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Cowritten with @BlondyMcHuggles


The back door of the Treis Ippótes swung open with an audible creak, its rusted hinges straining against the weight of the oak planks they supported and the sound of laughter and song floating out from within. Gottmar von Eibenschütz peered into the darkness beyond; the sun had not long ago sunk beneath the horizon and cast the shadow of night across the city. With a cautious hand on his sword-hilt in case of an encounter with the sort of common thugs and cutpurses who frequented such gloomy back alleys as this, the witch hunter stepped outside into the cool night air and looked around. Sleep, for him, was not a necessity by any means, and as a devoted Brother-Soldier his duty was first and foremost to carry out his investigations without delay. If the foul stain of dark sorcery had infiltrated Viarosa, he had not a second to waste.

And yet, he had not a single lead. Certainly, he had hunted witches not far beyond the city walls, yet frustratingly enough not one, even when subjected to the very harshest of interrogations, had provided a single ounce of information that might serve to incriminate their fellow black magi. Still, that did not mean there was nowhere to start. On the contrary, in fact, a city such as this, containing as many drinking establishments as it did, was ripe for harvesting the kind of information Gottmar sought - after all, with their inhibitions lowered, who knows what kind of strange and mysterious tales the locals may tell, and for every ten that were pure invention, one might hold a grain of truth. He glanced back at the inn he had just left. No, he thought, not that one. Full of sailors and dockworkers; not the sort who would know of the intricacies of affairs on land. He would have to go elsewhere.




It was a long and winding walk that had brought him to this door in particular, through labyrinthine slums and past many a shifty character who gave him a glare of disgust, yet thought better of provoking a fight. The witch hunter raised his gaze to the worn, faded sign that hung above the entrance to the simple timber building that rose up before him. 'The Laughing Fiddler', it read; a tavern whose outside appearance was certainly less than impressive - although, to the owner's credit, it seemed to have been kept clean enough. Satisfied that this place would do, Gottmar pushed open the door and strode inside with the air of a conquering general, surveying the wretched array of patrons with thinly veiled suspicion. He came to the bar, slamming a fist down on its splintered surface. "Flagon of stout, goodman," he grunted dismissively to the barkeep, pushing a silver coin across the bar before turning his back on the man and scanning once more over the occupants of this tavern. Half a minute later, a battered tin mug of thick black ale appeared at his side, and he took a long swig, wiping the drops from around his mouth with his gloved hand. The conversation had dwindled noticeably when the witch hunter had entered, but now it slowly began to resume its usual volume.

As Gottmar listened, one table's conversation in particular caught his attention. Amidst the din, it was hard to piece together the exact nature of their discussion, but a few choice words had been unmistakeable to his trained ears. The swarthy one spoke most definitely of a demon, and the scholarly-looking fellow across the table from him made some less-than-favourable comment about 'men of the cloth' in response. The witch hunter stifled a vindictive smile. Truly, it was as if the hand of blessed Calidorus himself had guided him to this place tonight, that he might encounter this wicked gang of demon-worshipping blasphemers and serve holy justice unto them. He paused. They did not look like the sort to fraternise with devils. But then, the corrupting forces of the arcane could ensnare anyone, anywhere, at any time.

Slowly, he edged his way along the bar towards them, interrupting his movement to take another gulp of his ale; it would not do to alarm the blasphemers before it was too late for them to escape. Then, when only a few paces separated him from the heretics, he drew his sword from its scabbard and closed the last distance between them in a split second. "Heathens!" he bellowed, slamming the tip of his sword down upon the table, sending a crack snaking through the aged wood and turning the heads of every patron of the tavern. "I have heard your foul talk of demons and death. Did you think that your evil ways would not be discovered? That your evil deeds would go unpunished? With Calidorus as my witness, I hereby charge you with conspiracy to commune with beings of the Infernum, a grave offence for which the only sentence is death. Have you any words to say in your defence?"

