Endless Isles
big thanks to golden neckbeard for basically creating the entire setting, anonymous for requesting, anonymous for writefagging, anonymous for making the intro graphic, anonymous for support, anonymous for character and place ideas and anonymous for always being there.
The Endless Isles.
A world where the legendary Two-Dagger Torriaeu stole away Death herself, leaving the door to immortality open for any who choose to take the Final Oath.
A limitless ocean, scattered with islands, archipelagos, and atolls of all sizes and varieties, but no true continents where an ordered nation could set up entirely land-based industry.
A society where piracy is so common, almost everyone has tried their hand at it once.
When death is optional, everything of consequence must cross wave, and geography prevents policed trade lanes or true nations with navies from forming, the only way to get things done is to play the Grand Game. Sail the waves, prove stronger and more cunning than the other Deathless cutthroats out there, and buy or seize any cargo needed at whatever islands you control or can trade with… for a hefty cut of the finished product, of course.
You want to enjoy the rest of eternity? You want excitement and hedonism, wealth and wine and the thrill of a good fight?
Get out there and take the Oath, pirate!
In the Beginning
"in the beginning the land was dry and the world was whole. Man could walk as far as he could see and vast seas of sand stretched in every direction. In the beginning there was the First Emperor, Carver of Worlds. He ruled the land and was a god to men. His cartographer's came to him one day and told him that they had mapped the world and all that was in it. The First Emperor was proud of his men and asked them what more could he add to his domain.
'We have mapped all the land in almost every direction,' they told him,' We have seen the edge of the world, and further. But we wonder now, what could be below?' they asked him.
'Sky,' they told him,' Sky. The sun leaves your empire for the night, it must rise in another. The moon and stars walk from one land to the next.' The First Emperor did not wait for another word. He set his men to dig, and so they did. It was not long before their spades broke through, into the world below. The bright sun shone through the breach from the depths of a surreal world. The world moved as flames rise from a fire. And the good Emperor looked down and saw in a flash, a beautiful queen. she looked at him from the rippling world and he reached down to her. But in another flash, she was gone. The First Emperor had never seen a woman so gorgeous, and wished for her to be his. He would not stop until she was his.
'Men,' he said to them,' dig! Dig into this world, make it mine!' And they dug and he searched for his queen. They dug until the only sand left was that sifting on the bottom of the ocean and only the hardest or rock was left behind. Some say he's still out there, digging. Past the fringe, on the edge of nothing, carving these Endless Isles..."
Character Archetypes
So what kind of people are you likely to meet in these Endless Isles?
Deathless – Anyone who's taken the Final Oath and swore themselves by Torriaeu, the Sea-Queen and usually a half-dozen other legends, offering their blood to the sea on a stormy dusk, ensuring that they'll never feel the cold caress of Lady Death.
Oh, you can shank 'em and they stop movin' just like anyone else, sure, and they can age and bear children just like anyone else, but as soon as their body's not working their shadow creeps away, across the waves, on its journey back to the rock of their birth… or at least, the closest safe, flat, and dry place. There they can grow a new youthful form, and any remains of their old burns, leaving no ash or bones. It's a very painful process, resurrection, even more so than dying according to most, and the journey can be long and horrible too… but most think it better than the alternative.
There's more details, of course… like the role ship's shamans play, and the blood-magic that can change the age of any new body a Deathless cur might grow… but that's the short of it.
Pirates – Well, this one should be obvious enough. Folk of the Wave, those that play the Grand Game, the eternal test of worth where the winners take the spoils and the losers dance the shadow'd jig back to their birth-rock, to try again another day; almost all are Deathless, of course.
A few take offense at the the term "pirate," styling themselves "freelance traders," but make no mistake. Whether he barters with landlubbers, raids ports, or seizes other ships to get his cargo, every man who sails is in for a fight, and he knows it.
Most try to control an area, make friendly with the landlubbers there so they know where they can take what, or so they can take in "protection money." The most successful at this… those who've dominated a big scrap of wave for a century or more, generally… we call Sea Barons, and each is a legend is his own right.
Horizon Reachers - People who view the constant flow of the living away from the core and towards the fringe (due to the constant flow of the shadow'd in the other direction, generally) as more than just a natural consequence of Deathlessness... or maybe they're just sick of all these people and want to be out there, alone, out of the core, out of the fringe, off the maps.
You can always tell a Reacher from anyone else. They don't care where they're going, but yet they always sail the same heading... away.
