[HS] High Seas I: Pirates and Profits

[Draxx]

Rocheforte
An enormous vessel berthed in the skies above Cittigaze, the colors of France and the Cross of Rome proudly snapping in the wind from it's mast. It was an enormous sleek thing, like an enormous shark that hung in the air unsupported, bobbing up and down in the shifting air. On the deck stood a tall man from Meung, lean and rangy, supple as a leopard and carved of ice and steel. He looked to be around forty, dark of hair and beard, with a scar across his cheek. His right eye had been lost in some long past fight, and his hand rested lightly on the hilt of his long, slim rapier.

His face was lean, cruel and predatory, and his remaining eye danced and glittered darkly with a kind of reckless mockery. He carried himself with the utter assurance of command and his own capability. He was dressed with a wide-brimmed leather slouch-hat set with plumes, and a long cloak thrown carelessly over one shoulder. At his belt were two exquisite flintlocks. He wore a finely-tailored jacket and hardwearing boots. It was all plain, understated and utilitarian, without decoration save for the cross of Malta that all the Guards of the Cardinal wore, but any man of the world could see at a glance how expensive it was. It's cut was comfortable, formidable, but above all thinks, practical. It did not impede his movements in the slightest, and beside him, even the most formidable warriors among the guard such as Febre looked as callow as milkmaids.

He nodded to Jussac, his aide who rolled down the ladder as the ship lowered, until it hovered barely a few feet above the roofs of the city below, and with easy agility Rocheforte climbed down, alighting on the cobblestones and straightening his heavy cape as he did so. at his back, three score of his men followed, an inspiring sight in their ornamental breastplates and with long halberds.

"I am expected" He said curtly, his voice deep and powerful, that curdled the blood of the men listening. "If you could direct me to the Don?"

[Hattish Thing]

Avery and Kidd

Without even bothering to check Avery's vitals (men who voluntary eat something called 'Devil's Fruit' for their country tend not to be smart men) the guards pick up the three of you and drop you in the yard.

Once dropped, a doctor examines Kidd's hand. "We can put it back together but it'll never be the same. Of course their are alternatives..."

He is of course referring to bio-thaumaturgery. An arcane science generally frowned upon due to it's unnatural nature. Through it's use they can build you a new hand or steal one from some poor unsuspecting creature. You'll be a freak of nature but your capacity to battle pirates will not suffer, if anything it will be enhanced.

Meanwhile a less qualified medic checks Avery and Innigo's vitals, trying to asses the extent of their injuries.

Captain Kidd lies there and nods a bit at the doctor. I... yes. Of course. Sure... It... Gah, it hurts. ****. Is there any way to just get it done and over with? A prosthetic seems to be the only way to go. Is it possible to have it over with today? I'll.. ugh... need to get used to the thing... Please. First just stop the bleeding, I'm seeing funny...

[Grif]

Hook and Haddock

If the two of you continue to sail on the same course you'll be coming into large formation of jagged rocks. Haddock's small vessel could with some effort make it through but there is no way that the Jolly Roger could even dream of keeping chase on sea.

"Barbarians! Bashi-bazaouks! Boorless whales! Brutes!" Haddock continued to shout at the wooden vessel as his newly promoted first mate, Cutler, and a fellow sailor tried to drag the captain back to the bridge.

"Captain, they're firing again!" Cutler warned, just as they reached the bridge.

"Well, don't just—" The trio stumbled as the ship shook from the impact. With creeping horror, Captain Haddock quickly scrambled to his feet, as the Karaboudjan began to list ever so slightly to the left. He pounded the speaking tube. "Report!"

The sound of shouting, omnious creaking and the dreaded sound of water rushing in filled the tube. "Captain! The port boiler room been hit! We're sealing the room!"

"Lily-livered landlubbers!" He turned towards Simmons. The lad seemed white with fear, his pale blue eyes straying towards the flag of the Jolly Roger. "Simmons! Straight ahead, into those rocks."

"B-B-But Captain!"

"Do it Simmons! We're not done yet!"

The injured merchant ship began to slow, yawing slightly to the left as it pressed forward, towards the jagged rocks ahead, heedless of the danger.

[Cracklord]

Avery

The cell was small, built to accommodate one man, and not comfortably at that. It felt cramped and tight between the two of them. For all that, Avery might have been the Lord of the Castle from his manner, instead of a condemned man tossed here by the winds of adversity and misfortune to await his death. Tilted back, he stared up at the ceiling as best he could make out.

His vision was blurry and indistinct, his thoughts were slow to arrive and slower still to reach connections that had once seemed obvious, and he worried the bullet to the head hadn't rattled his brains. With luck, it would pass, although luck was something he had been without these last days. The ache in his foot and shoulder had dulled somewhat, but flared with fresh agony at every thoughtless twitch. The damage was not permanent in either case, at least should a good physician see to them. Unfortunately, while they had been bound to keep him from bleeding to death, little further treatment had been taken. No reason to waste effort on condemned men, afterall.

In a perfect world, they would wait and recover, give their bodies the time they needed to replenish themselves and heal. But that wasn't possible here, The Don would force The Countess to marry him soon, perhaps even tonight, and on the morrow, at Dawn, he and Inigo would be hung as pirates. Neither of them was in any shape worth mentioning, for a good hour or so Avery had feared Inigo could not be roused at all. A fine pair they made, perhaps one complete swordsman between them. But they were all they had.

Their weapons had been taken, as had their rings, Avery's purse, and the bulk of their clothes, leaving them nothing with which to take about their escape. If they even had a wheelbarrow it would be something.

Fatalism did not come easy to Avery. He was by nature given to action, no matter how hopeless, but even his tireless optimism found itself trapped. Feeling suddenly very alone, Avery did the thing that felt natural. He sang. Avery had a fine, clear voice, and could hold a tune tolerably well, though it was never a talent he had fostered with any particular care or effort, and the only song that came to mind was a sea shanty the enlisted men had sung.

"Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish Ladies
Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain;
For we've received orders for to sail for old England
And we may never see you fair ladies again"

"We will rant and we'll roar like true British sailors
We'll range and we'll roam all on the salt seas
Until we strike soundings in the channel of old England;
From Ushant to Scilly is thirty-five leagues"

"Then the signal was made for the grand fleet to anchor
And all in the Downs that night for to lie;
Let go your shank painter, let go your cat stopper
Haul up your clewgarnets, let tacks and sheets fly!"

He trailed off there, thoughtfully, then glanced at Inigo again. The Spaniard, being in better shape, in comparison at least, had gotten unsteadily to his feet, and was gazing out the barred window, and had been gazing up at the sky. For a moment, he had registered shock and disbelief, then a terrible change came over him, his eyes bulging in their sockets, the muscles at his jaw bunching painfully and his limbs shaking like a prize horse straining at the tether. Then, without ceremony or explanation, he turned and charged the door, getting what run-up the tiny cell allowed. He slammed and slammed his shoulder, but Inigo was thin, and the door was not. It didn't budge.

[AnimeKid]

Luffy

Luffy looked at the gold coins after thanking the woman. Unfortunately he couldn't really use these to buy him some food. Nami really didn't like him spending or having money on him. Something about him wiping out their budget on food. Shoving the gold coins into his pocket he rubbed his head before deciding that spending one of the gold coins wouldn't hurt. After all as long as he brought some back Nami would be perfectly happy. Heading to the tavern Luffy pulled out one of the gold coins and asked for however much it was worth in meat. It was chow time!

[The Tygre]

Nemo

"Hrmph. So that was the Avatar... I suppose even the gods can make mistakes." Nemo walks off himself, following the sound of his first-mate's voice. He keeps an eye open for the hunch-backed old salt and his familiar pipe as he scans the lower decks.

[Corvond]

Hornblower
"Ah." Hornblower said, inclining his head. He seems as clumsy and dim on land as he is adroit and notable at sea. "The British cannot afford a war with the Orient in addition to all the fronts our efforts are already directed upon."

He paused, thinking about the problem, then got thoughtfully to his feet. "In that case, I may have to requisition another Ship. The Indefatigable is a fine and worthy vessel, and I would match her against any dozen of the French or the Spanish, but on a run like this she would be something of a liability. May I requisition a Frigate?"

Sharpe
"I'll inform the men." Sharpe said shortly, drawing himself to attention and saluting, then held position, waiting to be dismissed. He felt foolish. He was glad that none of his men could see him now. It was all nonsense, of course, ridiculous nonsense, but he couldn't help but feel nervous. He had spent the entire time wishing he was not here, wishing he was anywhere but this stinking, overheated room.

He had dressed up for the occasion, taking the wreath badge from his old jacket, and insisted that the tailor sew it onto his new uniform. It felt odd to be dressed so finely, his waist circled by a tasseled red sash and his shoulder-wings bright with the stars of his rank. This meeting had cost him fifty guineas already. His uniform was mostly new, though he retained his Baker Rifle, his cheap heavy cavalry sword in its battered scabbard, and the boots he'd taken from a Colonel in Napoleon's Imperial Guard, which were comfortable and well broken in. He was a soldier, and even if over here the army were part bankers, past post office and part moneylenders he would conduct himself in the appropriate manner. By god, he wished he was back at Spain. He wished he was facing a crack battalion of French Veterans then enduring this bureaucratic ordeal.

Sharpe was beginning to feel sullen and rebellious, angry at this charade, wondering what would happen if he simply turned and walked away from this place. But he was here for a purpose, and he couldn't afford any more enemies, so he endured it, as out of place as he felt, like a bedraggled fighting cock that had somehow found it's way into a Peacock's den.

[Draxx]

Captain Hook
The wind had freshened, and the ship lurched. She was riding under bare poles but for tops'ls. The cut of the wind stopped his mind from wandering and focused it upon his prey, and the Captain tasted the wind and looked at the spires of the reef on the starboard quarter, and the splash of color that gave hint to his experienced eyes of a standing shelf. Threatening outcrops, and his ship was far too low in the water and wide to make his way though them. They could loose him in the shoals, and his ship was still too distant to cut them off.

"Ready all hands to board." He said, adjusting his hook so that it gleamed with a wicked light, then loosening his Spanish Blade within it's scabbard. It was a slender ribbon of watered steel curved in a thirty-degree arc, with straight quillons and a wire-wrapped pommel. It was still in its enamelled silver scabbard, and had never let him down, not when he was cast from Eton for killing a boy in a duel over a lady, nor in the King's Navy, when he had stood upon countless burning decks before he'd taken a ship for himself and hoisted the Black Flag, many years ago now. "It seems they prefer discretion to valor, so as I see it we had best disavow them of the notion."

Rocheforte
Jussac took command, readying the ship for takeoff even though his master would doubtless be hours, if he didn't stay the night. Jussac was unnecessarily handsome and miraculously unscarred, his complexion fair and his hair finely spun gold, as if to counter his dark eyes. His long, fine straight hair fell like a veil down the sides of his cheeks, and the cross of Malta, the symbol of Cardinal Richleu was proudly displayed on his tabard.

The company was already gathering around the airship, running repairs or loading victuals under the direction of Junio, the quartermaster. Four men had stripped off their shirts, given the heat, and were parbuckling kegs of water, oil and beer up the side of the ship, using a rope over a bitt. Up on one of the yards, the sailmaker was hard at work with his needle, fid and seam rubber. Jussac’s eye drifted along to the head of the Rumour and the figure there, painted gold, a skeleton in a kingly crown, with a scythe clutched in one hand, and a cross in the other. The symbolism was not lost on him, the workers and the church united by the death of the Monarchists.