Athaliah was just about to reply to Ceara when the sword plunged into their table; the man responsible for it definitely looked rough, but not the type to be such a devoted man of the gods. Well, maybe the God of War liked his followers to look like they'd lost a few fights.

Once the initial shock of the encounter passed, she shared a quick look with everyone else at the table - they looked just as confused and shocked as Athaliah did, but even after a few seconds nobody spoke up. Just as the newcomer opened his mouth to speak again, Athaliiah left her seat and stood up; she was shorter than the scarred man and she'd fought men like him off before - not that she had any desire to. Especially now.

"Look, Ser," she began, doing her best to maintain eye contact with the rough man. "I know it sounds bad, but I promise, we're not planning anything evil." she nervously glanced around the tavern, taking note of all the people still staring at her and their assailant. It wasn't likely that anyone would come to their aid if something went wrong - the common folk wouldn't so much as blink if someone accused of demon-summoning was killed, guilty or not.

Athaliah sighed quietly and continuted. "We need what's on these papers we have so we can have a chance of saving the world." She saw the skeptical look on the man's face before it even appeared. "I know, I know how it sounds. Just... at least give them a read before you do anything?" she gestured for Mortirmir to hand the man the notes, hoping that the sudden movement woudn't get her impaled.

With one hand still on his sword, Gottmar snatched the stack of papers from the scholar, spreading them out across the table and beginnning to read. After a minute of silence, the witch hunter let out a menacing growl. "I ask for your defence, and you present me with a childrens' tale? Truly, you are beyond all hope of redemption." He raised his sword, the dim lantern-light of the tavern shimmering as it met the weapon's steel blade. "The charges stand: conspiracy to commune with beings of the Infernum, and mockery of a representative of blessed Calidorus. The sentence is death by fire." He turned to address the assembled crowd. "Citizens, restrain these heretics and take them outside." Several of the burlier patrons moved forward, giving a dutiful nod to the witch hunter and a withering glare to the accused. "Barkeep, a bottle of your strongest spirit. Fear not, you will be compensated when my work is done."
Cowritten with @Luftwaffles



The Viarosa Witch Project

Heavy boots pounded on the forest floor, kicking up piles of dead leaves and splintering rotten, bug-infested logs under their thick soles. A faint trace of moonlight filtered through the dense canopy, casting eerie shadows that danced a sinister jig around the trees. A long howl echoed in the distance; a wolf, or something worse? It did not matter. Gottmar von Eibenschütz had travelled to these lands for a singular purpose, and it would take more than wild beasts and tricks of the light to deter him from his pursuit. Vaulting over a fallen tree and resuming his sprint without so much as a second's pause, he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the faint light that flitted in between the distant trees - no ordinary light, but the sickly glow of foul sorcery; a taint, a plague upon the land, a corruption that must be purged without hesitation or mercy. With every second that passed, the faint light grew stronger, edged closer as Gottmar sprinted as fast as his aching legs would allow, carried forward by willpower alone, reaching for the bulky repeating crossbow at his back as his prey came into range.

Without warning, the trees parted, giving way to a clearing that was somehow no less ominous than the darkest depths of the forest itself. The grass and shrubs that covered the floor were not their usual vibrant green, but a pallid grey that resembled the skin of a corpse. Puddles and patches of mud littered the ground - rains had fallen not long ago - but the water here was thick and crimson. Unfazed, Gottmar pressed on. He had seen worse sights than this more times than he cared to count. The sorcerous light burst out of a patch of shrubs across the clearing, heading for the relative protection of the trees once more, and Gottmar raised his crossbow, loosing a pair of bolts that whistled through the air and slammed into their target with the sickening crunch of metal shattering bone. A shrill scream echoed into the night, and the distant wolves replied with their own howls. The glow of magic began to dim. Gottmar gave a satisfied grunt.