Still, you can't go forever, though that doesn't stop 'em from trying. Sooner or later, bad weather, local wildlife, or even other Reachers, settled down and panicked that civilization might be finally catching up with them... one way or another, some time they get done in and show up back here, to start their journey all over again.
Sometimes, though, before they do, they leave children behind… or so some claim. There's wild rumors of seas beyond the Fringe, settled by Reachers of centuries past, where men ply the sky or the depths even as we do the waves, carrying the Grand Game with them… but who can say what truth there may be to these?
Gazers – Deathless that decided they'd rather do something else with eternity besides enjoying the myriad rewards of the Grand Game, so called because many of 'em simply shack up in monasteries and gaze at their navels, or so the joke goes. Whether its dedicating their unlife to perfecting the art of stone-stacking, producing the perfect fiddle, or reading every word ever set to parchment, these queer fellows just aren't of the same persuasion as the rest of us Deathless.
'Course, some say they aren't all so boring. Rumor has it somewhere there's a monastery where the arts they're perfectin' are of a more… carnal… nature. Now there's a place I could take some shore leave!
Crusaders – A blanket term for any fool who's got it in his head that the Grand Game ought to stop, and who sails around tryin' to take the Deathless prisoner, forever, since executions are only temporary.
Most of 'em are just your garden variety landlubbers that got lucky and grubbed themselves a ship, now out for revenge or some peace and quiet or whatever… but some of em's more organized. In particular, keep an eye out for those Order of the Wheel nutjobs, with their mystical hoodoo and that terrible Fort Cross of theirs. No one comes back from there, shadow or otherwise…
Barons – Well, you already know a Sea Baron is a successful pirate with turf that's been his long enough fer people to think twice about violatin' it. But those ain't the only sort a' Barons about… Landlubbers ain't always just poor dirt-tillin' fools, you know. Sometimes, one stumbles on true wealth, and is either already rich enough, or smart enough to figure out how to defend it and force any Folk of the Wave who want their goods to either play nice and trade fairly, or face the fight of their lives.
Typically these are named after the source o' their wealth… but due to how compact, valuable, and easy-to-defend a resource it is, Gold Barons are among the most famous and successful, and the few successful (and some of the unsuccessful) raids on Gold Baron fortresses tend to be the stuff a' legends.
The Oath
Two-Dagger Torriaeu, the legendary Laugher of Louisport and the Haverland Sacker managed to steal Death away, taking her away and learning the secrets to life eternal. He swore the first oath, and bound death to whisper the oath to the greatest pirates of every age to come, to keep the seas free from the tyranny of Kings.
Two-Dagger Torriaeu
stole the death away
bound her to his ship
and made to deal with her
'We pirates will rule' said he
'we men of ship and sea
see that we shall never fall
and I will let ye be!'
And so death saw to it
that any pirate willing
should never parish
but never live true
Or so they say. What became of old Torriaeu after that is a mystery. Maybe he's still sailing the seas, with death at his side. None can say for sure.
The Crusaders
After the oath, there were some who didn't like what they saw. They wanted to return the world to how it was, by killing the immortals. Every last one of them. First they take your shadow, then they burn you, and you won't dance the shade away. These are the crusaders, who have 3 missions:
Finding 'Two Dagger Torriaeu' and reversing his bargain with Death. Killing every last man to have taken the oath. Destroying every last vestige of knowledge of the oath.
They are based at the legendary Fort Cross, where they take prisoners, and accept those few pirates who are tired of their 'life'. Then they kill those who cannot die.
"Look, kid, I know you've only been sailin' for a year now, so let me break it down fer ya.
Now, as ye know, most landlubbers aren't too keen on the Final Oath. But, well... 'tis bad luck to talk about em, but not all the True Living are content to sit on their scraps of land, doing the real work while the Deathless go about the Grand Game. Sometimes, for any of a thousand reasons, things work out so a spiteful Living fellow gets ahold of a ship and crew.
When that happens, we call em Crusaders, 'for the result is inevitable... for the rest o' their short lives, they go about tryin' to set things back to their precious 'natural order.'
What does that mean? Well, I'll tell you. Eternal imprisonment. They can't kill you, but they certainly can slap you in their hold, and eventually a nice cold jail... careful-like, so you can't do yourself in and go a-shadow.
It's ludicrous, 'tis. Madmen. Even if every True Living got together at once they couldn't imprison all of us. They're nostalgic fools, longing for a 'balance of life' that hasn't existed in centuries, and if you ever meet one of the crazy bastards, gut him and then run fer yer unlife."