Jussac had always been a supporter of the nobility, though he could in no way count himself among their number. He had served on the guard of Queen Jessamine Kaldwin before the cardinal, and as always felt sad when he thought of her, and the tragic waste her death had been. She could have saved France, he truly believed in. Now, in place of a Queen they had an emperor, but the only true ruler they could claim was the guillotine, that ruled through both the Jacobians and the Royalists.

It seemed it let slip only those who could bring it more victims, like the vessels captain, his erstwhile master.

Long ago, Cardinal Richleu had been so impressed by the unorthodox ways in which he (Rocheforte) had escaped a predicament, by his ability to adapt and survive in any situation, and by his utter disregard for what respectable men might call right and wrong, that he had decided to make him his agent, whether he wished it or not. Rocheforte was an exceptional swordsman, better then him, a claim only five men that he knew of could hope to make, but the man had no honor. He'd cut down a callow youth from horseback or shoot an unarmed man without a thought, suitable for dog-soldiers with no honor to lose perhaps, but officers should conduct themselves better. And he was offended that his master seemed to delight in doing the opposite.

Rocheforte, for his part, was untroubled by such musings. His inner-workings were a mystery to him, his way was to act, singly and decisively, not to dwell or consider. He regarded the city with the same steady gaze as the raptors which circled overhead.

The sun had been up for three hours, and a breathless heat lay upon the harbour side. Beyond the immense stone quay, an ancient structure built many years ago when they had ships enough to fill it, the tiled
roofs of Cittigaze rose in banks and clusters up the hillside. Stucco plaster gleamed white in the sunlight, alongside mouldering grey stonework and antique timber frames. The port was a patchwork city, sewn together by many different cultures at many different times. It was as if the buildings had been looted from all over the world, and piled here together to fade and rot. A plundered city. It seemed appropriate.

Such a soft country, trapped by faded glories now long gone, and they thought to challenge the might of France. And France would do as it did. How could it do otherwise, when France had designs upon the same thing; to command the sea, to control all trade routes, to dominate the colonies and to strangle England, and so to rule the world unchallenged. Though Spain was hardly of consideration.

Febre walked behind him in a lazy stroll, heavy dark cloak thrown over his broad shoulders despite the heat, and his slouch hat brought low. He was enormous, with a forked black goatee and a thick mane of curly, greying hair tied back in a pigtail. When he and Rocheforte had fought together long ago in the King's Wars, back when France had a King, he had been fleshy, with an increasing thickness and a distinct paunch brought on by the good living his wealth afforded. There was not an ounce of fat on him now. He looked lean, pinched, hungry, and somehow that emphasised the scale and breadth of his naturally big frame. His eyes, however, had never changed, and were just as they had always been, cannonball grey.

Febre was not reliable and made a poor second, he was a rabid dog in need of the firm hand of a master. He wasn't even loyal, not truly, though he respected and feared Rocheforte, and that if nothing else kept him in line. Left to himself he would kill and pillage at will, like the atavist barbarian he resembled, until someone stronger killed him. Rocheforte supposed he should have killed him long ago when he first began to become a liability, but he hadn't, out of what passed for sentimentality. The man was his brother, afterall.

His contempt for the city was difficult to place. It had something to do with the smell, he thought: the first faint stirrings of the ocean breeze had started to stir through the miasma of sewage and mouldering plaster. It was the smell of a city in decay, it's pride a thing of the past, like an old courtesan who applied paint to her face to cover her pockmarks. "Nevermind, I'll find my own way." He told the watchman in French uncaring if he understood or not, brushing past him and heading towards the castle, where Don Lardo lived at present. Richleu had signaled the man out as sufficiently corruptible for their purposes, and Rocheforte would deal with him.

[darkblade]

Rocheforte

You are lead through Lardo's estate up to his private quarters on the uppermost floor over looking the ruins that up until an hour or so ago had been his courtyard. As you enter you see him sitting at a desk going over some documents. The moment he sees you he shoves them into a drawer and swallows slightly. "Rocheforte. What a surprise."

***

Horneblower

"Of course. You can have your pick of ship, just as long as you set sail by dawn tomorrow. Now if you'll excuse me I have other business to attend to." He gestures towards the doors, evidently telling you to be on your way.

***

Sharpe

The crew had taken the chance away from their officers to head into a run down dockside gambling den. The air was thick with the scent of opium and more exotic narcotics.

As you walk in a pair of your shipmates makes themselves known by drawing a saber over a card table. "You cheating snake. Five hands in a row!"

This can't possibly go well for anyone.

***

Nemo

Ishmael stood overseeing several craftsmen tinkering with the inner workings of your great vessel. When he notices your presence he turns away from the workers. "That Kraken crushed the main boiler and cracked several key pipes. Sato's men say she can be seaworthy by tomorrow if we let them work overnight but it'll mean finding lodgings in town for the crew."

***

Avery

As you sing the Countess makes her way down the dungeon, to much slanderous cat calling from the other prisoners. She stops at your cell and waves the keys. "We must hurry, Lardo is busy with Rocheforte but they'll be done soon."

***

Luffy

The barkeep takes the coin and looks it over before tossing it back and laughing. "I'd put that coin back where you found it and hope your soul is still your own kid."

***

Kidd

The doctor wraps your injured hand in bandages so tight you can feel your pulse through them. The guards escort you to an infirmary and allow the doctor to get a look at the limb in better conditions.

He removed the bandage and dragged a piece of white hot steel across the wound. The bleeding has stopped but the pain has increased ten fold. This does not seem to have occurred to him though as he leads into a series of questions to best find your replacement hand. "Was that your dominant hand, sir?"