Striding up to the fallen foe, the hunter surveyed the pitiful specimen before him. A woman, elderly and frail in appearance, if not in ability, with almost skeletal, gangly limbs and wild grey hair, her frame covered in ragged, filthy robes. She could have been simply a brain-addled old crone, were it not for her eyes. Or rather, the lack of them - the empty sockets replaced instead by the dim shimmer of magical light that Gottmar had been following since the chase began. He glanced down. The crossbow bolts had sheared almost clean through her kneecaps, splinters of bone protruding from the gaping wounds. The skin surrounding the bolts had begun to blacken and shrivel - the work of the holy oil that lubricated the weapon's intricate mechanism and thus coated its ammunition. Gottmar's gaze shifted to the woman's face. "Witch," he began, his voice cold and unforgiving. "You are accused of the practice of dark sorcery, a most unholy affront to humanity and to blessed Calidorus. Have you any words to speak in your defence?"

The witch laughed, a harsh rasping sound that brought flecks of blood spraying from her twisted mouth to land on Gottmar's boots. The light in her eyes grew brighter for a second as she chanted in an alien tongue, forming a spell to vanquish her assailant. Her chant grew louder, until she was almost roaring each syllable, and wind and leaves rushed around the pair in a twisting whirlpool. The glow grew almost blinding, and a pulse of arcane energy emanated from her battered body, enveloping the hunter and... nothing. No scream of pain, no sudden collapse, no equally broken form lying next to her. Nothing.

The witch hunter's cold glare did not falter for a second. "Very well. For thy crimes, I sentence thee to death and damnation eternal. May the holy fire of Calidorus render your black soul naught but ash." He reached down to his belt with a gloved hand and withdrew a short, brutal falchion, dropping to one knee and pinning the exhausted witch to the ground. With a swift chop, her throat was split open, and with a second her spine was shattered in two, separating her head cleanly from her body, the light in her eyes finally extinguished entirely. Gottmar's hand reached into his coat, and he began to lay out before him the tools required to finish the job. From a small leather pouch, the witch hunter took a pinch of salt, rubbing it evenly on the witch's severed neck, both the shreds still attached to the base of her head, and the bloody stump that sat atop her shoulders. From a metal flask, he shook a few drops of holy oil above her heart. Then, placing a wooden stake in the same spot, he produced a mallet from his belt and struck until the spike had been driven as far in as it could go. Lastly, gathering a good bunch of the dead shrubbery that littered the clearing to use as kindling, he withdrew a firesteel from his pocket and drove a shower of sparks down onto the witch's corpse, waiting until the blaze had fully caught hold before he rose and placed his tools back into their various pockets and pouches. As the body burned and blackened, Gottmar bent and picked up the sorceress's head, giving one final glare to its ugly, wizened features before stalking back into the forest, clutching his trophy as the fires raged behind him.




Moving at a brisk trot through the towering wooden gates of Viarosa, a dappled grey draft horse stamped and whinnied as it was confronted by a pair of halberd-wielding guards, drawn to the animal in no small part due to the menacing appearance of its rider. Bringing the beast to a halt, Gottmar dismounted in a swift movement to face the guardsmen, fixing them with his usual cold, grim expression - an expression only magnified in its intensity by the network of scars that covered his pale visage. "What is the purpose of this delay, soldier?" he enquired, his tone calm and level yet still giving the air of a rather less civil interrogation.

The closest of the two guards gulped. This new arrival was not a man he particularly wanted to find himself in confrontation with; a hulking figure with the scent of death on his clothes, who towered over him by a good foot - although how much of that was due to his tall, wide-brimmed capotain hat the guard could not tell. Nevertheless, he steeled himself, puffed out his chest, and addressed the newcomer. "It is standard practice to enquire as to the reason any heavily armed stranger such as yourself might wish to enter this fine city, sir. A precaution, nothing more."

The witch hunter grunted dismissively, reaching across to his horse and unfastening a burlap sack from its saddle. "Is it also standard practice in this 'fine' city to allow the forces of evil to run rampant less than a league from your walls?" Letting the top of the sack hang open, he gave the guards a glimpse of the shrivelled, half-rotten witch's head that sat within. "Behold. The head of a dark sorceress, executed by my own hand in the forests not far from here. You will take me to your Lord that I might receive the appropriate compensation for my work."

