foot stable lad in a great household, and dreamed of legitimacy. He was a master swordsman in the Verdadera Destreza school, and a lover of strategy games. Among sea-scum he about passed as a gentleman, having picked up a few tricks of speech from Congreve and Vanbrugh to supplement his gaudy wardrobe, but for all that he sneered and minced in sinister fashion only a fool would under-estimate him - though he was undoubtedly at best a social pretender, he had won his captaincy by cunning, courage and the point of his sword, and besides maybe Dread Roberts himself none were reckoned his equal in the ways of a blade upon the High Seas. Blackbeard, in a rare sign of favour, granted him the slightest of nods in acknowledgement, and Captain Levasseur returned it

Captain LaRoche, for his part, was tall and thin and unspeakably menacing, with a sinister quality to him that even Blackbeard lacked, and the very veneer of aristocratic charm Levasseur pretended, though the red light of triumph twinkled in his eyes, and he possessed a smile that Judas in Hell might be proud of, as though he insulted the entire world with his mere existence. Nobody was sure of where he came from, though stories abounded, that he was the last of the warlocks of Scholomance the fabled school of black magic somewhere in the Carpathian Mountains, that he was a descendant of Charlemagne and a renegade member of he secretive order called the Knight’s Templar, or that he was an assassin who murdered with an ancient weapon of gold, or even that he had been a man, once, but in the sands of the bone dessert he had fallen under the sway of a long dead prince of Egypt, and was now a ghost who served dark designs from beyond the grave itself.

Whatever his antecedents, he was a singular terror with a devilish temper that seized him without warning, and his crew would have slit his throat long since if they all weren’t too afraid of him. He dressed all in black, his buttons of polished bone, and wore a black rapier at his hip which had seen more death in his hands then any graveyard could claim, one gloved hand toying with it, as though he could hardly bear not to put it to use. He met Blackbeard’s eyes, and held them. There wasn't a hint of fear there, not even a glimmer of bravado. LaRoche just stared back.

Emilio of Roccabruna, Lord of Valpenta and of Ventimiglia, and feared throughout the Caribbean as the Black Corsair stood alongside the other two, a clever Sicilian, noble and handsome but also very secretive, constantly ambitious and forever unsatisfied. He always seemed lucky, though it was more a result of his Machiavellian plans and his sheer audacity; every step he took a calculated used to climb to even greater power. No doubt he had ambitions of his own in regards to the free republic, and perhaps he would get them yet. Captain Vallo, his younger brother and a captain in his own right known as 'The Red Corsair' stood to his left, the so-called crimson pirate barely able to suppress his awe at the august gathering around him.

"Hark ye, you that came in curiosity not friendship, I find by strengthenin' you, I have put a rod into your hands t' whip meself. So let thar be no question as t' our intentions, I mean t' go t' war wi' those who stole a crown. If you be not counted among me friends, be counted amongst me enemies, because Damnation seize me soul if I give quarter in this, aye, or take any if offered!" Blackbeard continued, the words less spontaneous, more measured, deliberate. He would let no man claim ignorance or neutrality, this was war, and he would settle for no less.

His gaze continued, following the ranks of captains as he gave them his ultimatum. One-Eyed Willie, that scheming cripple, sat on an enormous chair his crew had carried him in on, his breathing wet and shallow, one long-fingered, grasping hand holding a hankerchief to his mouth, which came away flecked with blood. He spoke low words to the captain beside him through one side of his mouth, a concession to the rotting teeth that pained him, and he rubbed his empty socket with a knuckle before pulling the patch back into place. It was hard to believe he had once been so mighty, he was now a ghost of a man, or skin and bones and dying as his lungs filled up with blood and syphilis rotted him from inside out. Now the old man could not even manipulate his own body. Instead, he manipulated everyone around him.

His fellow schemer, Captain Thomas Bartholomew Red, was given a wide berth for a different reason. Even in this company, his tastes were frowned upon, he was known to be a cannibal, having eaten all but one of his crew, and for his pleasures found favor in girls of extraordinary youth and innocence. He was a bad sort, vicious as a cornered rat, who'd bite the hand that offered aid or succor for no reason then a chance, or betray and murder a man for the slightest of provocations.

Finally, Black Bellamy and his lover Cutlass Liz, a shameless extrovert who enjoyed wine, women and song, honest and slightly gullible and not half the schemer he imagined himself, but quick thinking enough to make up for it. He was lean and quick as a hummingbird and imposing despite his slight build, but despite his tendency to drink, had a gentle manner among friends.

Of course, there was far more attention upon Liz, six gorgeous feet she was, noticeably taller then him, and from the heels of her tight-fitting Italian thigh boots to the curling plume of her picture hat, dressed in a scarlet kimono with ermine trim that clung to her like skin, lithe and sleek and dangerous as a panther - with her lovely vicious face and voluptuous shape, the curl of her shapely lip and a lift of her perfect Egyptian nose and a low-lidded glare from her smoky slanting eyes flashing against her ebony skin. She smoldered silently as she unsheathed her broad-bladed cutlass with its Cartier hilt from which she drew her name, and posed with the contemptuous grace of a burlesque star, indifferent to the attention she got. She never walked, she prowled, exuding menace and sex-appeal at every step, and Liz was as cruel and deadly as she was beautiful. Born a Barbados slave, she had clawed her way to power by a piratical genius and ruthless ferocity that had made her the toast of women's liberationists all along the Main.

Those Blackbeard recognized, by face or by name and reputation. The newcomers around, on the other hand, he had mixed feelings about, but every ship they could get, if only to keep them from the Brethren. "There be be no recourse here, war, like as not, lest we escape t' tyranny o' our homelands only t' fall prey t' tyranny amongst ourselves." With a solemn movement, he held up apiece of yellowed parchment, on which a large black splotch of ink had been made. "Aye, mutiny then. Nothin' less will settle this."

One by one, he watched as the other captains indicated likewise, his eyes following those he had not had reason to meet before. Captain Horatio Pugwash he was incapable making up his mind about. He seemed a rather soft and inoffensive little man, not at all cut out for life on the high seas, pompous and foolish, vain, self-deluded and mostly incompetent, only making his way through life with a generous helping of luck. Still, he was an enemy to none of them, and were not likely to turn away support freely offered.

The other newcomer on the other hand, while very capable, was an enigma. He claimed no name or title bar 'The Black Pirate', or at times the Duke of Arnoldo, wherever that was, said little and offered less, the aura of mystery impossible to penetrate. All that could be certain was that you wanted him as a friend, if only because it would be terrible to have him as an enemy, but one would prefer him to be on neither side at all.

Geoffery Thorpe stood with his arms folded, leaning against the wall. Since his betrayal by the lords of the Admiralty he had learned to keep his own counsel, and a hard-learned lesson it was. Alexander of Monterria stood to the side, hopping around and cackling, then was drawn into a foppish slapping-match with Victor Stagnetti, while Elisabet Ramsey rolled her eyes and tried to ignore them. And clustered around them were a dozen others, Captain Slaughterboard, The Red Rover and One-eyed Jane. Even Captain Shakespere, the only son of Captain Ghostmaker whose name was still used to frighten children across Europe, such was the terror of his legend. And many more that neither of them recognized, or whose names they had never cared to learn.

"T' first law o' t' Brotherhood and t' code be this, ‘Fair’s fair’. Each does starboard by hisself, and be entitled t' t' profit o' his own labors. I say, that's a creed t' live by! Worth dyin' for, worth killin' for, worth damnation itself for! So drink up, me hearties, for those with me sail t' Shipwreck Cove with t' tide, and those against had best get out o' me way! And to the locker with he that first cries 'Hold, enough'!"

[Cracklord]

Here we go. And that involves the East India Trading Company in the proceedings rather nicely, if I say so myself.

Spoiler: Chapter Two - At the Sign of the Compass

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It was a balmy clear night, and two men strode side by side, with the uneven gate of lifelong sailors unacclimatized to the solid surface of dry land. They were headed towards the ‘Keelhaulers' Lounge’, the big back room of the Golden Compass in the pirate haven that they had created in the Bahamas’. Like any establishment worth visiting in the pirate ports, it was another careful investment established by Long John Silver, quartermaster under the Pirate lord Captain Flint who, methodical as always, had carefully set up a chain of such places to cater to the buccaneer fraternity. He was always careful with money, that Silver.

"Just before we parted company, James mentioned that he had come upon a man, half dead, floating in the sea. They pulled him out, and before he died, he told them a story similar to the ones I have heard here today. He said it happened off the coast of India. It seems these villains are everywhere." Edward mentioned.

“Blow me down, that scurvy dog’s still alive? Wonders ne'er cease it seems.” Blackbeard exclaimed, shaking his shaggy head in wonderment. “A wonder drink or t' devil haven’t done for him by now. You trust his word?”

“Why would he lie?” Edward replied simply. Since those first, heady days of negotiations and threats and promises neither side meant to keep, every tide had seemed to sweep in more shiploads of pirates and sailors, chomping at the bit, the swell of each wave depositing some new leaky vessel filled to bursting with men, so that the town creaked at the seams trying to find room for them all.

"We’ve waited too long already. Let t' dice fall where they be, t' course be set and no man can change it now." Blackbeard said with a sigh. “One roll o' t' dice, let 'em fall where they do.”