A Mentor's Advice
To Be a Pirate
"ye think yer a pirate, do yah, saplin'? Arharhar, well I know a thing'r two 'bout pirates 'nd it aint but just a laymn's term, but a wurd 'ny man cn' take. Tuh be a real pirate, yah gotta be a pirate. Yeh gotta give yur heart to the sea, you gotta swer tuh her you'll nevah leave 'er. You gotta know yer ship good, treat' 'er like the fin'est er women. Ye gotta be'uh pirate, a'corse, before you cn be'uh pirate. So wind tuh the sails, laddy... and yu'll be a pirate yet."
The Emperor
"The Emporah', boy, he's tha reas'n ye walk this 'ere world, 'eh is. Look out'a tha horizon, child, see tha isles go on 'n on for 's far 's ye c'n see! tha's the Emporah's folly, boy. 'Eh use'ta rule tha land fro' 'ere ta ther. It all use ta' be 'is, it did, but when tha soggy git found tha ocean, 'eh made one 'uge mistake, eh. 'Eh fell in love, he did. Ner, tha's not somthin' ye want to be doin', is it, as the sea, a bu'tiful mistress, c'n be broken by no man. S'all ye c'n do 's give 'er yer heart 'n hope she'll see ya fare. Bu' the Emporah', 'eh keeps a lookin' for 'er, try'in to take 'er fer 'imself."
Gold Barons
"Un' in a mill'yon men'll find fortune in 'is scrap'uh land. 'Nd ee'l do anythin' tuh protect it. Now, us pirates 'er quite fond 'uh gold, ye'see, 'nd these men gotta lot o'it. Barons, we calls 'em. Thuh' kind with thu'h currency to keep ther' loot in check. Why, I ever ser' one wall in 'is island, ah! 'eh taut eh was thuh' clever'st uh dogs, eh did. But meh cap'n, ol' Torn-'Ook Tommy, 'eh knew wut tuh do. 'Eh gathered tugether e'ery anchor 'eh could git 'is derty li'l mits on 'nd sailed straight 'nder the wall! Ahaha! Whin we knocked on 'is door *knock knock*, 'eh ne'rly keeled ov'r! Cap'n never t'ld 'im how 'eh did it, neither."
Dead Wind Keep
"Dead Wind Keep! Scourge of pirate kind, it is. Aye, you've 'eard oh her. Stark white, she is, a 'orrid place. Perch'd on a cliff, tha builders thot they coul' catch that wind 'nd a great mill, bu' there's no wind tuh be caught, not ev'n a breeze. 'Nd the walls 'uh that enfernal 'ell 'ole seep wit' the blood of hundr'ds 'uh pirates, pray'in for death, 'nd eve'y day thuh keepahs swab tha walls and wash tha blood into tha sea. But the keepahs won' let 'em die, no sir. A dead pirate is'uh free pirate. 'Nd they don' want that. On'y two pirates manag'd to squeel ther way outta that'un, but you're not ev'n a pirate yet, boy. Jus' keep your arse ou' uh ther', you hear me? Is not a place you wan' to spend the res' o' your forevuh'."
Fort Cross
"Aye, son. Fort Cross is tha' end a'tha road fur us pirates. Tha Crusaders run't like a slaughta 'ouse. A dead place, like none ya' ev'r see. They know, ther', bout 'ow ta keep tha shade away frum a pirate. O'corse, som'r tha pirates go ther' willingly, ya'know. Life rea'y ca'ches up ta ya... You end up thinkin' 'bout yourself...'nd ya gotta tell yurself... ya jus' gotta git past it, ya know. But som'o 'em ne'er do. Som'o 'em jus' waltz up ta tha gates 'nd.. 'nd.. well, they don' walk out. Nothin' like Dead Wind Keep, nothin' atall. they know, yesee. 'Nd they don' take no prison'rs."
Louisport
"Ahar, Louisport, ya say... 'Avn't been ther in ages! Bahaha, I'd say I have a bet wit' damn nea' half o' tha town! ahahar, yah woul't thin' a pirate, born 'n bred as I, woul' be rakin' muck in tha middle o' no where fer no reason? Hahaha, a pirate town, indeed! You'd ne'er see such a raspy no goo' bunch o' rottin eggs agin! Louisport, now tha's a town. Boy, I'll take ya some day, I swer. oh, but tha smell, oh, ya wouldn' believe tha smell. 'Nd if that didn' kill ya, the folk wou'd. ahahar, I'll take ya some day, son. someday."