***

Popeye

The swordsman flips the switch again and swings the blade. An impossible flurry of phantom blades, impossibly all real sail through the air some will be stopped by your block but no sword can cover that many angles all at once.

***

Barbossa

"Will Turner..." She says pulling the letter closer. "They took him months ago though. He's long gone."

[ThePhantom]

Popeye

Ouch, Popeye starts bleeding from all those cuts that result from the phantom blades. He retreats from the swordman, moving behind the mast of the ship in order to get more protection from that sword. Then he tries throwing a bollin pin at the swordman.

[Cracklord]

Avery
"Handsomely done." He exclaimed, a little louder then was perhaps wise, and got to his feet, only to sway and need the wall for support. The bleeding may have stopped, but he was a long way from recovered. His mind was willing, but his body was having a little trouble responding.

Inigo stared at her a moment, his eyes flashing as the glimpse he had caught was confirmed. The Six-fingered man was here. "Rocheforte." He breathed. Then without a glance at either of the two, he turned and run. He'd been injured as well, but flesh wounds, and at this revelation he felt himself restored, filled with power and vitality. A chase that had lasted twenty years was about to end.

Avery limped forward trying to stop him, to get him to explain, but Inigo was long gone. He sighed. "We'll need some way to get out of Spain quickly." He said. "A ship would be best…"

He saw the Airship the Frenchmen had arrived in, and he slowly smiled.

Blackbeard
"Nay." He said. "The Templars aren't fond of the old magic." He sat in shadow, which seemed to darken even more as he spoke, leaving nothing but the suggestions of a figure and the glitter of eyes, like windows to some forgotten temple, behind which passed ghosts of forgotten, terrible thoughts. He had always been superstitious, aping rituals and tricks, humble conjuring and prestidigitation. But something had changed, and he had delved too deep in secrets better lost to remain altogether human. He had passed through doors that cut him off from the dreams, desires and emotions of ordinary folk, that had closed and left him trapped.

He got to his feet, and walked over to his discarded clothes, fishing around, and at last found his sword-belt, then drew out his sword. The great blade simmered bluely, like a thing alive in the candle-light, and he placed it on the table before sitting back down. "It's a terrible thing, to find charms and rituals you perform more for comfort then belief suddenly work. To hear voices where there should be silence. So it has been that the witch-woman restored life to me."

"A dark lady she was. Tia Dalma." He took the glass he had given Kenaway and drank that as well, then began groping around for a fresh bottle. "She brought me back, why I do not know. But I was dead long enough. We were fools, you and I. Perhaps Charles Vane saw further then any of us." In the acquisition of gold, Vane had said, no action was too low, too dirty, too despicable; murder, deception, fraud, betrayal. Above all else, a pirate was an amoral creature, liberated from civilized codes of conduct. No shame or crime could sully his soul more than it was already. Blackbeard had laughed to hear it. He had thought himself noble for his codes and standards, a poor sailor trying to earn a life that could only be his by such means.

But he was wiser now.

[Aric Kale]

Barbossa

The pirate sighs, quickly losing interest in the conversation. And where might he've been taking Miss Swann? He inquires, drawing out the a in swann. Barbossa maintains a casual air, as if he were asking for directions. In a way, he is.

[Draxx]

Rocheforte
The Cardinal's man swept off his hat in an elaborate bow, holding his scabbard away from his body so that it did not become entangled around his legs. Then he nodded to Febre, who stepped away and circled around the fat man, moving in a manner in no way unlike a predator, then stepping over to his desk. With every sign of boredom, he plucked the letters from the desk and made a cursory show of examining them, before tossing them over his shoulder. He wasn't really reading them as such, like Rocheforte, he didn't speak enough Spanish to recognize more then a few words, not that the Don knew that. Rocheforte glared, irritated by his behavior, but the bigger man didn't pay any attention.

"The Cardinal sent me. It is unfortunate, but so it is." Rocheforte said, his deep, rolling voice not sounding the least bit sincere. He didn't speak a word of spanish, so he spoke French, which he knew the Don spoke from their prior dealings. It was a simple enough exchange. Napoleon wanted Spain. He wanted it's ships, it's harbors, it's colonies in the New World. Cittigaze was a harbor, and using it Napoleon's invasion would be simple indeed. So, to spare conflict, he simply offered Don Lardo an obscene amount of money to give them use of his city, and relocate to the Carribean.

"The intention was to give you more time to get your affairs in order, before you begin your new life in the colonies. But the war in Austria is over, and the army is coming." Rocheforte said. "You have a few weeks. My men and I are to remain with you for that time." Having said his piece, he takes no further interest in the man.

"Congratulations on your betrothal." Febre said, his smile savage as he fished around the nobleman's desk. "Perhaps a toast in celebration. This looks to be an excellent '24 Cabernet. Good year, as I recall."

[Grif]

Captain Hook
The wind had freshened, and the ship lurched. She was riding under bare poles but for tops'ls. The cut of the wind stopped his mind from wandering and focused it upon his prey, and the Captain tasted the wind and looked at the spires of the reef on the starboard quarter, and the splash of color that gave hint to his experienced eyes of a standing shelf. Threatening outcrops, and his ship was far too low in the water and wide to make his way though them. They could loose him in the shoals, and his ship was still too distant to cut them off.

"Ready all hands to board." He said, adjusting his hook so that it gleamed with a wicked light, then loosening his Spanish Blade within it's scabbard. It was a slender ribbon of watered steel curved in a thirty-degree arc, with straight quillons and a wire-wrapped pommel. It was still in its enamelled silver scabbard, and had never let him down, not when he was cast from Eton for killing a boy in a duel over a lady, nor in the King's Navy, when he had stood upon countless burning decks before he'd taken a ship for himself and hoisted the Black Flag, many years ago now. "It seems they prefer discretion to valor, so as I see it we had best disavow them of the notion."