Kenway nodded grimly. “I don’t see any alternative. We trusted them to remain at Shipwreck, buying themselves something like legitimacy. But they’ve learned better then that, it would seem. If we don’t act soon, an Armada will show up on our doorstep and they’ll blockade the harbour. We’ll all starve in a week.”

“Wouldn’t take a hundred ships. Barely a dozen.” Blackbeard concurred grimly, rubbing his eyes with a big knuckle. “Narrow as t' harbor is, we’d be trapped and waitin' t' starve, or else shot the pieces before we rounded the headland.”

“Do we have enough men to make a play for it?” Kenway asked. They'd decided long since that avoiding open battle was the only way, trying to draw those who threw in with the Lovers into waters they could control, but even so, the odds, never great to begin with, showed no signs of improving.

Blackbeard shrugged again. “Depends on the men.” He replied. What more was there to say?

“I’m afraid that is the least of your problems.” Said a man who emerged onto the street, arms folded across his chest. Both of them recognized him is an instant, Benjamin Hornigold, another of the founders of the free republic, a tall and square-shouldered Englishman, his eyes flint-like and his bearing as regal as it had ever been. Some pirates achieved immortality by great deeds of cruelty or derring-do. Some achieved immortality by amassing great wealth, or by risking the dangers of the Grand Line. But Benjamin had long ago decided that he would, on the whole, prefer to achieve immortality by not dying.

“My compliments. There's not been a gathering like this in our lifetime. Would that I could call myself part of it. But I’m here on a sanctioned mission, under the authority and protection of the Crown." He sad, inclining his head.

Edward, who had been walking over to embrace him, stopped as though pole-axed. Teach could not suppress a growl, deep in the back of his throat. “You always counted yourself too proud t' take t' name pirate.” He growled, his tone far from complimentary. “Didn’t see you arrive. Now why is that?”

“It’s the way of things.” He replied, unapologetic. “It served us well while it lasted, but time grinds on, and the world with it. Where's the harm in joining the winning sides?” Then he shook his head. “But I’m not here to convert you. You’ll come around on your own, or won’t, by the by it’s down to you. I am here to give you a message from his majesty, the King of England. Then I will return to my ship, and be on my way. Nothing else.”

“And that be what?” Blackbeard snarled. “Pardons? Forget what it be t' live and laugh and love and run a man through? Forget t' taste o' salty air on me tongue and never again wave heartily at a mermaid? Life sounds hollow, so it does, when put like that.” He spat. "Take that t' your king, as answer from me and all with us. We’re free men, and accept no dominion of masters we do not ourselves choose. They vilify us, that sort does, because we make lies o' what they are. T' only difference be this; they rob t' poor under t' cover o' law, and we plunder t' rich under t' protection o' naught bar our own courage; Keep your pardon, your commission and your letter of marquee, much good may it do ya. Let t' King o' England come against me, if he fancies hisself man enough. But I remind him, t' sea be bigger then England, and all I ask o' it be a tall ship and a star t' steer her by. T' rest will take care o' itself.”

Benjamin threw back his head heartily and laughed heartily at the man who had once been his friends colorful response. “Well, so be it. I almost believe you’ll win. But I am still able to deal with you both; but since we met in love, let us part in love, for I find that three of a trade can never agree." He replied, with a sad shake of his head, and proffering an outstretched hand. Neither of the two took it.

“The pirate code be fer pirates, from whose company ye 'ave repented. Thar be none o' ye but will hang me, I know, whenever ye can clinch me within yer power. Why should we do less ‘n the same?" Blackbeard growled, but Kenway shook his head.

“Let him go, Edward. Let him tell his king we’re here, and we intend to stay. We’ll fight our own, and we’ll fight all the ships in his navy if it comes to it, but it won’t. Call us relics of the past, if you will, but the old order is fading, and men no longer look to crowns for leadership.” He folded his arms. “He drove me into this life, but I wouldn’t part with it now, not for all the gold I’ve buried. He would have me repent it? Then so be it. Yes, I do heartily repent. I repent I had not done more mischief; I repent I have not cut more throats of those that are against us, and I am extremely sorry that you aren't to be hanged as is intended for me."

“Can we do it?” He asked Blackbeard later, in a side-room of the tavern where only the thunder of celebration and pistol-shots from without, and the occasional body crashing in from the main room disturbed their conversation. “Can we fight England and the Brethren both?”

Blackbeard shrugged moodily, and finished his rum.

The next addition will steer to some other, less well-established pirates, as they fight their own battles for rulership of the seas.

[Cracklord]

No comments at all? Tough crowd. What do you think, Darkblade? Does it mesh with your intentions, or does it need revision?

Spoiler: Chapter 3 - Welcome to the Carribean

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On the other side of the world, or nearabouts as to make no difference, was the port of Libertatia, on the coast of Madagascar. In it's day it was the greatest of the havens, eclipsing both Port Royal, that in time the British would reclaim and in which law and order finally prevailed, and Nassau, which only existed at all because New Providence Island's harbor was ideally situated to prey on the Spanish Ships laden with treasure as they returned from the New World. But Libertatia was ideally situated for a prize that was richer still, the entire Dark Continent spread before them, all the way to the barbary coast, as were the great treasures and greater still opportunities that the Dark Continent afforded. And though it was a little too close to the Indian Port of Bangalla for any pirate to feel entirely safe, it was nonetheless the capital, as far as such a thing could be applied, of pirates everywhere.

‘Calico’ Jack Rackham, the Ranger's quatermaster and without a doubt the brains of that particular operation had been busy since he went ashore. He had parceled up his calicoes to the dry cleaners, checked the share prices of the ships he had an interest in, carefully paid up outstanding debts to the A.B.P.C.B.A.T(the Amalgamated Brotherhood of Pirates, Corsairs, Buccaneers and Allied Trades - the union he'd selected as representation, although he'd become somewhat jaded with the benefits they offered and their alleged so-called productivity deals that he found to be in direct and flagrant disregard to his experiences of the opinions expressed at focsle-floor level an' ratified by the ships democratic process, and was considering transferring to N.U.P.E (Nautical Union of Piratical Employees) for the free week-ends at the Notre Dios Hilton, and what seemed to him to be a very generous expense account), and after haggling with smuggler and fence Richard Guthrie, the only man who could turn a hold full of stolen oriental silks and spices into profit so quickly, updated the books to see that the crew was paid. It was a point of pride that he never cheated his crew or gave any preferential share, everyone was paid according to experience and responsibility. That done, he forwarded his own share, and Bonny's as well for that matter, of the treasure to his other faithful paramour, Mary Read, on their shark-infested island retreat, with instructions to hold on to it carefully until he had made up his mind where to buy in next.. That all taken care of, he finally ambled into town, whistling a jaunty tune. It was an odd little tune that posterity will one day recognize as the first few bars from ‘Theme to Murder, She Wrote’.

'Calico' Jack Rackham was not a fierce-looking man. Indeed, he looked closer to a poet, another handsome young man with a little too much education, and not quite enough drive to make something of himself, with bright eyes, a thin mustache that made him look debonair in the right light, and bright, clever eyes that went well with his perpetually animated expression. Like many pirates, he was eclipsed by his own reputation. He dressed flamboyantly, in both Indian and Asian prints that gave him a slightly dandified air, and had no weapon about his person, unless one counted the long wooden staff he was leaning on, and most would sensibly discount it.

Jack Rackham had come to the Carribean many years past, looking for fame and fortune as a privateer, but ultimately, like man of his kind, had grown disillusioned with the royal navy, and struck out on his own. He'd been a captain himself, for a time, but now served as quartermaster under Charles Vane, the brains to Vane's brawn, a position that suited him perfectly.
As it was early in the season, he was surprised by the number of ships careened on the long-beach spit beyond the bay.

Anne Bonny, who never left her lovers side and never allowed her hands to stray far from the hilts of her blades, was beautiful but cold-blooded, so much so that it took a few glances to realize how attractive she was. She wore a slouch-hat low over her features, which she glowered beneath, her gaze unsettlingly suggesting she was in the process of sizing everyone int he immediate vicinity up and was unable to restrain herself from hurting them. Her hair was the color of a candle flame in a dark room, braided in places and dread-locked in others, strung with beads, and her appearance was unkempt and rough, with a heavy coat buckled around her, and the pants and shirt of a man. She walked with a jerky swagger, without any rhythm to it whatsoever.

In daylight, the Hole-In-By-The-Hill was nothing to look at: a cave in the limestone cliff above the Street, its mouth extended with dank canvas awnings, filled with a litter of tables and stools, easy enough to overlook. But after dark, it came into it's own. Barrel fires lit up, and torches and lanterns too, strung from the awning poles or hooked to the cliff face. Hogs and fowl, blistered black with honey, were spit-roasted over the smoking fire pits in the cave, and firelight glowed like gold off the low-hanging canvas. The tavern filled up with hot smoke, laughter and the stench of pipes, hops, swine fat and salt sweat.