Haverland
"Good Haverland, ye say... 'Ave I ev'r been? Ha, nought 'til they drag me soggy bones there! Well, aint much good 'bout it, 'nyways. A port fer nought, but cow'rds, ev'n before Ol' Torriaeu's trick. Scrape meh sidewar's if a single cap'n in them murky wat'rs ev'r did a lick o' honest piratin' in ther life. Aye, boy, Aye. A pool lot, ye might thin', but they git ther kicks. Crusaders, they are, jus' fancy laym'n's terms fur a pirate 'unter. They don' like Tha Oath, ye'see, they say it 'unnatural' 'nd 'unholy', ha! Tell meh, boy, look out a'tha horizon ther... Look out a'tha ships 'nd islands 'nd tell me th's world aint mean' fur pirate! 'Tis only fair we git ta sail these seas forevuh. 'Nyway, they take'un good, hon'st pirates 'nd takin' 'em to Fort Cross 'er Dead Wind keep, I told yer 'bout Fort Cross 'nd Dead Wind Keep, roight? Aye, aye, like I s'd, scoundrels, e'ery one o' 'em."
Mad Bonny Flint
"Aye, aye, one 'uh the greatest pirates ta' ev'r sail. Mad Bonny Flint, a mad lass, indeed. She di' this dance, yehsee, a dance like non' you ev'r saw. 'Nd she'd dance inta' tha nigh'. A li'le bonked in the 'ead, yah see, though most 'uh tha best ar'. Some say all tha' dancin' 'as left 'er 'ead knock'd about a peg'r two. But I know wha' really gotta 'er, eh, 'er trip ta' Dead Wind Keep. Yea', saplin', she took er fare share o' death, bu' she made itout, she did. Nev'r tha same aft'r, I hear. O'corse, I nev'r wint near 'er, a demon of a wom'n, but a wom'n all tha same."
Creatures
"Well, I 'eard they gotta creature up in them 'ills. A monstroci'y, who prays on tha shades o'us pirates. they 'ave 'im locked down ter tha floor' but all that chains 'n anchors from 'ere ta 'Averland could'n hold 'im down. Death's lawle's mutt, run of, they say. But who'r they ter be talkin' bout 'im 'nyway. There has yet ta be a pirate to escape fro' Fort Cross. Ye c'n talk all ye want 'bout torches 'nd creatures, but I don' believe a lick o'it till a good hon'st pirate springs Fort Cross 'nd spins us a yarn. Un'til then, ye can count me ta stay away frum tha' place, you should too."
Pirates of Note
Mad Bonny Flint
There are many tales about this lass, an' believe me 'earties each is true.
It's said that she took the final oath when she was just a lass of 16, and the years have not been kind to her.
Just as some of you might, she's danced the hempen jig, a few too many times for anyone to be comfortable. Her ship the Bloody Mary is a fearsome sight, the whole ship is the color of blood, some say it's from the blood of innocent men she's tied to it to keep it afloat, and yet others say she works her crew until they bleed, the truth me 'earties is even more dire, she slits the throats of her crew, a mad ritual to Davy Jones. Just to keep the first Crusader off her back she kills her men. Beware the the Madwoman with the knife, for even the Albatrosses wont go near her ship. Take this tale to heart lads, never get caught at what ye do, or Mad Bonny's fate might be yer own.
Camille "Raven Eye" Blaque
Odd that such a fine young lass would sully herself with piracy, but the final oath does strang things to people. Her Ship the Blackbird is said to have sailed all over these endles seas, never touching the same port twice, why it's even claimed that she's met Two Daggers Torriaeu. I say that old grog is easier to swallow than most of her legend, however I do know this much to be true, it's said that after her final oath, she sought out one of those Voodoo women, wanted the eye of a raven see, so she could aim her pistols as well as a cannon, however she has to keep it covered up most times as it's a little strange, some even say she met some old witch on an island somewhere that cursed her good eye, the one she was born with to drain of it's color, to show that she was twice damned, first for taking the final oath, and the second for making a deal with the voodoo woman. Now some tales say that the voodoo woman and the witch are the same person, we'll never know, last time she was in this port was four years ago, and we know she'll never be back, beware a white flag when it bears two cutlasses and a bird boyos, lest ye be... conscripted onto her wandering ship, to ever sail these isles.
Thomas 'The Hatter' Gattler
'Eh spend a while in one of them monestaries, learnin' some. An Alchemist who has inhaled too many chemicals for his own sanity, but a captain none dare cross. He doesn't sleep, and only drinks a foul brew of his own concoction. Throws vials of burning dust, and charges through the corrosive smoke, cutlass in hand. His face is covered in scars from burns old and new, but he doesn't feel pain anymore either. He captains the Wyvern, and takes on cabin boys to learn his alchemical arts. However he's found in his chemicals a way to burn you from the inside out, glowing so that there are no shadows within you or without. And he uses it on his apprentices at a whim.