"For the love of Solanius, who the hell are you?!" the guardsman shouted, jumping back as his eyes met the empty sockets of the deceased witch and lowering his halberd to point towards the stranger. "You murdered this woman and now you want to wave her head in front of Lord Demetrios himself? I should kill you where you stand!"

Gottmar's hand came to rest on the hilt of his arming sword. "I would not advise it, soldier. Many have tried, but by the blessing of holy Calidorus I still stand." As if by instinct, he made the sign of Calidorus across his chest. "If you will not take me to your Lord Demetrios, you will bring him to me. You will tell him that a representative of the Altenschloss Chapter of the Order of Brother-Soldiers of the Temple of Blessed Calidorus in Asmeinland is here to collect what he is rightfully owed." The guards stood still, unsure. "NOW, SOLDIER!" bellowed the witch hunter, prompting the foremost guard to give a sharp nod to his partner, who jogged away into the city to find the Lord.

The guard returned a while later, followed closely by a rough-looking man dressed in fine clothes. Although he wore their garments, it was fairly clear that the newcomer was no lord. “Are you the witch hunter?” he asked, looking Gottmar up and down.

"Aye," said Gottmar. "But you are not the man I requested." His attention left the new arrival, and his gaze fell back upon the guard. It was not a pleasant gaze. "Did you not hear my words the first time, soldier? Or did you wilfully disobey me?" He took a step towards the guardsman, who visibly flinched in response. The witch hunter gave a disgusted scowl. "Return to your duties at the gate, soldier. I have no further need of you." Once more he regarded the newcomer, sizing him up properly now. "You are a representative of Lord Demetrios?"

“I’m a representative of Viarosa, my friend.” The man smiled. “And its grateful citizenry. Show me the head, and I shall pay you in full.”

The witch hunter nodded, taking the decaying head out of its bloodstained sack and dropping it at the man's feet. "As you wish. Now, my payment. One hundred pounds, in weight, of sufficiently pure silver, delivered to me within twenty-four hours. Think of it as a donation to the Order - a gift to blessed Calidorus himself, if you will. A gift that will help to fund my further investigations in Viarosa, that I might know how deep the taint of black magic pervades this city." He glanced down at the head, lip curling with disdain. "As a representative of Viarosa, you will deliver the head to your Lord, inform him of the presence of Brother-Captain Gottmar von Eibenschütz in the city, and tell him that the Order expects his full compliance in the investigations and potential witch-hunts to follow. Am I understood?"

“Of course you will have your silver. Our fine city values the work you do for the gods.” The man turned to the guards behind him and nodded his head, sending both of them off to complete some unknown task. “I shall convey your message to the Lord O’ the Port. Now, where shall you be staying? We will need a place to send your reward.”

"The Treis Ippótes inn down by the docks. The Order rents the east wing of the establishment as an outpost in this city. You shall find me there. If I am not present, you may leave my silver with any of the senior Brothers you may meet there; they will ensure my payment is kept safe until my return." Turning away from the man, Gottmar swiftly mounted his horse once more. "In the meantime, if you hear or see anything suspicious, I expect that you will not hesitate to inform me. For the sake of your city, and your soul." At that, the hunter gave his mount's flank a sharp slap, and the beast began to move off towards the city streets beyond.

Co-written with @Luftwaffles, @Maki the Finn, @surebeens, and @Mardox.


The Old Albatross Tavern, Nassau

The air was thick with the stench of tobacco smoke and stale beer, the flickering orange glow of candles and lanterns barely penetrating the evening gloom. Tankards clinked, dice clattered across sturdy wooden tables, and the shouts of patrons both joyful and belligerent formed a cacophonous racket. But alas, that was the music of Nassau; a home to thieves, drunkards, whores, and pirates of the very foulest kind. A republic of pirates, some saw fit to call it, and it was hardly an ill-fitting accolade - the law had long since fled this place, turned it over to those who made their livings at the tip of a cutlass or the muzzle of a cannon. But most of the scarred, vicious men in the tavern saw it not as a new Sodom or Gomorrah, but simply as home.