The two of them made their way towards it, drawn by the wild, reeling music of a drunken campanica player. Inside, there were pirates lounging in chairs and on stools, some smoking, some cleaning knives, a few reading tattered copies of newspapers labeled Pirate Today and The Daily Corsair, complaining about internal politics and discussing the forecasts and predictions with a gloomy air, or showing a bit more pleasure gossiping about the affairs of the famous. There were forty or so of them, mostly captains, and just the seniors and the veterans at that. The others, the less successful, the dog-sailors and ratings, were away down the bay for the night in the cheaper stews and inns. As he stepped in, there followed a pandemonium of cheers, applause and thumping. 'Calico' Jack acknowledged the tumult with a few smiling nods and a wave of his free hand, though it didn't entirely reach his eyes, and certainly didn't go to his head. They were happy to see him now, certainly, because he was a name to be respected, because he was enormously successful. That could, and did, change at a single turn of fortune. Instead he looked around until he found the face he was looking for, and stepped over.

Sir Oliver Tressilian, better known as Sakr-el-Bahr - The Sea Hawk, was seated in the table reserved for their brotherhood, stroking the black cat on his lap. It opened it's large, calm eyes, and purred. It was a cat. Or at least, it was a kind of cat, for this cat had resting on it's back a pair of beautiful black wings, tipped with white. It's other markings were black and white, like those of an ordinary cat, with white paws and a white muzzle and front. It seemed friendly and self-possessed, and whenever the captain offered it choice pieces of food from the table, it ruffled it's wings and snapped it up hungrily.

He nodded to them as he saw them arrive, and tipped his wide brimmed hat respectfully, and 'Calico' Jack flicked a lazy salute in response, before stepping over and sitting on the other stool. "Is it as bad as I've heard?" Rackham asked, his voice slightly high pitched, and pleasantly cultured. He didn't mention the Barbary Coast buccaneer (The term ‘Captain Judas’ was applied to this type of traitorous sea captain) new pet, he had gradually acclimatized himself to that sort of thing, and it no longer quite so shattered his poise. At The Sea Hawk's side stood a fair-skinned, blond-bearded, blue-eyed renegade Scotsman named Gregory Lisle. He was a British Naval officer once, but he'd been converted and now commanded three ships beneath his master. He grunted, but was wise enough to keep his silence in this company.

"Worse." The Sir Oliver said simply. "It wasn't anything like an idle threat, I'm sorry to say. When he said war, he meant war. He's gathering anyone who will support him now."

"Damn and blast." Jack sighed, shaking his head. Technically speaking, this was a gathering of Captain's, but Charles Vane was far out of his element in proceedings of this nature, and so sent him in his place. Plenty of pirates called Libertatia home, and far more had come, since the Caribbean attempted it's defection from the law of the Brethren Court, but not just anyone was allowed to sit at this table. Each of them was counted in the inner circle of the personal fleet of a Pirate Lord, and trusted to keep order and direction in their name. They made idle small talk a little longer, Bonny contributing nothing but silent threats and periodically glaring around the room, keeping her eyes on everyone else.

Conrad on the other side of the tavern, as far as he could manage to be from everyone else, wallowing in his romantic self-pity. Most would ask why he even came to a social place like this if all he wanted to do was cultivate solitude, but that was missing the point. He was a strange one, most likely mad, and the worst sort of cynic, so utterly disconnected he was self-defeating and endlessly frustrating, but despite it all retaining a certain amount of personal charm. Indeed, 'Calico' Jack had always found him quite an appreciable conversationalist, if you kept the topic from straying into his rebellion and a distaste for society.

Captain's Charles Hunter, Jamie Waring and Jezebel jack were scheming a heist well out of their league. It would come to nothing, it never did, but Jack kept an ear on them anyway, listening for the notes of desperation. Vane liked to keep track of his rivals, particularly the ones who had strong crews who were growing in dissatisfaction and might be willing to sign on under him.

And their were others. Van Raven, the Dutchman. Tranicos, and Villiers, and McVeigh. Captain Red Ned Lynch and One-Eyed Jane, Captain Barrett, Captain Jesamiah Acorne and Dan Tempest, and plenty of other cut-throats, scallywags an ne'er-do-wells.

Terrence Vulmea arrived, a big irishman with an intimidating frame, dark of hair and hard of face. He wore a grey velvet frock coat with wide button-back cuffs, a sash of scarlet silk, some brown moleskin breeks and a pair of black, thigh-length cavalry boot, with an open shirt which revealed a torso bronzed by the sun and rippling with powerful muscles. Captain Morgan Adams walked with him, her hips swaying. She was tall, full-bosomed and large-limbed, with compact shoulders. Her whole figure reflected an unusual strength, without detracting from the femininity of her appearance. She wore short, wide-legged silk breeches, which ceased a hand's breadth short of her knees, and were upheld by a wide silken sash worn as a girdle. Flaring-topped boots of soft leather came almost to her knees, and a low-necked, wide-collared, wide-sleeved silk shirt completed her costume. On one shapely hip she wore a straight rapier, and her unruly brown hair fell in curls to the small of her back, confined by a band of crimson satin.

Captain Bob Harvey arrived a moment later, a tall, bullish, shaven-headed man with a long chin-beard braided with beads. He smiled, the way he always did, a twinkling light in his cheeky eyes, and a cheerfully chirpy expression, coming of as the kind of rascal who made a dodgy living selling counterfeit watches. Most people liked him, upon meeting him, and were surprised when they saw him for what he really was.

"Where's pops?" 'Calico Jack asked him, and Harvey simply shrugged affably and took a seat. The conversation faded, between the five of them there was no safe subject as such, too much bad blood over the years for that. And so the silence stretched on and on, until the last, but certainly not the least, of their gathering arrived. He had to stoop to fit in the cave, and the ceiling was six meters high at it's lowest point.

Edward Newgate was, in 'Calico' Jack Rackham's not inestimable opinion, the last of the legends, a throwback to the olden days of high adventure. By far the oldest pirate master still operating, Whitebeard had begun his career in the days when the likes of Gold Roger and Morgan and Bartholomew, not to mention his own illustrious ancestor Red Rackham himself, were still scourging the sea, and he seemed somehow to carry that old, bloody tradition with him. He was a pirate lord in the old sense of the phrase, and so much more than that. He was a traveler, and an explorer too, he had in his time been to all points of the compass, and on occasions served as a privateer not just for the British and French, but for Italian lords, Spanish marquises and even, it was said, Arabyan despots. He had opened trade routes, found new passages, and been the first white man to set foot on some alien shores.

He had always ruled his crew with the power of his arm and the fury of his nature. Rackham had always admired that. But Whitebeard had been old as long as he had known him, and had always seemed that way. By his own admission, he was well past ninety years Rackham's senior, which made him remarkably long-lived, and not just for a man pursuing such a risk-heavy career, but for any man, full stop. And yet, he couldn't help but notice that Whitebeard was at last showing the cares of his long years.

Edward Newgate was still a hulking giant of a man, his body so swollen with muscle that he resembled a story-book giant, fully twice the height of the tallest of his crew. He was bigger then any man, and bigger still in the closed confines of the tavern. His limbs were gnarled like the trunks of ancient oaks, knotted with masses of muscle and thews, each of which stood out distinct, like iron cables, and each of his fingers were the size of a lesser man's wrist. There was no soft flesh to lend symatery or to mask the raw savagery and sheer power of his frame, and yet there was a leanness and powerful joints that suggested he was capable of blinding speed when he so chose. But now there was also a hint of a stoop to his frame, and the lines of his face were deep. His hair was gone, though the mustache he favored was as impressive and fiercely martial as ever. A latticework of scars and cuts adorned the warrior’s body where it stood exposed, but there were none on his back, for he had never shown his back to an enemy. Edward Newgate’s eyes were as dark and hard as anthracite, and seemed to be the only part of him that had not aged a day.

He wore, as ever, a long admiral's coat, and trousers of the same material, forgoing a shirt entirely, and despite his monstrous size these garments seemed looser on him then they should, as if age was eroding him away. In an enormous hand he carried an immense pole, a 'bisento' built to his scale, and tipped with a long curved blade. The Devil-Fruit had enhanced what was already there, turning him into a towering monument to muscular over-development, but he was no simple brute. He was entirely more then that, and to many, it was better to serve the meanest, most menial role on one of his ships then be a captain in your own right. So had always been the thoughts of Rackham, and many like him, Charles Vane included.

Each of them got respectfully to their feet as he entered and made his way to their table, and sat down again only when he had. Rackham opened the proceedings. He read the minutes, reported on the state of the roof at the Filibusters' Home of Rest, noted the compensation awards to paid-up Brotherhoodmembers wounded in recent actions, and proposed an interim dividend. All passed, whereafter they proceeded to 'Other business' - i.e. deciding whom they would clobber next and rob blind. (Just like any other board of directors, really) Which was where the unfortunate subject of the war came up.

A bit more chaotically anachronistic and bizarre, I'm happy to say. Unfortunately, all I really did was introduce characters, but I'm still quite happy with it. I'll follow up with what they actually discussed sometime tomorrow, if anyone is reading this and cares. This version of Jack Rackham taken from the show Black Sails, which I heartily recommend.

This version of Whitebeard hopefully acceptable to Animekid. I don't actually know all that much about the character, bar what I read on the wiki page, so if anyone wants to make suggestions, please be my guest.

[darkblade]

Nothing contradicting anything I have planned yet.