Jack "Ages" Hangrope
An old man, who swore the final oath on his deathbed, mere moments after death was stolen. This ancient captain has still yet to die once, his old frame bent over the wheel as he steers the good ship Chronos, the oldest man still living. Each of his teeth have been replaced with a different metal, one of gold, one of iron, one of silver, one of copper, and so on so that his smile coming out of his gaunt face is a most fearsome sight. He runs the jolly roger with his trademark teeth of colour.
Many have tried to upheave him, thinking that he is an old man, and will be quick to die, but his skill with the sword has been practised longer then any other and his rheumy eyes are still as sharp as an eagles when he has a gun in hand. His body is rotting with age, but even this won't seem to kill him, his pickled skin stitched together like his sails, flags and his ship.
The Chronos is an ancient ship, with rigging from another age and it still has a balistae mounted on the prow. However it keeps pace with newer ships, it's barnacled and rotting hull not slowing it down, for who can outrun age itself?
"Dancing Blades" Joe
There are many tales of mutiny, but Joseph has taken part in more then most. A sly bastard son of Torriaeu (or so he claims) most of the most famous Captains in the seas have had a ship stolen by Johnny. A glib and charming young man, he goes by a new name each time he comes forth, a young landlubber taking to the sea. He takes to the life at sea too well, winning debts from captain and crew, but discharging them at a moments notice. Once they're at sea for a while, he builds resentment against the captain, playing every crewman against eachother at dice and cards, until the most loyal ot the captain are owed debts tenfold what the others can pay, and then takes over the ship one night when the captain's loyal crew come down with a bout of sharp steel, and the captain catches it in plain sight of the crew later, blade in hand so none can doubt Dancing Blades skill with daggers.
He never captains the same ship twice, but instead builds up and amasses treasure in a hiding spot only he knows about. After offloading a lot of his gold he steers his ship into the Worlds Maw, a tidal maelstrom which is over a jagged reef. It's said that the world devours your shadow if you fall in, and no-one save Johnny even claims to have fallen in. They say that the Devil don't trust him not to take over Hell, so he spits him back into life, shadow eaten or not.
Blind Johnny
Then there's the story of Blind Johnny, most daring son of a gun you've ever seen. He has both his eyes, but it's not like he needs them. I've seen him unload a brace of pistols, eyes closed the whole time, and only a single hole in target. Six holes in the wall directly behind it though, not a single miss. Was a wild captain to serve under, I danced the shades twice with him, and I'd follow him anywhere. Well, near anywhere. Left him for the sea floor after I heard where he was heading last. Wants to raid Deadwind Keep, soon as he can find a crew. Mad he is, but if there was a son of a woman who could do it, he'd be the one. He got cannonballs betwixt his legs he does.
His raid on Fort Cross though, that was brilliance. First trip to sea after swearing my oath, had a crew of us yung'ns who didn't know a bit better. Gave us all vials, said they'd explode if we mixed the red and the green. Told us to hide them in our mouths, and the moment we were captured to bite down hard. Me an him were the only ones to escape alive, a few more rejoined us later, the others either were captured or didn't want to have anything to do with Johnny Boy ever again. But we got us fame enough that for ale in every port, and two or three women apiece. And he got what he was after - he put a shot straight through his old mates eyes, t'save him from the burning what no man comes back from. Now I don't mess with crusaders, an there's a reason I don't use my real name, or tell this tale on any night but the last in any port, becuase I don't have the balls of that man. And I've saved my red'n'green, slept with them close my whole life, becuase the only thing worse then the final death, well. . . we don't speak about deadwind.
The Red Velvet Prince
Also called the Terror of Toroguay and Cruel-Lipped Karl, they say no pirate has embraced the race for hedonistic delights, no matter how dark, as strongly as has he. They say he considers his own heart-breaking face, smooth, pale, and fine-boned as any débutante, to be his greatest treasure of all.
So far as any Deathless can remember, he's never been seen to appear over thirty; they say he sails back to his home island, some deserted rock only his most trusted officers know, to kill himself every time he manages to go a decade without the Shadow Dance setting him back to the visual age of seventeen, so he never has to see himself grow old.