Haddock lifted his periscope again, to better see how the wooden vessel was faring. At least the Karaboudjan wasn't bleeding any more speed, but neither were they in the clear. "That hooked man... I think the landlubber is Captain Hook."

"The Captain Hook?"

"Well, he's not taking my ship without a fight... wait, he's pointing at us... Ten thousands thundering typhoons, I think they want to board us." Haddock grimly took down his scope, and glanced at Cutler. "Tell the men to arm themselves. Prepare to repel boarders. You know where the weapon lockers are, Cutler."

"Captain. You know what happens if we resist."

Captain Haddock just stared straight ahead wordlessly, without answering his first mate's statement. Cutler took the hint, and quietly slinked out. It wasn't his job to question the captain, only to obey them.

[Draxx]

In under two minutes, the crew of the Jolly Roger had armored both flanks with targette boards, rattled off a salvo with caliver and swivels and added a flurry of musket fire for good measure, and made the ship bristle like a porcupine with long-hafted pikes, billhooks, fauchards and tridents. Taking into account the individual weapons the men carried: hangers, sabres, sashes and baldrics laden with wheel and match-lock pistols, muskets, axes, rapiers and poniards, dirks and daggers, kidney knives and short, fat, single-edged swords they called cutlasses it was an impressive feat.

On the mainmast was hoisted a ragged black flag on which was a hand-stitched white skull that seemed to grin unnervingly and a pair of crossed bones beneath it. A pirate mark. The flag that, under the code of the brethren set down by Morgan and Bartholomew, warned a victim ship to give over without a fight, or informed another pirate of a fellow. If a pirate hoisted his black flag before an attack and you surrendered without a fight, he was obliged to show mercy.

But you had run, and beneath it they had run up a single plain red flag. The bloody flag. The sign of death without quarter.

The Jolly Roger had powered across the bow of the Karaboudjan and was coming in from the starboard side. Outflung grapnels closed the distance, dragging Jolly Roger and her prey side by side, and boarding planks and ladders slammed out through the targette wall, as the two ships continued by momentum to drive towards the reef.

The red-painted projection raised from the Jolly Roger's bowcastle that was quite literally a raised, crenellated fighting castle began to lower, and for the first time your crew realize what it was. A hinged boarding ramp, known as a corvus, large enough for two men to cross it abreast, and armoured along the sides with wooden targettes painted with the same violent heraldry and motifs as the Black Flag. The corvus had a huge spike extended from the lip of its front end.

The Jolly Roger slammed in towards the Karaboudjan's waist as if to ram her, then the cables securing the corvus were let out, and the wooden bridge came smashing down, disintegrating the toprail and slamming against the
deck, the spike biting deep into the decking.

Hook led the attack, looking both terrible and somehow heroic, in a gothic/romantic way. His skin was paler then paper, his blue eyes both dark and light (like sapphires in the darkness), his lips so red they looked as though they had been rouged. His coat flapped in the brisk wind, and the blade in his hands shone, while around him his men charged. The first one lept onto the deck, and as he landed he fired his ducks-foot, and the five splayed barrels of the grotesque pistol roared simultaneously. Another leapt up beside him, adding to the fusilade with a blast from his blunderbuss. The heavy weapon had a spring-blade under the trumpet, and rather then take the time to reload he snapped it out and charged, holding the weapon over his head and yelling black oaths.

Many of the pirates had multiple pistols strung around them on lanyards or ribbon sashes, so they could be fired and then dropped without being lost. There was no time to reload. Surging across the gap, the men fired each weapon in turn until they were spent, and then resorted to cutlass, boarding axe and sabre. Corsairs, swinging on lines, were now swarming over the poop rail, lost in a haze of smoke from their discharged weapons.

Smee staggered around, looking at the coming rocks. If they didn't break away quickly, or worse if the Karaboudjan turned while they were bound alongside, The Jolly Roger would be run aground. But the Captain's blood was up. There would be no telling him that. He just had to hope that none of the Karaboudjan's crew realized how vulnerable the pirates really were…

[The Tygre]

Nemo

The men need a proper rest. But if what this Avatar said is true, and the city is truly neutral, then our enemies could just as easily move through it as well.

Nemo finally comes out of his reflection and states, "Mr. Ishmael; I think it would do the crew well to go on land and get a night without interruption. I leave lodgings in your hands. However, I do not fully trust my ship to be unguarded. If you and Mr. Jack would be so kind as to ask for a regiment of volunteers to stay the night aboard with me, it would ease my mind. There will be extra rations for any man who stays aboard, as incentive."

[Shnyder]

Corvo Attano
Some of this tale is legend and hearsay, and much of it has been lost to time. This much, at least, is likely fact: Corvo Attano had been captured and tried some six years past, by the same committee that sent so many to the guillotine, and those who thought of him at all, had thought him either rotting dead in a gibbet cage on the headland, or rotting alive in the dreaded Château d'If, the most notorious and feared prison in Europe. The former, most likely, given the magnitude of the crime the Lord Protector had committed. But the world had moved on, and the victors had rewritten history to suit them, the circumstances of the Revolution reinvented for the same reason, and by degrees he was forgotten, as fresh atrocities came to light. After all, the difference between treason and patriotism is only a matter of dates. Beyond that, there can be no certainty.

But it seems the latter was the case. And though the years had not been kind, and the toll on his mind had been crueler still, for six years he remained in the cell in the depths of a prison too terrible for mortal conception, which had slowly shrunk to become his entire world. He was not a man intended to be caged, and he hovered on the brink of madness in the dark. But while a wolf will gnaw of it's own leg to escape a trap, some men will endure the trap, in the hope of luring the hunter to them. And so, Corvo resolved to live, to survive, and in time, to strike back. And while that resolution faltered before the realities of his predicament, it never broke entirely.