[darkblade]

I'm sorry I haven't been posting much guys. We just got through a three to four day storm that both made it difficult to find time away from shovelling snow and to get into a tropical piratey mindset when I could.

Seriously this is the kind of winter the Starks warned us about. Today we had half a foot of snow and my road hasn't seen a plow in almost a week.

I'll try to post tonight.

[ThePhantom]

Wow, that's a lot of snow you got.

[Cracklord]

Whenever you are ready. We all know what it's like to hit a dry spot in the well of inspiration.

[Cracklord]

This didn't work last time, but I'm an eternal optimist.

A few notes: In Song of Ice and Fire (I used to be a bigger fan then I am now), the Greyjoy elders (as in the older generation) are the only family who don't seem to have tremendous daddy issues (A case could be made for the Tyrells, but I usually don't bother to). So I figure that Quellon must have been a spectacularly uninspiring man, that Balon completely usurped his position as head male of the household by the age of fourteen (as Aeron remembers things, I believe). A few references to dread C'thulhu, but only a few. If that particular city get's woken up, it won't be background.

Black Cove is an utterly forgettable Computer game, here referencing a place where the Ghost Pirates, Cervantes and LeChuck and suchlike, make port. Another update for the Brethren tonight.

For simplicities sake, The Brotherhood are Kenaway's mob, the Brethren are the loyalists. Both sides are more or less bastards.

Spoiler: Chapter Four - A Gathering Storm

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Lord Quellon Greyjoy was dead, and they carried the body from the city of Pyke in a short procession through the snow towards the surf pounded shoreline. The lands of the ironborn ended here, at this great wedge of granite cliffs jutting out high above the freezing sea. Beyond it were the lands the Skraelings had held since they first came here.

The foam of icy waves lashes the cruel shingle, narrow beaches of ragged bedrock and fallen boulders, polished cobbles and the stringy strands of ice and snow scabbed sand. It was no fit place for men, this barren, wind scoured shores in this hungry, sun-shunned time of the year. The land fought back against settlement and habitation, leaving them to scratch a living off rocks, and so long ago they turned to the seas bounty for survival, and the softer shores of their neighbors. They had hung the priests of the old gods from the branches of trees, and turned the voice from the seas. And the voice had answered them, dreaming, but not unaware.

And now, they brought the corpse of their lord back to the waters. Dead at sea, along with most of the men who had survived that disastrous raid. Those remaining that had served under him - those despised few who had limped back to Pyke after the long flight from the vengeful blades of their enemies who had at last followed them across the sea, and then from the storm that had smashed their ships - followed the solemn bier with their broken swords carried before them. Their lives were forfeit, but there were few enough warriors here to put them to death now for their cowardice. And little need. No captain would take them on his ship, disgraced as they were, no door would be open to them at night lest the shame fall upon it's opener, their families would strike their names from memory. There would be no aid or succor to be found for them here, just a lingering death.

The lord's closest friends, those who had captained his ships and had been favored with plunder and land carried the body on a tattered palanquin of broken shields, the body wrapped in the tattered sails of his ship. Quellon had been a big man, but they bore him without complaint. They had let their lord drown, the fleet be scattered, and the plunder lost to the depths of the ocean. Those who governed them had said it was the displeasure of the Drowned God whose dreams had called the storm and turned reason to madness, and none had dared gainsay them. Most had probably agreed.

And so the Iron Islands was without a lord. When the season ended and the ships returned, his sons would be named lords after him, he had done that much right, but they would not think kindly of him, if they did at all. The others were dead, slain in battle as the gods decreed, and Quellon had died in the knowledge that his children despised him, and surpassed him, and that his bloody deeds would be forgotten in a generation. The womenfolk did not follow the procession, and his shame was complete.

His bearers followed a path to the water, where a fire burned in a pit hacked into the frozen ground. The waters of the ocean were dark, cold and unforgiving, and a beached storm-battered ship rose and fell with the surge and retreat of the tide. Sturdily built from overlapping timbers and tar, a rearing dragonshead was carved at it's prow. It was a proud vessel and it had carried them through the worst storms the gods could hurl from the skies. Canon and lightning had lashed it as best they could, but it had been up to the task. It deserved better, but if there was one thing they had learned in their shame, it was that this world cared nothing for what was deserved.

They clambered aboard, and lay him on his ship. They were strong men, and it took no effort to maneuver him onto a tiered pile of precious timbers and kindling. Little wood grew on their home, they raided the settlements of the Skraelings for it, or waited it to drift in by the sea. One by one they slashed their forearms with the broken blades of their swords, cutting deep and spilling their blood over the deck. They dropped their swords to lie around the pyre before departing. One warrior with a winged helm of raven feathers waited until the others had splashed down into the sea before upending a flask of oil over the body. He doused the ships timbers with what remained, and tossed the flask onto the deck. He tugged a tied rope at the minmast, and the black sail unfurled with a boom of hide.

He turned and dropped over the side of the ship, wading ashore and taking his place with the rest of his forsaken crew-mates. Their lord and captain had died, yet they had fled and lived, those that had come through the storm which smashed the ships, at least. Their shame would be never-ending. Women would shun them, children would spit on them and they would be right to do so. The Drowned God would deny them for all eternity until they made good on their debt, and the stars were right.

Ten of them took their place, five on either side of the ship, and they heaved and pushed the ship off the sand and into the icy surf, where an icy current seized the ship. The freezing wind caught the sail, and the ship eased away from the shore, wallowing without a steersman to guide it or rowers to power it. The tide and wind dragged the ship away from the land, twisting it around like a leaf on a pond. The treacherous currents and riptides had dashed many an unwary vessel against the cliffs, yet they bore their lords ship out to sea with gentle swells. The raven-helmed warrior lifted a bow and nocked an arrow to the string. He held the cloth-wrapped tip in the fire until it caught light and hauled back on the string. The wind dropped and he loosed the shaft, the fiery missile making a graceful arc through the greying sky until it hammered home in the ships mast.

Slowly, and then with greater ferocity as the oil caught light, the ship burned. flames roared to life, hungrily devouring the rotten meat of the dead man and setting to work on the oily timbers. Within moments, the ship was ablaze from bow to stern, black smoke trailing a mournful line towards the sky. They listen to the hungry roar of the flames, the waves and wind, and watch the silhouette of the burning sail against the horizon. None of them break the silence, though whether bowed by grief, shame at their failings or despair at their futures could not be said. They only watched until the ship finally split apart with a sound like a heart-breaking. It sank beneath the waves and with a final slurp of water sank beneath the waters surface.

Lord Quellon Greyjoy was dead, and nobody mourned him.

+ + + + +

Pirates nations and governments were almost a misnomer, despite the prosaic fact of their existence, as most pirates were largely unaffiliated with their own chosen government, going years largely ignoring it's existence. Oh, they paid a tribute of their stolen plunder to whatever Captain held dominion over the ocean in which they plied their trade, the same as they paid a further portion to the men tasked with reselling it, and for the most part they preferred to make berth in ports and harbors under the control of the Brethren Court, knowing that they offered safe haven and free trade, but beyond that they largely were left to their own devices, the way they preferred it. For the most part, every vessel was a kingdom of it's own, and only in the direst straits did they find common cause and band together. The last pirate armada was nearly a hundred years ago, and that had been barely a dozen separate captains.

Pirates determined station by wealth, crew size, and reputation. The more successful pirates were accorded respect, and deferred to in times of crisis, but for the most part had no real authority. The Brethren Court had only come into being as a kind of mutual defense pact many long years ago, deciding that when the nations of world moved against the pirates, they would gather to fight back, and for the most part the Lords reflected this. And so, while each of the pirate Lords had hundreds of captains who were, in theory, their subjects, the task of gathering them and convincing them to fight against The Brethren Court itself was no easy feat. The civil war was making a mess of old friendships and alliances. Something like this had never been anticipated, there were struggles and skirmishes over treasure, prizes and pride, yes, but the Brethren existed as arbiters, to keep grudges and feuds from disrupting the lives they had built for themselves on the endless ocean, where the bonds of civilization held no sway, and men were free to take their destinies entirely in their own hands.

Normally, there was no need for a Lord to posses more then four or five ships at his disposal, along with a tangled web of favors and alliances among other powerful captains. Now, ships and messenger birds went in every direction across the ocean, from the Barbary Coastline to the tropic islands of the Caribbean. They each bore the same message, written with the same fear and urgency. That the pirate fraternities were at one another's throats, and that a war was brewing. That the Lovers Scar had stolen the crown and demanded allegiance that was not rightfully theirs, and that there was only one, possible response. War.

The brewing war turned all to one side or the other, extending across boundaries and divisions that had formerly been inviolate, old enmities were being put aside amongst traditional foes. From the iron-men whose longships and dragonships raided the length of the northern seas, to the blood drinking savages who scarred themselves and pierced their lobes and lips with slivers of bone, to the former men of europe made pirates by desperation, necessity or ambition.

When the replies began arriving at the port of Nassau, many of them were flat refusals or elaborate insults. But others were offers of warriors, or ships, or the allegiance of entire factions and coalitions. In the end, it had happened almost by itself—as if it was always meant to be, waiting in the hearts of every one of them, and needing only a leader to act as a catalyst. This was no longer about a crown, or a city, or even treachery. Such things were a part, but no longer composed the meaning.