The Tale of Davy Jones
Now Jones was a good captain, always straight and fair but firm, and his men loved him dearly in those deadly days of Navies and Patrol. A cunning old coot, and lucky too, but one day his ship Cornelia had the fight of her life. She won, in a manner of speaking, but such a victory as a sailin' man never prays for; left drifting with a holed hull and no masts left a-standing, barely able to stay afloat much less move.
Now, fourty nights she sat adrift, stores run low and all the while men workin' the bilges, as desperate for a few more hours as any Unoathed you've seen starin' Lady Death in the face.
It was beginnin' to look grim indeed, the good captain considerin' an honest and dignified end for himself and then, should they choose it, when sails were spotted! Help had finally arrived...
...In the form of ol' Two-Dagger himself!
Now old Torrieau pulled up with a bonny grin, and hailed: "Why, is that a waterlogged dog I see, paddling desperately to keep afloat but with no true hope of dry land to be found?"
Wary glances were exchanged and both crews put hand on saber, but sly old Davy stood with stern lips and a cold glare and said nothing, exercising that cunning willpower of his so legendary in a profession where a lack of self-control is practically a prerequisite... Which ol' Torrieau was counting upon.
"Why, no, if it isn't a fox! Me old pal, Davy Jones himself! Looks like you're in a spot of trouble... Come aboard, and we'll tow the Cornelia to Louisport!"
And so it was done, the crews mingling and the Cornelia saved.
While she was being rebuilt, however, Torriaeu beseeched Jones, "We've got quite the job planned, old Davy boy, and I could use another commander and advisor with a level head and a fearsome name! The Cornelia will be fine under the watchful eye of your quartermaster and first mate. Sail with me, just this once, and I'll lead ye to glory!"
Now if it were anyone else, old Davy would have doubtlessly socked 'em in the mouth and stalked out with that steely glare, but Two-Dagger Torriaeu is nothing if not silver-tongued, and against his better judgement, Davy Jones accepted his offer and joined him for another run on the waves.
It would be his last.
Now, here's where the tale starts to go all different accordin' to who'se tellin' it. Where precisely did Jones and Torriaeu strike? What did they take? I've 'eard a thousand different versions if I've 'eard one, but they all agree... it was as grand and bloody a venture as had been seen in the days 'afore Torrieau's Trick. The waters ran as red as the holds did shine of gold, and those who made it out alive were sure to be kings among men.
Torriaeu and Jones almost got away clean, too, when a stray ball of grapeshot caught Davy right across the teeth, taking his jaw clean off.
Well, the mists rolled in and the pirates escaped, but it was a long, hard death for Jones, the last casualty of that glorious haul. Torriaeu, so they say, was despite his own treacherous nature beside poor Jones every minute, even as other wounded in his own crew also passed. Perhaps the guilt was too much even for him to ignore, for it was Two-Dagger himself that brought him along after all.
As the mists roiled and the dying passed, however, talk cropped up on the ship. Death, they said, was walking the planks, to be seen with the naked eye, taking the poor bleeding curs with a gentle caress and a soothing whisper, when their time it was.
Finally, Two-Dagger himself saw her, when only dying Jones was left... and when his eyes alighted on that pale face, to whom he'd sent enemies and prey by shipload and then some, Two-Dagger Torriaeu fell eternally in the purest and most sinister of hopeless love, that love which transcends all logic and even the inscrutable laws of the cosmos itself.
"Stand aside," she whispered. "This one is mine."
None know what Torriaeu said to Death then, and pray that none ever should. He pleaded, he cajoled, he offered and debated, plying that silver tongue like no other trickster in all time has done, and somehow, he stole the heart of Lady Death herself away... but he was too late. As he turned from elaborating some sub-point of his bottomless devotion, presumably, Davy Jones was already gone.
But Death was not.
Whence they sailed then, and what they did, would take years to outline. The Driftings With Death are a whole 'nother Odyssey all their own.
What's important is that, one day, amidst their strange and terrible wand'rings, Death's hopeless paramour came to her, and he pleaded for the famous Trick, that she should take none who sail in his name, ever again.
What he offered in return, if anything, remains a mystery, but, well, as any of you who've taken the Final Oath know well, "in his name" turned out to mean more than just his immediate crew. I like to think old Torriaeu was sly enough to know what that wording could mean, and that this whole state of events isn't just one big supernat'ral fuckup, in which case the old bastard has saved my life a few hundred times now, as a matter of course.
But there was one man... one mean old spirit to be precise... who took great offense at this. Davy Jones.