John Lysander Blackett, the infamous 'Black Jack' who captained the pirate frigate Bucephalus, was one such man. Waving over a bar wench burnened with a heavy tray of overflowing tankards, the captain laid a pair of cards face down on the table as he passed a fresh round of drinks to the other fellows gathered around him. Scanning the table with a single blue eye, the pirate ran a hand through his short beard, before pushing forward a gold coin towards the centre where a small pile of similar currency waited. "Raise. One doubloon." he grunted, gesturing to the burly, greying man sat to his left. "Your go, Gresham."

The old quartermaster sighed, taking a large swig of ale, a few drips clinging to his moustache. "Fold." He threw his own cards down with an air of exasperation.

The ship's surgeon, Cato Valentinovna, reviewed her cards. She raised her eyebrow, watching the rest of the officers as she decided her next move. "Such an uncivilized game. Leaving it all up to chance, just silly." She sighed. "I will match your bet." She threw another coin into the centre of the table, keeping her cards close to her chest.

"The game isn't uncivilized; it's a show of wits." Adolfus tossed in two coins. "I raise two doubloons." He took a swig from his flask as he looked around the table, stone-faced, and focused on the Quartermaster. "I thought you were good at numbers?" He said in a half-joking tone.

"Aye," the grizzled officer responded with a shake of the head. "But the numbers aren't being good to me tonight." As he drained the last dregs of his ale, the two crewmen to the left of Adolfus threw down their own cards, sighing frustratedly.

Captain Blackett chuckled, giving a good-natured nod to both his surgeon and engineer. "And then, there were three." He slid a second coin over, followed by a third, and then a fourth. "I'll see your bet and raise you two more."

"I sure hoped you saw my bet, one-eye." He said, as he raised his eyebrows and let out a sigh. "I fold, good Kapitän." Adolfus then got up from the table, wiping his mouth,"I'm going to go find something that resembles an outhouse in this god-forsaken place. Good luck, Jack."

"Much obliged, Adolfus," replied Blackett. "Although I can't imagine I'll need much luck now." He shot a wry grin at Cato. "Care to bet? Or were you planning on following these fine gentlemens' examples?"

Adolfus chortled as he exited the building. The ship's surgeon reviewed her cards, maintaining her frown. After a moment of hesitation, she pushed her entire pile of doubloons forward. She looked up, looking around the table with a small smile on her face.

A dark man sitting in a booth in the corner watched Adolfus leave, then returned his gaze to the poker match. He studied the attire of each player, their mannerisms and the way they interacted with each other. He raised an eyebrow when the woman piled all of her gold into the center of the table, curious to see how this would play out.

His name was Raphe Alan Leverett, a mercenary currently working as the Master Gunner of The Zodiac's Warning, under Captain Theodore de la Cruz. He had been watching the patrons of this tavern for hours, as was his custom before his captain entered any establishment their first day on land. Why this particular group had caught Raphe's eye, he did not know.

The Captain chuckled as he saw Cato's money slide into the middle of the table. "Well, you've got more bollocks than the rest of these fellows." He pushed his own coins forward. "Alright, I'll bite. All in. Let's see your hand."

Cato put her five cards down, pointing at each of them individually. "I have three sixes. That is quite a high hand, is it not?"

"A higher hand than you think," Blackett replied. "You have two threes - that's a full house." He placed his own cards down; all clubs, but without sequence. "Which beats my flush. Well played."

"Aha!" The surgeon smiled broadly and dragged the pile of coins towards her side of the table. "I'll be taking all of that, thank you very much." She immediately began to order her new prize, stacking the doubloons in columns of three.