Word was spreading that Captain Kheired-Din, Basha of Algiers was willing to throw in with Edward Kenaway and would bring with him sixty ships, for the Brethren had did their best to crush him when he made an effort to strike out on his own, decimating his raiding fleets, burning the harbor he had built and driven a sword through his heart. It didn't take, and he had vowed revenge. The Brotherhood of the coast had brought a dozen vessels, and the Iron Jarl Victorian Greyjoy himself had been dispatched by his brother to add his support to the pirate nation arising within the Caribbean. Lesser ships who nobody had even thought to contact began arriving, to ask for the privilege of fighting alongside the fleet.

Others still were simply spoiling for a fight, and gravitated towards whichever side suited them, hearts alight with the plunder they could take from the other pirates.

The harbor was filled with every ship imaginable, dragonships, barques and triremes, corsair galleys and galleons, even the chariot ships of far Ind, pulled by harnessed snakes. Over the course of the month, the numbers had swelled until it was not an army any more, but the gathered anger of a new nation, the pirates of the Caribbean had once more united, this time not by neccesity, not by the conquest of one man, but by rage against The Lovers Scar.

By their hands, Nassau's future was to be assured. The life they had built their could still decay and fall. The captain's could fragment, lose common cause, or return to the brethren out of fear or greed or ambition, and that would be the end of things. but for now, they were united in their hundreds. In their thousands.

It would not be enough. The Brethren could field ten ships for every one of theirs. And the British were moving in, reclaiming lost territory from lawlessness as the pirates gathered their strength, and for the first time in living memory.


"There be one place left, in which we could find others." Blackbeard said slowly one night, as though forcing the words through unwilling lips. he would have remained silent, but the first battle of the long war had taken place, and Black Bellamy had gone down around Cape Horn. "You know of where I speak. Th' Black Cove."

"Has it come to that? Really?"

"I couldn't say. But they haven't chosen a side yet. I only offer because…"

Kenaway thought for a moment of the consequences of success. Then he thought of the men who had come to his aid. Pirates thieves and scoundrels, they had shown honor, and he respected that. How flimsy his principles and fears seemed when weighed against their lives. So he nodded once, shortly. "Do it."

[ThePhantom]

Interesting, a pity that I'm not familar with all the characters, otherwise I get more of the connections.

[Cracklord]

You don't need to know the character's in the way the extras in a movie don't much matter.

I've been putting off writing an actual naval battle, because it's hard, but I'll get on with it soonish, don't worry.

Spoiler: Chapter Five - The Brethren Court

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In the cove of the Isle known only as Shipwreck lay the Armada at rest, a sprawling city unlike any other to be found on the surface of the earth. It had been constructed over centuries from the hulls of shattered ships piled atop each other so that the edifice rose in an enormous, spiky wooden mountain of decaying and rusted vessels, roped together by rigging, catwalks and suspended bridges of cordage and plank in a mad, chaotic jumble. There was little rhyme or reason to the architecture, it simply grew larger and larger every year, and like an iceberg, the bulk of the ancient ships were entirely submerged deep beneath the surface of the water, wheezing pumps keeping the water from flooding the entire city.

Shipwreck Isle had never been formerly colonized, but was settled now. The shoreline was punctuated with scores of shipyards, warehouses and jetties clung to the rocky crag, ghostly half-completed vessels looming around the injured ships that had docked for repairs, and the smaller boats belonging to the rural laborers who fished to supplement monotonous diet those aboard lived by. Even the Armada could not stay afloat on nothing but prostitution and piracy, but there was little enough to be eked out of such a desolate land.

There was a light, silent wind that night, and the sky was cold as iron, with no moon or stars in sight. In the quiet of that bleak sea bright orange lights like stars marked the torches that tried to banish the crepuscular gloom. The better of a hundred dark shadows of pirate vessels were docked in the cove, cogs and junks and clippers, sloops and feluccas and here and there a steamship, leaving little room for Whitebeard's Ship of the Line to find anchor, or the dozen ships that provided it's escort.

Edward Newgate was first to come ashore, he ship's intercom playing a power-cord heavy instrumental version of 'Rock of Ages' with a throbbing mandolin accompaniment as he did so, stepping into labyrinthine, higgledy-piggledy passageways. A cray carrying cargo with it's weak upper limbs gaped at the giant, then scuttled away through a creaking corridor of wooden planks. Whitebeard only shook his head and folded arms like tree-trunks across his giant chest, as his company gathered around the ships, running repairs or loading victuals under the direction of Jack Rackham, the company quatermaster. Four men were parbuckling kegs of water, oil and beer up the side of the Leviathan, trying not to glance up at the great figurehead built into the prow.

The bulk of his fleet was still anchored near Cape Horn, where they'd ambushed 'Black' Bellamy, and only Captains Charles Vane and Bob Harvey joined him before they headed along what had once been a deck. Whitebeard had wanted to stay with his men, but he'd been recalled back to the Armada, and so had left the bulk of his forces. Even 'Black Sam' Bellamy couldn't handle that sort of power.

Drapes formed from fishing nets swayed and rustled in the seas breeze, and old figureheads served as columns to hold up the cieling, so chipped and worn by time and tide that they were almost unrecognizable. They past it and entered the room quietly, nodding to it's occupant.

Captain Reis was tall and still terrible, despite being just into his sixtieth year. He was unmistakable, with his long curly hair that was now silver with only a hint of black fine and wispy as spiderweb and receding from the forehead, with a pointed beard threaded with iron gray. He had a strong but not overly large jaw and his cheekbones were well-defined. His skin was darkened by the sun, and there were deep lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes. He wore a coat cut from red and black velvet trimmed in gold frogging, with epaulets and black knee-breaches with coarse white stockings. He wore a dark leather belt as a sash, from the loop of which hung his terrible crescent-scythe that had a dark fame as terrible as his own. He preyed on everything. Mainlander and pirate alike. Neither Vane or Harvey could quite bring themselves to look at him, and instead looked past him.

Edward Newgate towered above him by a tremendous margin, yet they seemed equals, of a match for one another in presence, just as they were in fame. "He'll be here in a moment. I wanted to see you first old friend." He said, his voice a strange mix of coarse diction and the fine tenor of a British gentleman. "The Brotherhood made some early gains. He thinks if you don't act quickly, more will decide there's a change in the winds, and go over. Rats fleeing a sinking ship. But not you."

"You said you wouldn't fight." The deep rumble of Whitebeard's voice made the floor vibrate, and a man couldn't help but be intimidated, but their was no anger in his words, just idle curiosity.

"I have no intention of doing so." Reis replied with a chuckle and a shake of his leonine head. His tone was neutral and dangerous, and his eyes were capricious. It was difficult to believe he himself knew his intentions, that he wasn't mad. "Curiosity, aye, but the business of war is no business of mine. I'm not on either side. Let them fight it out if they wish. I would have thought you would have known better." He replied lightly, running a thumb along the blade of his scythe, but not letting it stray to the edge.

"Some would say if you're not with us, you're against us."

"I say the ocean doesn't care where the little fishes swim." He chuckled shaking his head as though the idea was beneath him. ""I am Captain Jonah Reis. Men shrink from my shadow, and women swoon at my name, and any who wish me an enemy had best make peace with their gods. And yourself?"

"I'm too old to go changing sides." He glanced first at Vane, then at Harvey, and sighed. "We built this. And now I’m old, my friend. My bones are heavy and my limbs are slow. I wanted a family, and in my crew I found one, I think. And now, I just want to find my cross, pay off my valiant men, and lay my head and sleep for a time, until all passes away.” Whitebeard replied. "I have known so little peace."

Reis shook his head. "Stay on this course, and you will get your wish."

+ + + + +

At the pier by the windwall, 'Calico' Jack Rackham stood, looking over at the ships of their company. The Ranger was a twenty-gun, two hundred tonne brigantine, one hundred paces long at the keel. She had two masts, both fully square-rigged, with a fore-and-aft sail on the lower part of the mainmast. A fast ship, quick in the turn and sharp of tooth. A hunter’s ship. Charles Vane's ship.

In her shadow lay her consort, a sixty-pace swift sloop called the Royal Phoenix, a little beauty of twelve guns, which he commanded, and it was that where his attention was fixed. Her hull, golden oak above the waist and white below, was made of butted planks, which let her slip like a sword through the water. She was fore-and-aft rigged on the shorter mizzen mast, and could raise a square sail from the main if the wind was running, but her exceptionally long bowsprit, which almost doubled her overall length, could rig a great lateen sail, letting her skip along the wind at a speed that was almost unmatched. He had mixed thoughts, knowing it was to sail at his command once again.

Even now, Whitebeard would be meeting the Lovers, or one of their representative if their secrecy extended even to the nine pirate Lords, to be given course and heading. Through some unknown sorcery or other science they seemed able to predict the movements of their enemies, to know the location of every ship, where it was and where it would be. He did not understand how such a thing could be, and neither did he question it. It was better not to ask too many questions in regards to the new Pirate King.

He glanced round and started, gaping in surprise to find himself facing a tall, gaunt gentleman, wearing a long black coat and a tricome that shadowed his face, somber clothes, befitting a mourner. He had emerged from the ruddy murk of what was one of the fortresses gun deck, and had somehow approached him without making any sign of his presence. Not the squeak of timbers beneath his weight, his presence disturbed no air, and he didn't even seem to breathe.