When the deal was struck, old dead Davy was enraged. Who was Torriaeu to ask for this, rather than bringing back the man he wronged, the man who's death brought Torriaeu his beloved in the first place? This was betrayal, dishonor, blackest treachery!
And so that day, the spirit of Davy Jones, the last pirate to fall to Lady Death's cold caress, tore up out of his rotten bones from the seabed below, and set out to stalk the waves, ever searching for his traitorous friend.
It's true, I've seen him myself! On a calm dusk, when the wind dies out, look to the west, and you just might see him, standing there when the sea is flat as though it were a vast decking, stumbling and wailing his torment and a promise of bitter vengeance from his hideous throat, still jawless from his terminal injury.
...and that's why they call it Davy Jones' Locker, for every night the spirit must return to the rotting sea-casket in which Torriaeu tossed him over, all those centuries ago, there to seethe in his betrayal and misfortune, the Last Pirate to Die.
The Iron Molars of Thompson P. Beckman
What's that, yer sailin' west?
Well, there's somethin' ye should know, then, free o' charge. A place... a place ye ought to avoid.
Old Tommy's Molars they call 'em. You know all the good metal, lead for bullets and iron for barrels, comes from the Fringe, aye?
Well, long ago, this *was* the Fringe, and whoo boy did ol' Thompson P Beckman find hisself a whale of a Barony when he sailed out, just that way yer plannin' ta head yerself.
Y'see, t'was a whole archipelago out there, risin' out o' the water like jagged knives... dozens, hundreds of rocks big and small... and each a-one about as solid with iron ore as an island can be, nary a quarter-inch of dirt. Sterile.
Well, now, I don't need ta tell ye what the price o' good virgin iron is, you can just imagine what Tommy saw when he looked at those cold, jagged rocks: not iron at all, but 'twas gold that glittered in his eyes that day.
So he got hisself some poor landlubbers and transported em blinfolded, set up a secret colony, the whole works, put his whole fortune on the line, lookin' ta reap tenfold.
But ol P. Beckman, well, he didn't have much in the way of scruples. Nigh every landlubber is at the mercy of the folk of the wave ultimately, a'spose, but this... this was a pure slave colony, and then some. Worked em to death, worked their women to death, worked their children to death, and always bringin' more back on the return voyages to wherever he could offload all that iron ore... 'prolly Reekwater, I reckon, since it was all foundries even then.
That is, whenever he made it back. Didn't take long fer folks to catch on that there was loot to be had out this far, and, well, the Game was afoot.
Still, in between a few Shadow'd Jigs, he did a fair job of lordin' his turf, keepin' it secret by takin' prisoners of any other pirates that got to close, like a goddamned Crusader madman. Prolly woulda made slaves o' them, too, if the work waren't dangerous enough to offer escape by way o' cheatin' death.
All that death... folk say it's made those waters choked with the mournful spirits of slaves.
But, well, they say that the Isles and the Deathless are proof that good things don't last, and for Tommy that was true.
He was nearin' the end of his labors, fat and rich, with only one big spire left. He'd leveled every single one of the rest of those rocks to just below the waterline, taking every scrap of iron that could be got... and a good thing, too, for Tommy, as by that point the Fringe had expanded and his competition was fierce. Secrecy would no longer do, and instead he had to rely on the treach'rous field of truncated isles surrounding his final spire as deterrent. Kept the few safe routes through t'himself and none others, no matter how many ships he got.
Finally, the day came when ol' Thompson moved his pers'nal effects back to his ship and ordered the slaves to start digging down that last lonely rock. And just as he was about t'board, a pickaxe from nowhere caught 'im full in the back.
Now, see, at this point, most of Tommy's crew were just as sick of the ol' bastard as anyone, so they simply watched him bleed, gasping for death, as a slave sauntered up, all his hate and rage written across 'is face.
"Did ye really think ye could order us to dig away the very last place to stand while you sail off with our sweat, our blood? To file down one last tooth under our own feet, and then stand here 'till a storm comes to wash us off it?"
That was when the rest of the slaves attacked. Unable to leave without Thomas' direction, the bastards were forced to fight, and a bloody day it was, then.
No one knows what happened to old Tommy. Some say he changed 'is name and plays the Game a-still, others say he's wound up in Deadwind, others that the slaves nursed 'im back to health, against 'is wishes, and keep him there on that last rock still so's no one can ever know the way to their home.
But one thing's a-sure. If you spot a spire, stabbing out of the water to the west of here, or hear ghostly work-chanties drifting on the breeze of a moonless night, you give em a wide berth, lest the Iron Molars of Thompson P. Beckman grind yer keel ta bits.