"Verdamnt! There's no pisspots around here." Adolfus said as he walked over to the bar. "do you have any lager? also, buy one for this fellow besides me and.." He scanned the room for a sober soul, "That brooding fellow over there!" He points at Raphe, and nods to the barkeep as he pours Raphe's drink. He then took his tankard, and sat back down at the poker table. "Wheres the game at- hahaha! You let the Russian frau beat you, Jack?" The fates aren't on your side tonight."

A minute later, Raphe looked at an approaching barmaid, confused. "I didn't order anything." he roughly asserted. The maid placed a tankard of beer in front of him. "Courtesy of Old Smokey there," pointing to Adolfus. Raphe nodded at the man, surprised.

He nodded back, sauntered over to Ralphe's booth, and took a seat; as he initiatied a toast with the man. "Not everyday we see a new face around here. They usually die on their first voyage. My name is Adolfus, or Ady. What's yours, stranger?

Raphe eyed the man suspiciously before slowly raising his tankard. "Name's Raphe."

"Good to meet you, Raphe. So tell me, are you here for business or pleasure?" He clinked his mug into Raphe's and took a swig of his drink.

Raphe lowered his tankard without taking a sip. "Business. What have I done to earn your attention?"

"Seeing a sober man in a tavern of miscreants is a suspicious sight indeed. Plus I saw you eying mein compatriots."

"More suspicious is a man who's too kind to strangers," Raphe replied, "But if you must know I'm waiting for my captain."

"Well I can understand that, with all the cutthroats and backstabbers, a friendly face may seem a bit strange. But I have good reason; 'cause you see, I'm something of a craftsman. And I am in the market for things you may deem unvaluable. Raw ores, ingots, pitch, cotton, hardwood, et cetera. So my friendliness is simply me, extending my hand in a possible mutually benefical deal; and if your captain is showing up, I'll buy him a drink as well, and we can all talk business." He explained, as he drained the last of his warm beer.

It was then that a slightly overweight Spaniard with an ornate captain's uniform and an almost comically large mustache walked through the tavern doors. Rather than take a seat, he chose to address the mostly-drunkern crowd of ruffians. "Good evening ladies and gentlemen! I'd like to buy each of you a drink and discuss grand opportunities for fame and fortune!"

Adolfus pointed at the entering spaniard and tapped Raphe,"That your captain?" He nodded, and went back to swirling his drink. Adolfus whistled and waved Cruz over to their booth.

Theodore de la Cruz, captain extraordinaire and self-anointed Prince of Adventure, swaggered over to the pair and took a seat. "My good sir," he asked Adolfus, "are you interested in the wonders upon the sea that I have to offer?"

"Not at all, good captain; I have my own crew. But, I did want to talk to you about future trade opportunities that could be profitable for both of our ships." He repeated the spiel that he told Raphe just moments ago and ordered the captain another beer, the same as Raphe's.

Captain Blackett took the first sip of his latest pint of ale, raising a hand to carefully wipe away the frothy white head from his moustache. He subtly gestured in the direction of Adolfus. "Our engineer seems to be getting awful friendly with that Spaniard, doesn't he..."

Cato looked over at the German with less subtlety. "It certainly looks that way. Perhaps he's..." She raised her eyebrows. "Sexually inverse. Far from any sort of civilisation here, I suppose one could be bolder."

The Englishman chuckled, glancing over again at the pair. "Now there's a disturbing thought that will require something far stronger than ale to erase." His face grew more serious. "But it is far preferable to the alternative, which is that our friend is either knowingly or inadvertently entangling this crew in Spanish business."

"You are the captain, aren't you? I thought it was you who decided what this crew is entangled in." Cato shrugged. "He's probably just talking. We're in a tavern, after all."

Blackett sighed. "You are probably right. I do apologise; I have a nasty habit of assuming the worst." He dragged his eyes firmly away from the far table. "Anyway, it is probably time I took my leave. I have courses to plot and books to pore over, as usual. Enjoy the rest of your evening, and be ready to sail by noon tomorrow." He gave Cato a polite nod, and then repeated the gesture to each of the other officers who lined the table. Picking up his black tricorn and placing it atop his head, the Captain turned and headed for the exit, weaving his way through the crowds of drunken and rowdy sailors until he had disappeared from sight.