It was the Nocturne's cadaverous captain, one of the most powerful men on the Armada, the Governor of the district of Dry Fall, and one of the admirals who served the Lover's Scar directly. Even in a company of brutes and murderers, Brucolac was a very devil.

He was unmistakable, with his crisp-as-parchment voice and dry, earthy smell. At some point in his long career, the man must have been shipwrecked off the coast of South America, for there was no other explanation 'Calico' Jack could think of for the way Brucolac’s canine teeth had been filed down to a point. He smiled to see Jack, an unnerving sight. His sharp canines drew spots of blood from his pale lower lip, then beckoned with the linstock in his bony hands. It was an ebony baton, the tip carved in the form of a lion’s mouth.

"Not coming into the city?" He asked softly, drifting closer.

"No need." 'Calico' Jack replied shortly, shrugging his shoulders as he did, before returning his attention to his ship.

“I have come to give you certain instructions. Come aft with me, to my quarters." He said, beckoning again. "We’ll take a reviving drink, you and I.”

Jack shuddered. “I thank you, but no.”

“Come now,” Brucolac whispered, more insistent.

“Back down." Came the deep rumble of Whitebeard's voice, as he loomed in the doorway, his height forcing him bent almost double in the tight corridors so that his knuckles dragged across the deck. His muscles shifted like a couple of steamships maneuvering around one another.

“I meant him no harm,” Brucolac said quickly, stepping back into the shadows, and seeming to vanish. Whitebeard turned his eyes onto 'Calico Jack, and moved closer, almost crawling in the low, narrow corridors. They had not been built with his frame in mind.

'Calico' Jack had often begged Whitebeard to record a narrative of his exploits, for his life had contained so much more than any one man should have been capable of. His stories, his secrets, the strange facts of his enterprises, were priceless gems and should have been bound up in a book like the ones in the great libraries, for future generations to learn from. But Edward Newgate was always tight-lipped, and desired no glory from posterity. “My stories will die with me,” he’d once told 'Calico' Jack, “except those that are remembered by the likes of you and told on to others.”

"Blackbeard has had his way." Rackham said, sounding tired despite himself. He understood the ramifications of what war would mean, even if nobody else did. "We'll do the jobs of the Crown Navy's for them at this rate, slaughter one another for no reason to speak of. You know, this whole idea, I thought it had the answers. That's why I was part of Nassau, to start with, and why I came to you later. The world's a big place. Should be enough room for everyone to have what they want. To keep what they make. But it'll never be. There'll always be people who live off other people, and they always rise to the top." The era that Gold Roger had begun, that romantic idea that everyone could find a place in the world that had what they want, and find in the company of others like them a fraternity was dying out. Power and greed mattered now, and that, it seemed, was the side he was on. "What are we fighting for?" He asked, with a morose sigh.

"Who knows anymore? I'm an old man. Too old to change, maybe. Too old to try and find a new side. I've always been one of the brethren, since the beginning, even. But don't let me make the decision for you."

'Calico' Jack snorted. "You're the only one I'd bother to fight for, pops." he said. "I didn't become a pirate to fight wars for kings, I could do that just fine as an Englishman. Now, I'm an enemy of humanity, and it's worth it. Every day the noose is a heart-beat away, and it's worth it. All us who sail, no matter which reason we say takes us there, all we want is the same thing in the end, liberty. We want to know we have no master to whom we have to answer, 'cept that best serves us, and we may leave it all behind any day we so choose. I don't know what I'm looking for, but I'm your man. To the bone."

For a moment, Whitebeard lowered his eyes, moved by the sentiment, then clapped Rackham on the shoulder gently. Rackham still swayed, it was like being lightly patted by a wrecking ball. "Then take your ship to Murmansk." Whitebeard said, at last, as though it cost him more then he wanted it to. Rackham nodded, then returned to his ship.

+ + + + +

"Captain once more, it would seem." He said thoughtfully in his cabin, adjusting his clothes. For a moment, he glanced around his cabin thoughtfully, disliking the disruption of the familiar. Most was where he remembered it, the bed, the prints and cupboards and even the desk, but it wasn't right. It had been occupied by someone else, and there presence was to be found on everything. Well, nothing for it now.

First he called up the lamp trimmer to set the lanterns, for even on a bright day, the low-beamed chamber was gloomy. Then he laid about the untidy quarters, hurling items of clothing and other oddments out through the gallery lights into the ocean. Grumbling, he threw out a shoe, a doublet, an empty powder horn, a tricorn hat, another shoe, a bundle of bedclothes, a mandolin, then shook his head in frustration. It wasn't having any meaningful effect, just made the incongruities more noticeable.

He found his chessboard, noting that half the pieces had been lost, and his good knife which had been lost under the chair, and finally sighed and gave up. First he brought in his own chest of customary calicoes, and then looked at his fingers, missing his gold and stones. He glanced about, then removed a false bottom from the bottom of his chest of drawers which had passed under it's new occupant unnoticed, and dragged out his chest. Realizing he'd lost the key, he wrenched off the clasps, and emptied the contents across the tabletop, just as the door swung open, and Mary Read stepped inside.

Mary Read was the night to Bonny's day. She was bright and lively, with a short, pageboy haircut and pale skin that no amount of sun had ever managed to darken. She was lean as a greyhound, with long, clever fingers and mischief dancing in her clever eyes, and a saber cut across one cheek. She shook her head at the room, placed her sea chest in her corner, next to Anne Bonny's, then walked over to see what was consuming so much of 'Calico' Jack's attention.

Precious, glinting treasures were scattered out across the desk. Garnets, rubies, malachite rings and bloodstone pins, wedges of Arabian silver, enamelled crosses, opals, pearls, emerald pins, amethyst brooches, rose-sapphire pendants, gold snuffboxes. Ducats and doubloons, square-cut tierces, cruzados and peso octos, rials, pounds and dollars, rupees guilders, yuans, roubles and all manner of gold and silver currency, including some hexagonal and crescent-shaped issues that he couldn't remember where he had found, or even if he'd seen before.

Jack glanced up as he felt her presence, smiled, then returned to his work, rattling around in the glittering spread, trying rings for size and tossing them back if they were too small or too big. He eventually decided on a fat green tourmaline for his right middle finger, a blue sapphire for his left ring finger, a round, rose-blood ruby for his left middle, and a gold thumb ring, coiled in the shape of a snake, for his left hand. Then he slipped a chunky gold loop into his left earlobe, rubbed it and spat for fortune.

“Gold in the ear improves the eyesight,” he told her with a smile.

“I’ve heard that superstition.” She replied, placing a hand on her hip.

Rackham winked. “Well, maybe, but I'd rather keep it and not need it then go without and find I need glasses.” He sighed. "Murmansk, it would seem, is our heading. What exactly that means, or what to expect in the way of prizes has not been entrusted to me, which suggests we'll be taking on mysterious cargo. No hurry, however, we have three months to make our appointment. Give the men as much shore leave as they want."

“When that hour comes, will they stand?” she asked, closing the cabin door behind her.

“Who?”

“Your crew,” She said, repeating her earlier remark like a refrain.

“Well I hope so.” He said. "I'll look pretty foolish trying to sail a ship on my lonesome."

+ + + + +

In a stormwracked stretch of water, stretching around a cove that every mother-loving ship ever to sail avoided as though it led up the styx itself, dark and angry as the clouds hissed and spat lightning high above, as the pillars of heaven shook and the rain came tumbling down, and three vessels bobbed and rolled with the waves a few hundred feet from a rocky shore. Three decrepit ships had been moored in Black Cove. The ships were ringed with buoys strung together with barbed chain, above and below the water, and the anchors that rooted them were scabbed with uncounted years of rust and barnacles. Each of the ships was a wreck, their timbers rotten and crumbling away, their sails mere shreds that flapped in the winds, their masts had snapped or splintered to stumps, and their gunports yawning like cavities. The sea lapped and rolled at them, trying to pull them under, but none succumbed to the storm, nor would they ever. For they were not dead. Dormant. Like volcanos. The Adrian, The Tempest, The Dead Starfish.

And on the shore, another ship lay in the shallows, bow into the beach, a great barque that had once cowed the greatest ships of the world with it's might, now nothing but a rotting corpse. The Black Freighter was it's name, and it's captain had claimed this place as his haven, ten years past when, under full sail, the ship had run into the cove, rupturing its hull on the banks and shoals before finally foundering and running aground. Sunk up to its gun-ports, it leaned over in the breakers. Two of its masts were down, but the mainmast still stood proud, sheets billowing, fruitlessly driving the stationary ship against the island. The hull and breastwork were marred by scorched cannon holes, and part of the starboard side was cloven in. This ship had been wounded unto death before it had run aground to its demise, pilotless. On the shore, the tide had flushed up scattered debris from the wreck, and some of the twisted pieces looked like corpses, though after all this time such a thing was ridiculous to imagine. The hull was now covered with crustaceans, the paint stripped away, the decks caved in.