There are many ways men attempt to look for relief in that terrible place. Many initially turn to God, immersing themselves in prayer and holiness and the like with all the piety and conviction of a truly desperate convert. Others turn to wrath, looking for an agency to take revenge upon, until hopelessness steals the fire and they waste away with nothing to sustain them. Not that anyone saw this, for the guards were kept to their cells, their only human contact being every anniversary of their incarceration, when they would be whipped by the guards until they were unconscious. The prison defeated both approaches with the same tactic: the growing revelation of their own insignificance. It was not the abuse or the deprivation that broke men, it was the solitude, and the absence of all hope.

It was thoughts of Emily that kept Corvo focused, gave him the will to keep on breathing. And that was the unkindest cut of all, for a man who held his duty paramount, beyond any considerations of body or soul, his very dedication was slowly stealing his mind, and leaving him so sick with grief and hopelessness that after four years of growing steadily madder, he attempted by degrees to kill himself by means of starvation, and would doubtless have succeeded if a twist of fate hadn't intervened, and he hadn't heard a scratching sound coming from beneath the floor of his cell.

That was the first time he met Prisoner 64389000, The Man in the Iron Mask. Corvo’s neighbor never told him his name, if he even remembered it, only that he had been imprisoned by the Knight Templar for his political beliefs, as he is an agitator for a unified Italy. Corvo was overjoyed to have a companion, starved for human contact as he was, although the man in the mask was less so. He had mistakenly believed he had been digging a tunnel to freedom.

Corvo had always been a man of few words, saying little and preferring to keep his judgements to himself, but his story spilled out of him, and the man was a fine listener.

[darkblade]

Corvo

((I like you, you let me tie in a plot point I haven't got a chance to establish yet and use one of my favourite historical fiction characters to do so.))

Your cell block happens to be under the jurisdiction of a young guard named Javert. His steel toed boots echo across the stone floor as he approaches your cell. The hard echo followed closely by a sinister melody he hums to him self. Ba-dum, ba-dum, badadadada-dum

"Prisoner 36903, you are to be transferred to a higher security facility. Place your hands on your head and face the wall."

***

Nemo

"Of course Captain." Ishmael complies as he goes to rally the crew. A few hours later the bulk of the men were lodged a few blocks away at an expansive hotel while half a dozen crew men remain on board the Nautilis along with yourself and Ishmael.

The mid-level mess was relatively free of damage and repairmen allowing you and your crew some privacy as they enjoy their extra rations. With Ishmael taking the first shift of watch.

Even through the steel hull you can hear the echos of their chi and steam driven tools as the workers go about fixing your vessel. A few minutes into your meal your first mate rings you on the intercom. "Captain get to the engine room quickly!"

***

Innigo

As you make your way towards the exit of the dungeon you draw the attention of the guards, these ones are simple men with swords, no real threat to a man of your skills but with your injuries they may slow you down a little bit.

***

Avery

Lucky for you Innigo has drawn the attention of most of the guards, letting you slip into the castle largely unnoticed. A few guards patrol the deck of the airship but the majority of Rocheforte's men are with him inside.

***

Barbossa

"Imperial soldiers. I don't know where they took him. I'm sorry." She is terrified she would tell you anything to get you to leave but there is nothing she could say.

***

Blackbeard

"Then we have no further business." For all your talk of dark magic he seems quite unimpressed as if to say that whatever darkness the ancient secrets hold the future is twice as frightening.

He pushes himself from the table. "I'll replace your crew and be on my way then. What state do they need to be in for the magic?"

***

Popeye

The pin clobbers the swordsman in the head knocking him back. Stunned for a moment he gives you a perfect moment to take him down.

***

[ThePhantom]

Popeye

Popeye peeks from behind the mast, looks like this might be his chance. Pity that his crew isn't willing to do much to step in. He steps out from the mast and swings his fist at the swordman's head. Better to have him alive to be taught a lesson.

[AnimeKid]

Luffy

Luffy pouted to himself as he said, "Aww! But I'm starving! I need meat! What's wrong with the gold anyway? I though everyone loved gold?"

[Cracklord]

Blackbeard
He puts the bottle down, and his eyes settle upon you, hard as chips of flint, though not hostile. "I don't think so." He said. "I've spoke me piece, and I be thinkin' that now I'll be listening to yours."

He picked up his sword. The gesture was not threatening, exactly, but the earlier, comradely atmosphere was gone, and the room felt charged, as though a single word one way or the other might set him off. "I don't care about yer order, or what ye be trying to cover for 'em. But I do care to know what it is you expect from this. What is it ye want, Kenaway? Something be whispering in me ear it's not gold and glory."

Inigo
Without breaking his stride, he pushed his sprint harder, then a moment before colliding with one of the guards he jumped, bringing both knees to his chest before extending both legs ahead of him as hard as he could, driving them into the chest of the first guard, and sending them both crashing to the floor, the guard unconscious as his head collided with the stone wall. As another thought to take advantage of Inigo while he was prone, the Spaniard scissored his legs around him, then flexed them, knocking him down and locking him helplessly. In the same instant, he swept up the first guards rapier to kill the third before he could fire his pistol, then threw it overhead with precision even his injuries could not remove, catching the forth before he could so much as blink. Getting to his feet, he headed for the stairs, the entire fight having taken maybe a handful of seconds.

Inigo was beyond reasoning, beyond the demands of his body, having passed through any sort of consideration whatsoever except the demands of revenge. He had seen the Six-fingured man. He had a name now. Rocheforte. He did not have his sword, and hadn't even paused, or thought, to pick up another weapon. In that moment, so powerful was his drive that even the removal of his cerebral cortex likely wouldn't have stopped it's relentless push to reach his enemy. He had to find the Six-fingered man.