Adolfus watched as Blackett left. "Alas, I must take my leave. Though if you want to follow up on my offer, just give a letter to the bartender. I'm a regular here, so it'll make it to me." He sidled out of the booth, gave the men a bow, and headed for the ship.
@Joytex I'll wait for Blondy to accept you properly, but as co-GM I am greatly in favour of having some PCs actively hunting pirate PCs.
@SantosGabriel77
So firstly your source doesn't say "ramming was used as a desperate measure", it says "ramming was never used because it would probably just fuck up the attacker's ship without doing much to the target". Secondly, why would you go to the extra expense and effort, not to mention the added weight and probably sup-optimal hull profile, of adding a ram to your ship if it's a desperate last resort and requires evacuating your ship beforehand?
SHIP DESCRIPTION/SPECS:
The Golden Eagle is a massive frigate with 42 broadside guns and 4 chase guns. Armed with swivel guns for close range combat (boarding or bay battles) George altered the ship, he saw potential as the ship had 3 large decks (As the construction was overseen by his father who did not follow classic Frigate styles) the first deck had the guns and some bedrolls, the second deck had no guns and served as a storage and recreation area and a little library. The third deck was where the living quarters and most of the office of the officers. The ship has a figure on the front, a man with a hat breaking his chain. The front of the ship was built for ramming


That 'frigate' would have to be longer than a first rate ship-of-the-line and about the same height.

NAME:
John Lysander Blackett (aka 'Black Jack')

SEX: Male

DATE OF BIRTH: 28th January 1683


PLACE OF BIRTH:
Newcastle, England

BACKSTORY: John Lysander Blackett was born in 1683, the second son of a minor English noble family. His family’s fortune was dwindling, and they were forced to sell their ancestral castle while John was a young child, moving to their second home in London. There, the young boy was educated by a series of private tutors in a wide variety of subjects. He was a gifted student, but had always had a singular interest in ships, being able to watch both merchant and navy vessels on the Thames from his bedroom window. At age 20, he left home to enlist in the Royal Navy as an officer, and was awarded a role as a lieutenant on the HMS Southsea Castle, a 5th rate frigate bound for the Caribbean. John, along with most of the crew, grew to resent their cruel and incompetent captain, and after a year of patrolling the seas under his harsh rule began to plot a mutiny against him. Electing the young lieutenant as their leader, as demonstrably one of the most intelligent and well-suited among them to the job, the mutineers struck as the Southsea Castle under its cowardly captain fled from a Spanish galleon. Bursting into the captain’s cabin, John personally slew his enemy and assumed command, bringing the ship around and outmaneuvering the Spanish vessel to heavily damage it. In the ensuing fight, a splinter of wood ripped through his left eye, but he continued to give orders until the battle was won.

Since then, Captain Blackett has prowled the waters of the Caribbean, ambushing and looting Spanish and British ships alike, as well as anyone else who dares to cross his path. He is a firm captain, with an insistence on regular training and strict – but never unfair – discipline uncommon among pirates. His ship, the Bucephalus, is one of the most agile pirate vessels in the region, with a fairly impressive armament and a well-trained crew – although it must rely on clever tactics rather than sheer firepower to tackle the larger navy vessels that patrol the seas with increasing regularity.


APPEARANCE:
i.imgur.com/OKZSz1n.jpg


MOTIVATION:
To win a fortune worthy of rebuilding his family’s estates and prestige.

SKILLS/STRENGTHS: Highly educated and well read. Good navigator. A penchant for devious strategy. Fluent in English, French, and Spanish, proficient in Dutch. Skilled swordsman.