And yet, one lonely figure still strode the decks of the beached ship, Captain Cervantes de León. It could be no other, few had seen him, and fewer descriptions of him existed, but despite that he was unmistakable, that mad figure strode the decks in defiance of reason or logic. His high, broad form was still clad in the tattered remnants of finery, though it had become so ragged and worn that . He wore an extravagant pirate hat perched atop his head, though it added no frivolity to his appearance, and the remnants a long, tattered cape that flitted about as the strong winds blew past him. A lion’s mane of wiry white hair floated around a face that was enslaved by violent passions, and his dark skin was a sickly, and diseased color of bruised flesh and frostbite, with darker shadows beneath the eyes. He held his swords with his arms crossed, and looked the very personification of the dread symbol of the Jolly Roger. The rightmost blade was some infernal living combination of iron and flesh, the hilt seemingly composed of shell-like layers. And his hard, cruel eyes were fixed on some distant point in the far horizon.

And away aft, a dim, shadowy form stood in the wake of a swaying belt of moonlight, that swept the deck a bit abaft the main-mast. Tall and wide, it could not be seen as more then a silhouette, indistinct as it was, but one gained an impression of sickly green light, of a beard that moved as though alive, dancing and flickering like flame. Of a crimson, tattered coat over yellowing shirt and dark trousers, and of thick lips pulled back in a savage smile, but beneath that smile was something else. Something that capered and grinned and showed it's teeth. Something that would chase it's prey until blood flew from it's quarry's nose in terror, until it moaned and begged. Something that would laugh as it tore it's screaming prey open. Captain LeChuck.

No sane man would ever charter a course anywhere near that stretch of sea. But in the storm around the cove, the Queen Anne's Revenge was closing on the harbor. It seemed to radiate a deep, throbbing red light like the dying embers of a fire, not only from its heavy iron lanterns, but from the bloodstained hull and crimson sheets. Even in the pestilential evil that the throbbed in the Black Cove, it had a presence all of it's own. The ship cut through the chopping water, somehow unencumbered by the swell or the storm, as if the lashing rain and lightning suited it as sailing weather, just as a bright, fresh day would suit an ordinary vessel. The gale, the thunder and the pitch-black sky attended the Queen Anne's Revenge like consorts. No man handled the rigging or ropes, bar one, who had lashed himself to the wheel, and whose dark eyes glittered as his ship drove through the storm. He had come to make an alliance, and he would be damned before wind and rain drove him back.

[Cracklord]

Spoiler: Chapter Six - Blood in the water

Show

Silence...as the 'Wydah' glided over the dark green sea bounded by distant banks of thin sea-mist. The moon was down, the sky a dark arch overhead, and far eastward there was still not so much as a shimmer of dawn. Upstairs the ship is deserted, save for the look-out in the crow's nest who was frowning over the crossword in the Daily Corsair. One across, 'What ships usually sail on?' by way of hint, three letters. Rum? He peeps down to see what the twenty eight gun brig is floating on at the moment. Water? Too many letters. He sighs; another bloody anagram, probably...what kind of sadist thinks these up?

But from galley-boy to first mate the rest of the ship's company lay asleep, packed four deep in their focsle hammocks below decks, and had their heads down; even the rats and weevils are flat out. There was not even a man at the helm. But it was lashed securely and in that placid sea no hand was needed on the wheel. The breeze was light but steady. Land was a thin blue line in the distance.

Aft, in the First Class Cabin, Captain 'Black Sam' Bellamy was still up, poring over a chart in his great cabin, scratching his sharp, pointed beard and muttering "Belike an' bedamned" as he plots his u-turn round the bottom of South America. He was bareheaded and his shirt was open, revealing his broad hairy chest, one hand in the pocket of a beautiful smoking jacket, and his effects were on a stand by the door to his cabin.

It was a handsome room, and he was proud of it. Rich drapes, some twinkling with embroidery of silver and gold covered the walls except where the shuttered windows were, and the shutters of those where gilded. Similar but darker fabrics hid the low ceiling, making a gorgeous canopy in which the flecks of gold and silver were like stars. Scattered about where plump cushions and low tables, on which burned a multitude of candles and where fruits and sweetmeats of Peru were choicely available. On shelves around the walls were neatly stacked like small logs a vast reserve of candles, numerous scrolls, jugs, bottles and enameled boxes. The bed clothes were cloth of gold, and six sea-chests overflowed with a King's ransom of gold and jewels,. It smelled faintly of tobacco and rum, mingled with wax and incense.

The bed was occupied by Liz, stretched like some great black cat, the proud, fearless sea-queen who gutted Spaniards before breakfast, and had been known to roast cathedralfuls of nuns just for laughs. He stared at her fondly for a moment, before turning back to the charts with a sigh. Despite some early gains, the Brethren Court were hitting back twice as hard. He was meant to have met One-eyed Jill and Captain Shakespeare by now, and yet here he was all alone. The back of his neck pricked as he narrowed his eyes. Something was wrong.

Sighing, he glanced out his window, then paused and stared again, eyes widening in shock. Out of the mist they came just as the first glimmer of sun topped the eastern horizon - fell shapes of doom and dread, surging in on the hapless pirate ship. Ships - Junks to be specific - loomed where he had expected to see only naked ocean stretching to the skyline. The one in the lead was little more than a hundred yards away, and was bearing down swiftly on the 'Wydah', obviously with the intention of laying her alongside. Her bulwarks were lined with tense figures, bristling with boarding-pikes and grappling irons, and above her paper sails was the flag of Mistress Cheng I Sao herself. It was the lead vessel, but it was not alone.

The ship was closing in, turning starboard to face him board to board. How had they found him? Was there no crack in the infernal omniscience of the Lover's Scar? How was it that they seemed able to effortlessly predict the Brotherhood's every move, even before they made it?

"All hands to battle-quarters!" yelled Black Sam, not hesitating for an instant, getting to his feet, then froze in delayed indecision for a split instant about something altogether else. Then he shook his head before throwing his coat, sword-belt and hat over the top of his pajamas, then running onto the deck. He didn't wake Liz. She was grumpy first thing in the morning.

He strode over to the wheel, a swagger in his step, a hand on the hilt of his blade,, firm command in his features. He very nearly managed to pull it off, and be genuinely imposing as he did it. Tall and dark-eyed, his hair so dark as to be almost blue, and his beard curled around a mouth that always seemed to find something to smile about, dressed all in satin that was black and green, wearing a dark bicome set at a rakish angle with a green plume of feathers trailing down the back, defiantly roaring at his men to mobilize against the attackers, he made a fine picture of a captain. If not for the fuzzy slippers that were a bit much even by the eclectic fashions of pirates, he would have been a sight to quell the courage of any honest man.

Peg-Leg Hastings had mobilized the men, and they were distributing muskets, pistols and cutlasses from the armory, and running out the cannons. Bellamy stood on the deck, staring at the fleet that had crept up on him in the night. His eyes passed over each of the hard eyed orientals fingering their blades and loading their bronze cannons with projectiles shaped like dragon heads that exploded on impact. Maybe a score of vessels. A drop in the ocean to Mistress Cheng, but against his lone ship he would have his work cut out for him. "Wake up, you lousy dogs!" he roared again, his voice enough to shake the ship. "Up, curse you! Run out the guns and hoist the colors! The Brethren are at our throats, and we have a fight on our hands!"

His only response came in the form of staccato commands from the junk's deck, barking across the narrowing strip of blue water.

"Damnation!"

Cursing luridly he strode across the poop to the swivel-gun which stood at the head of the larboard ladder. Seizing this he swung it about until its muzzle bore full on the bulwark of the approaching ship. Squinting along its barrel as if he were aiming a musket, he lit the fuse, and laughed as his aim was as good as ever. In one shot he'd disabled the rudder chain, leaving the ship unable to correct it's turn.

"Strike your colors, you damned fool!" came a hail from the dreadful figure of the captain. 'Black Sam' didn't even glance his way, much less deign to reply to such a ridiculous suggestion. Only thirty men had his back, his loyal crew, but he cared not - his blood was burning in his veins and not three hundred or three thousand would be able to best him.

The ships thumped and scraped together with a violent judder. The Brotherhood hurled out lines and hooks, catching at the rail and gunwales and hauling the vessels tight against one another. Musket and caliver fire rang out from the Junk's sheets, and men in dropped or lurched backwards.
“On them. On them!” Bellamy yelled, leading the boarding charge as he swung across, his cutlass clenched between his teeth. he let go at the end of his perfect arc, eighteen feet in the air. He improvised a triple backflip before landing, removing his sword, and getting stuck in.

Bellamy fought silently - his eyes bright and his teeth bared. He laid about with his cutlass, felling opponents three a stroke, bending and swaying around their feeble lunges and swipes. He advanced like a whirlwind, and his blade was alive with light. They fell before it - how they fell. Whatever else you might say of 'Black Sam', he did not go gently, on that day he acquitted himself as well as any hero.

The enemy seeming stunned by his fury and could not organize themselves effectively. The Brethren didn't flee but were taken aback by his ferocity. His cutlass was a blur of motion, whirling about in a form expertly devised to deal with multiple foes. Blood flew from the blade as he dispatched them in their numbers, forcing them back as more and more of his men made it across to join him.