Golden Neckbeard
The Spine of the North
In the east, the feathered moon wanes. In the west, the sun peaks above the horizon. While in the north, a tower remains as dark as the night. The Spine of the North rises from the sea and overlooks all sailors bound for its walls. A thousand men, it took, to build the tower. And one stroke from the sky to turn its men to dust and its walls to black.
"twas the child o' on' mister Bold Ben. 'n all the time 'fore two-dagger's leg'ndary trick, there was ne'er a scheme er plot 'e 'adn't stuck 'is grimy nose in. Why, e' gave 'imself that name, 'swell, tha slimy git. A coward 'nd a fool, eh was, but 'e 'ad the currency to keep on foolin' the fools.
now 'old Ben was a conman. an ev'ryday crook, he was. Git lucky once 'nd your set fer life! 'T least tha's the way it 'appened ta him. 'Nyways, he took'on a thousand men, from e'ery port in tha known w'rld, as I sees it. He c'ld always count on a succer er two in e'ery town, he says. Now, eh n'ver shared tha purpose o' that tower ta nob'dy, always kipt it fer 'imself. W'll, secrets ne'er sit w'll with tha crew.
So tha rumors spread, as ye c'n imagine. The wildest O' such bein' tha 'e was tryin to steal tha clouds righ' outta the sky. 'Nd 'e may jus' as well, cause no'un e'er found out. 'Nyway, twice a fortnight ou' 'nd he yells fer 'em ta stop. 'E call fer the res' o' tha fleet to unload 'nd set up camp, while 'E 'as a look around. W'll, this was it, 'e figured. So they took tha wood outta the ships 'nd awaited fer the order ta build.
"Men," says he," today we begin our quest towards the sky. So, without hesitation, let us start!"
He was ne'er one fer speeches er nonesuch, bu' the men beg'n work all that same. Twas wood, they dump'd by tha tons, wood w's plenty way b'ck when, 'nd they started ther trek straight ta tha sky. W'll, they worked day 'nd night, buildin' ever higher. 'Nd as 'Ol ben was sleepin' in 'is bunk, he did tha' a lo' ye see, never did a day o' work in 'is life, I reckon. But 'nyways, a boy wen' up ta 'im, why, a boy barely old'r then yerself, saplin, 'nd 'e tol' him they was outta wood. This didn' sit well wi' tha ol' man 'nd 'e 'ad the boy flogged, 'e did. Fer tha bes', i reckon, bu tha's no 'till later.
Ye' ne'er see rage boil o'er a man like tha' 'fore. 'Is face turned tha deep'st red 'nd e order'd tha men ter tear apart tha ships. I reckon he thought 'e woulda reached tha sky by then, with wood ta spare. So tha men start'd takin apart tha ships, bit by bit, 'nd they kept 'er goin 'till on'y tha flagship wa' left. An island o' fools, indeed, boy, as they took 'er too. Well' mos' a 'er 'nyways. Well, by th's time a storm wa' brewin' up somethin fierce, 'nd tha men were ready ta quit. But ol' Ben cracked 'is whip 'nd the men kept workin through tha rain. Tha on'y hands not on tha tower then was tha boy who'd been flogged, lay bleedin' in a dingy, 'e was. As the flagship, tha right 'nd mighty Cutlass, was bein torn plank by plank, (figured 'e could sail 'ome on clouds, eh!) 'Ol Ben saw 'is dream slip away.
'E ran up ta tha top a tha tower, shoutin' curses 'nd all kinds of none sense up a tha clouds. Tha way i sees it, tha clou's jus' didn' like 'im much, weren' many tha' did, so they stayed out 'is reach. Bu' tha man was half a piece short o' a haul, if ye catch ma drift, at tha point. Clouds 'ave pity, I figure, they sit up ther' all day 'nd watch us silly people fightin' 'nd 'cussin 'nd all they do is float 'n by, they mus' feel somethin', ya know. Well, these clouds weren't no different, 'nd they struck tha man down 'as 'e yelled 'imself silly. Ye ever see lightnin', boy? well' i's why ye ne'er want to git them clouds on yer bad side. Tha bolt ran straight down that tower, down tha spine, nd straight through e'ery man 'swell.
Tha tower burned fer days 'fter that, 'nd was still burnin' when tha supply ship 'e sent fer arrived ta find a boy sittin among tha food piles wi' a story ta tell. 'Nd, well, tha rest is 'istory."
first thread: http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive/9832207/
second thread: http://suptg.thisisnotatrueending.com/archive/9845296/