Avery
Having slipped out of the castle, he joined the crowd staring up in amazement at the vessel overhead. On some of the crowd's faces were written wonder, on many were written fear. In a way, Avery thought, whether they knew it or not, these men were staring up at the passing of their way of life.

For hundreds of years, even before Spain was a nation rather then a series of squabbling kingdoms of christians and moors, their city had rested secure and impregnable in the natural harbor, protected by their surrounding terrain. The only approach was through the harbor, sailing beneath the forts that guarded it, or along the spiraling pathway that led through the hills. In their entire existence, no invader had ever reached the city or conquer this place. It was a location where ten men could hold back one hundred. But the airship changed everything. It could carry an entire company of soldiers in its hold. A fleet of such ships could deliver an army, bypassing the cities defenses easily. The odd-looking cannons could bombard these cobbled streets from afar in a way no besieger had ever managed before. In an odd way, today was indicative of a new era, and he doubted anyone realized it yet.

But that was a consideration for later. For now, he had to follow his friend. Taking advantage of the distraction afforded by the visitors and their means of arrival, Avery followed Inigo's path, pausing at the guards to take up a rapier. It wasn't much of a blade, the tang was askew and the balance was six inches too far, but it would suffice.

[Shnyder]

Corvo Attano
The former Lord protector was eating his meal, stale crusts of bread, and orange juice to wash it down. In those first days in the lightless cell, fruit juice had seemed an extravagance, but trapped in this dungeon, where the air is still and stale, and there's only artificial light and close confines, it kept them, if not healthy, at least disease free. The memory of the plague was not so far forgotten, and that's too much of a risk to take when you only need to give a man half a pint of juice a day to stave off the worst, and there is orchard's aplenty on the mainland. Many died of despair, but few died of neglect.

He left his meal half eaten, then did as he was asked, stepping away from the bench that was his seat and his bed, and his few, meagre possessions, and walking over to the wall, placing his hands behind his head with slow, reassuring movements. He voiced no protest, and made no resistance, the very image of a co-operative prisoner. Corvo was not the man he had been six years ago. He was not even the man he had been two years ago, his neighbor had seen to that. His wits, mind and reflexes were sharper, broadened and opened to new possibilities. And he had direction now, a purpose.

This wasn't the anniversary of his imprisonment, that much he was sure about, although the only means of tracking time he had was the tins pushed under his door, and the taking of his chamber-pot. Something else had intervened, and had broken the monotony, though what exactly he didn't know. The guard would search him. They always did, it was expected, although what they hoped to find he did not know, since he had no possessions but those he was given. Perhaps, if the guard was possessed of political sensibilities or a surfeit of resentment and bile, he would be beaten. Nobody cared if the prisoner was marked, so those who knew his identity often took what chances they got. At first, Corvo had made an effort to memorize their faces. Now, he was past that as well, he no longer cared in the slightest. The only thing in his life that still mattered to him was Emily.

So he didn't speak, he just did as instructed. His body was still lean with corded power, he put it through its paces as best he could despite starvation and malnutrition, but he was barely recognizable. His hair was shaggy, lank and greasy, his cheeks and chin unshaven, and his eyes deepset with shadows like bruises beneath them. A few of his teeth were loose in his mouth, and he was filthy, matted with crusts of dirt and sweat under his clothes. It was difficult to imagine what he had once been.

Perhaps they finally intended to execute him, he had always imagined that the day would come, when whatever value he retained would be no more, and he would be put to death. If so, he would have to escape, although that was easier said then done. The island was surrounded by cliffs, and by ocean, the nearest shore was miles away, and their were no boats on the island. But he could no more do otherwise then he could will his heart to stop beating. He would be free. Emily needed him.

[Aric Kale]

Barbossa

In that case, Ms. Swann, I'm afraid I have no further use for ye. A single, resounding boom is heard from the mansion, where Barbossa has just fired a round at the young woman's head. Regardless of whether he killed her or not, the pirate captain swaggers out of the room with the rolling gait of one accustomed to life on board a ship. Pintel! Regetti! Round up the crew and hunt Mr. Turner down. If he's still in Port Royal tonight, and not on my ship by tomorrow noon, there'll be hell to pay. The two ruffians hurry out of the well-furnished house, swiftly gathering twenty mates with a few more rallying as they went, hunting for the pirate spawn. As for Barbossa, he makes his way to the dimly lit kitchen, locates a nice, juicy apple and polishes off on his jacket. He takes a bite out of the apple, chews it and spits it out with a grimace. Ash...always ash. Damn ye, Cortez. Rot in hell with me and my crew!

[Draxx]

Rocheforte
The Don was quiet, doubtless overwhelmed by the magnitude of both the ultimatum he had received, and threat that had come with it, so Febre shrugged and uncorked it with a deft twist of his fingers, brought the neck up to his lips and drank the priceless liquid like cheap rotgut. His blue eyes twinkled with good-humoured intelligence in the weathered crumple of his face, and the tips of his mustache twitched like the whiskers of a terrier who can smell a rat. Wiping his lips with the back of a calfskin glove, he loomed over the Don, his entire body a prelude to violence. If Rocheforte hadn't been standing there, most likely he wold have killed the fat man by now. But supervised as he was, instead he tried to provoke him with his behavior, trying to force a confrontation.

Rocheforte, for his part, was staring out the window, his one remaining eye staring out at the horizon, where the sky met the sea somewhere through the harbor.

[The Tygre]

Nemo

The Captain quickly springs to his feet. He draws his scimitar and rushes out the door, shouting as he runs, "Men, quickly! To me! Be ready to attack! Two of you search the ship and be on your guard!" Without waiting to see if his crew follows, Nemo rushes to the engine room.