WEAKNESSES: Poor skill at unarmed combat, average marksmanship. Missing an eye. Seen by crew as haughty and arrogant, and some dislike his discipline and training regimens, although their mood is improved by consistently good pay.

NAME OF CAPTAIN (if applicable): N/A

ROLE ON SHIP: Captain

NAME OF SHIP: The Bucephalus

SHIP DESCRIPTION/SPECS: The Bucephalus is a 32 gun frigate, formerly a 5th rate warship of the Royal Navy. It carries 24 broadside 12-pound guns, 4 long 9-pound bow chasers, and 4 long 9-pound stern chasers, along with 6 swivel guns on deck for close action. It has a crew complement of 145. Under Captain Blackett, the ship is decorated with crimson sails, a Jolly Roger depicting a horse with the lower half of a fish (hippocampus) piercing a heart with a trident, and a bronze figurehead depicting the same creature as on the flag, minus the trident and heart.

NAME:
John Lysander Blackett (aka 'Black Jack')

SEX: Male

DATE OF BIRTH: 28th January 1683


PLACE OF BIRTH:
Newcastle, England

BACKSTORY: John Lysander Blackett was born in 1683, the second son of a minor English noble family. His family’s fortune was dwindling, and they were forced to sell their ancestral castle while John was a young child, moving to their second home in London. There, the young boy was educated by a series of private tutors in a wide variety of subjects. He was a gifted student, but had always had a singular interest in ships, being able to watch both merchant and navy vessels on the Thames from his bedroom window. At age 20, he left home to enlist in the Royal Navy as an officer, and was awarded a role as a lieutenant on the HMS Southsea Castle, a 5th rate frigate bound for the Caribbean. John, along with most of the crew, grew to resent their cruel and incompetent captain, and after a year of patrolling the seas under his harsh rule began to plot a mutiny against him. Electing the young lieutenant as their leader, as demonstrably one of the most intelligent and well-suited among them to the job, the mutineers struck as the Southsea Castle under its cowardly captain fled from a Spanish galleon. Bursting into the captain’s cabin, John personally slew his enemy and assumed command, bringing the ship around and outmaneuvering the Spanish vessel to heavily damage it. In the ensuing fight, a splinter of wood ripped through his left eye, but he continued to give orders until the battle was won.

Since then, Captain Blackett has prowled the waters of the Caribbean, ambushing and looting Spanish and British ships alike, as well as anyone else who dares to cross his path. He is a firm captain, with an insistence on regular training and strict – but never unfair – discipline uncommon among pirates. His ship, the Bucephalus, is one of the most agile pirate vessels in the region, with a fairly impressive armament and a well-trained crew – although it must rely on clever tactics rather than sheer firepower to tackle the larger navy vessels that patrol the seas with increasing regularity.


APPEARANCE:
i.imgur.com/OKZSz1n.jpg


MOTIVATION:
To win a fortune worthy of rebuilding his family’s estates and prestige.

SKILLS/STRENGTHS: Highly educated and well read. Good navigator. A penchant for devious strategy. Fluent in English, French, and Spanish, proficient in Dutch. Skilled swordsman.

WEAKNESSES: Poor skill at unarmed combat, average marksmanship. Missing an eye. Seen by crew as haughty and arrogant, and some dislike his discipline and training regimens, although their mood is improved by consistently good pay.

NAME OF CAPTAIN (if applicable): N/A

ROLE ON SHIP: Captain

NAME OF SHIP: The Bucephalus

SHIP DESCRIPTION/SPECS: The Bucephalus is a 32 gun frigate, formerly a 5th rate warship of the Royal Navy. It carries 24 broadside 12-pound guns, 4 long 9-pound bow chasers, and 4 long 9-pound stern chasers, along with 6 swivel guns on deck for close action. It has a crew complement of 145. Under Captain Blackett, the ship is decorated with crimson sails, a Jolly Roger depicting a horse with the lower half of a fish (hippocampus) piercing a heart with a trident, and a bronze figurehead depicting the same creature as on the flag, minus the trident and heart.
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