He felt as he always did in a boarding action. Time seemed to blur and slow and even stop, how the past and the future vanished until there was nothing but the instant, how fear fled, and thought fled, and even the demands of his body. He didn't feel stiff or tired despite remaining awake in a chair all night, or the ache in his back or the sweat running down into his eyes. There was no room feeling or for thinking, there was only the fight, the foe, this man and then the next and the next and the next. And they were afraid and tired but he was not, he was alive, doing what he was born to do, and though death was all around their swords moved so slowly he could have danced through them laughing all the while.

Beside him, Bellamy could hear Hastings bellowing a Gaelic war chant. The fighting grew too muddled then to pick a single opponent: Bellamy smashed out whenever he saw a target, doing his best to navigate the confusion of a hundred separate desperate actions occurring at once. Nor was the punishment all one-sided; the lump on his head was joined by a rapidly swelling eye and a numbed jaw which might or might not be broken. He cut down the captain without pause or ceremony, then turned to help his brave men finish the clean-up operation, then his eyes narrowed in displeasure.

Another vessel was attempting the same maneuver on the opposite side of the 'Wydah'.

The first of The 'Wydah's' cannon's hammered and there was a splash of splinters on the second junk's foredeck, a deadly spray of jagged wood that killed at least three men among those who crouched there, ready to board. A ragged cheer went up from beneath the decks of the 'Wydah' but it was drowned in the crash of the Chinese rockets, four of them in broadside at point-blank range…

The smoke was parted as neatly as a drawn curtain as Bellamy came charging through it, running across the deck to the edge of his ship and then leaping, throwing himself across the intervening distance, legs still pumping as he came across as though somehow they could propel him. For a moment he seemed to hand suspended in the air between the two ships, arms outstretched, a pistol in each hand which he fired in the same moment. He didn't seem to aim them with any conscience effort, but nonetheless both took a life before he threw them aside and drew his cutlass once more as he landed, cleaving his first foe clean in two. He leapt over the downed man and wrapped his arm around another's neck, wrenching it until the vertebrae snapped. He ducked a determined strike and thrust his sword into the forehead of an attacker, then kicked another in the midsection, sending him back into his fellows and knocking them over. He slashed indiscriminately, cutting a red path of ruin across the second junk as his men finished taking the first. He moved on, in the center of a widening circle while his crew finished with the first ship. He wasn't an enemy, he was a nemesis.

None, it seemed, could touch him. Some had hand cannons and pistols, but a pistol is suddenly not the weapon you want to be holding when something like Bellamy was bearing down upon you. Bellamy scooped up a fallen sword and with a weapon in either hand laughed wordless defiance and launched himself at the nearest enemy. The man went down headless. Bellamy wasn't fighting but hacking, ducking strokes without seeing them, blocking attacks without turning his head, somehow avoiding bullets without even seeming to move.

Finally, his men joined him, and they finished the second ship as well. They slew everyone aboard both boarding ships and opened their hatches and holed their hulls, and sent them down to see old Hob, who would undoubtedly be shocked by the carnage. Only nine of his crew had met their ends in the battle, the bulk from the broadside, and the rest had suffered innumerable nicks and scratches, but nothing serious. Bellamy threw aside the second sword he'd picked up, and leaned against the mast, breathing heavily from exertion. His silk pajamas were soaked with blood, and his face throbbed painfully, but for all that he had put the fear of God, or at least the fear of 'Black Sam' Bellamy into the attackers. They would be cautious now, try to soften him up with rockets rather then dare risk another physical confrontation.

He grinned at the thought. Those things had excellent range, but little precision. If they had just rushed the ship, he'd be dead by now. "Hastings? Take the wheel. Turn Port, back around the Cape. Let them follow if they dare!" For a moment, he allowed himself to believe that this might just be salvageable.

Then he saw the 'Empress' rounding the headland, and the spark of hope died within his breast. Then he tightened his grip on his cutlass. "Belay that! Stand firm, and ready another broadside! Lets give them another taste of the Long Nines!"

[darkblade]

Yes, I am scraping the bottom of the barrel. Much like the failed High School game I am taking unjustified pot shots at Disney's television line up. Maybe it's just nostalgia blinding me but I can't see shows like Darkwing Duck and Gargoyles doing well if they were made now a days if this is what gets popular.

I'm assuming that at some point Hook got serious about those kids and defeated them, killing Chubby and forcing Jake and Izzy to join his crew.

Edit: Cracklord, you have literally turned Kenway into Pirate!Aragorn. I approve despite my better judgment.

[Cracklord]

Thank you. And yes, I find myself powerless to stop this slow but sure shift in his character as I write him, more a product of the demands of the story then anything. Still, Kenway in the game has a problem, to whit, all the cool things he does are at the expense of the people who actually did them, and so if I'm going to write him actually hanging out with those people, I need to prop him up a little.

Let me explain: He has a close relationship with the two badass female pirates, necessitating Jack Rackham losing most of his credibility to make room for Kenway. He gets the big black former slave as his first mate (Black Caesar, Blackbeard's first mate and eventual successor gets edited out as a consequence), he gets a bunch of speeches that ring close to Sam Bellamy's, so it's a good thing Black Sam doesn't appear in the game either, and so on. Effectively, if you want to write him among fellow badasses he doesn't have all that much to contribute, beyond stealing credit for things they did.

So I thought I'd work with him a little, polish up the bits that work, and leave the bits that don't out of the story. And next time I give him a centric chapter I'll figure out a way to justify it.

And yes, Disney makes it's money off Nostalgia and Romanticism. Not that there is anything wrong with that, but yes, as a result a lot of what they produce isn't worth the film it's printed on.

[Corvond]

So I was wondering if I could affect a change in characters, or at least add another to the roster aboard my ship, should such a thing be acceptable. So adding to my quota of gentlemen, I add the most spectacular of them all.

A retired cavalry captain; storyteller, adventurer:

Spoiler: Baron Munchausen

Show

+ The Baron possesses a rare and wonderful power that many would erroneously call magic. Nothing, however, could be further from the truth, the power is story-telling, which is better, magic is just story-telling which had forgotten to be imaginative. It's all he needs. He can weave his own actions into narrative, and weave the narrative to allow his actions to allow rare and wonderful things to occur, things beyond imagination or expectation or any sort of logic. The only law these things obey is the laws of narrative convention, physics and common-sense don't get a say.
+ Even without the aid of the story, he can at least influence himself with the same, such as by lifting himself up by the scruff of the neck, or by riding a cannonball.
+ Irresistible to women.
+ The more active the Baron is, and the better things are going, the younger he becomes. The better the story is going, the better what he attempts tends to work out. However, disappointment makes him old.
- Death is after him, and death is a tricksy one, utilizing all a manner of skullduggery and disguise and cunning plots in an attempt to close on him, and finally kill him. If the Baron weren't so darn cunning, he'd have been seen to long past.

So how's that?

[Draxx]

Having read my share of One Piece, I could play a few of the crew if you want someone to interact with. A few ideas, Animekid:

Since Crocodile is obviously at least partly inspired by Captain Hook (what with the name, and the hook), we could change Robin's backstory, and even method of recruitment a bit to represent that. Now Robin needs to be rethought a little. For one thing, with no world government what exactly is she trying to discover through archeology? Depending on how closely Darkblade is following THE SCAR there might be a few things of interest…

With Zoro, Silver was going to recommend Soul Edge, which Darkblade mentioned earlier. Also, the greatest swordsman in the world, in this world is probably Black Bart Roberts. Given Mihawk is an expy of the man, Mihawk might even be counted amongst The Dread Pirate Robert's crew.

As for Sanji, I threw in that reference to All-Blue because Silver is a cook himself by vocation, whether he actually found it or was delirious and half mad, I'll let you be the judge of that.

Now Nami wants charts of the Grand Line. The only man to have something like that would be Sao Feng, who keeps them in his revered uncle's temple I believe.

I don't have a clue about Chopper or Ussop.

[darkblade]

Hi guys. So I've lost internet access until the 26th due to weather issues. The internet company says it'll be back but it still means there will be no updates until then. Don't worry neither the game nor I am dead.

[Cracklord]

I'm still keen to play, for my part.

However, I am helping my brother move into his girlfriends mothers house for the next few days, and will have trouble finding the time.

[darkblade]

So the phone company still hasn't come by to fix our lines. I have no idea when I'll have regular internet access again. I'm terribly sorry about this everyone.

[Cracklord]

Don't worry about it. You're worth the wait.

[ThePhantom]

Well, I can wait for this to continue just fine.

[The Tygre]

I'm cool, bro.

[Draxx]

Half the pleasure's anticipation.

[Cracklord]

So any news from Darkblade?

[AnimeKid]

Not since he site came back up from it's upgrade.

[darkblade]

I'm back. I'm going to take tonight to refresh myself on who is where and doing what and I'll resume posting tomorrow and hopefully keep the game going with a new post every day.

[ThePhantom]

Hurrah! I thought this had dropped off the face of the earth.

[Cracklord]

And there was much rejoicing!

[Draxx]

Alright, so we need a list of the people we need to appraise of this most excellent news:

The Tygre
Shnyder
Corvond
Doliest

[darkblade]

Turns out I really don't have time for dming. I apologize for raising your hopes before dashing them so thoroughly but I'm going to have to call this game dead.

[ThePhantom]

Sigh, oh well. At least Popeye has Olive back.