[Cracklord]

Blackbeard
A dangerous passion has awoken in the captain of the Revenge, and he got to his feet, naked steel still in his hand as he began to pace. His hair and beard fluttered, as though a stiff breeze had sprung up at his back, though the rest of the cabin was still and the light seemed to drain from the room, until the only glitter of his dark eyes offered illumination in the cabin. This wasn't the man you knew afterall, despite some passing points of commonality. Not anymore. Whatever his antecedents, he had changed in some fundamental way, become something wholly other than their sum. He had no commencing, no history or origins that could be traced or reckoned in a meaningful manner. He simply was, eternal as the sea, and the night that set upon it.

"So wrapped in secrets and terrors." He mused, more to himself then to Edward. "You know how this ends. The rain will erode the deeds of your life. Your enemies will rise again, and yet again, until they are victorious, there can be no other end to this hopeless war. Your hands are red with blood and you follow a red sea-path, tell me, when will the reign of blood cease? Leave others to fight this lost cause. Live deep while you live; forget your timid morality and let go of your fear." His voice was curiously without passion or inflection, seeming more a resigned statement of fact then an honestly given entreaty.

Your gaze falls upon his desk, covered in clutter taken from every source imaginable. Scattered amongst the sea charts and pages ripped from a rutter, detailed observations of a pilot who had recorded magnetic compass courses between ports and capes, headlands and channels in these waters. You'd expect that. But it was his own touches that stood out, ancient scrolls of a more esoteric bent, and fist-sized hieroglyph-carven gold, collected by Blackbeard over his long life.

A book bound in meteoric iron, incantations written by Skelos in a time long forgotten, sat at the corder, seeming to carry the weight of ages upon it like a physical thing. On what looked like human skin was a few short lines of poetry written in Blackbeard's own hand.

'Her lips were red, her looks were free,
Her locks were yellow as gold
Her skin was as white as leprosy,
The Nightmare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she,
Who thicks man's blood with cold.'

[darkblade]

Blackbeard

"You're not the only one who died Ketch. The moment I took this hood I died but I'll be damned if I let Templars or the Pirate Kings kill me without a fight." Kenaway said backing away. He flicked his wrist, extending the hidden blade between his missing fingers.

"Now for old time's sake I'd like to leave on peaceful terms."

***

Nemo

The engine, a sprawling network of furnaces and turbines that power the impossible submersible spanned much of the aft sections. Pipes and wires sending substances and arcane signals across the ship.

As you and your guards arrive you see the scene Ishmael must have summoned you for. One of the workers laid dead under a burst pipe, his tools strewed about through a puddle of blood. "This deck was undamaged before, someone doesn't want the Nautilis sea worthy, Captain."

***

Rocheforte, Inigo and Avery

As Rocheforte stares out the window you can hear the sounds of guards falling in the hall accompanied by angry rushed stomping. Someone who shouldn't be here is coming.

***

Barbossa

Your crew all but burns the colony to the ground but there is no sign of William Turner. Pintell and Regeti do manage to bring a pair of garrison soldiers before you. "Tell the Captain what you said."

The soldier looks up at you, terror in his eyes. "The Turner boy. They took him to Australia. Said he was accessory to treason against the crown."

***

Corvo

Javert searches you but takes no actions beyond his authority. In his own ruthless manner he is an honourable man. He leads you past the other prisoners all roaring like a horde of beasts at the sight of fresh meat until they see you. As you cross their lines of sight each man falls as silent as the grave.

You are brought up several layers until you can see windows again, windows filtering in the blinding light of the sun. "You are being transferred to Australia to receive treatment at a Punishment Factory. Do you know what that means?"

Truthfully last time you saw anyone who spoke of the world outside of this prison Australia was a British colony, not something for a French man to fear and you don't have the slightest clue what a punishment factory is.

***

Luffy

"Haven't you heard of Cortez's curse? Anyone who touches that gold is damned." The Barkeep shakes his head.

Zorro walks into the bar behind you and sighs. "A curse? What did you do now Luffy?"

***

Popeye

The swordsman takes the blow to the face and falls flat on his back unconscious. His crew takes off fleeing back to their own boat.

[ThePhantom]

Popeye

"Alright men. Take his weapens and tied him up. We'll let the police deal with him when we get home."

The crew goes and takes the man's sword and using a spare rope, tie him up. Then he's placed in the hold of the ship, while the ship continues on, heading back to port and those who wait for the men aboard her return.

[Aric Kale]

Barbossa

Barbossa glares at the hapless soldier before giving orders to his crew. Gents! We travel to Australia! Now throw this landlubbers overboard... The two garrison reserves are unceremoniously tossed into the harbor, where the ship is quickly departing. With the aid of a favorable wind, and an experienced crew, the Black Pearl practically flies across the ocean, heading towards her newest destination.

[Cracklord]

Blackbeard
"It's not death that frightens me, Edward." He replied, the sinister aspect his face took on in the murk reaching a new order of magnitude. "Everyone manages that. But there are worse fates." he replied, then sat back down, the passion having left him.

He snorted at your ultimatum, though he didn't look up, his eyes having fixed on yet another bottle of rum. "Good to know you're as mad as ever." He replied, all but snorting and without the fondness that he had been exhibiting moments earlier. "We're well out to sea, the trade winds at our backs and set to course, there be no turning back now. Not for you or anyone. I have a course to set." With some regret, he looked past the rum, and groped around the desk until he found the chart, then placed a thoughtful hand on the Iron-bound book.

"I won't hold you against your will, but as long as you're aboard my ship, you earn your keep." He added, then made a dismissive gesture with his head, ending the interview.