Pirate Lord's page

Ed'iting. That be posh landlubber speak for cracking the skulls together of scurvy dogs who don't hoist the mainsail promptly, be I right? Of course I be, arrr...
So, you be the latest lass that those cultists of Dagon have inveigled into their dark and slimy lair? Not that I be having anything against Dagon mind you - in my profession a man can't afford to be ticking off too many deities that have sway over the tides and moods of the sea - but, not to put too fine a point on it, folks as go in to the noisome depths of that fastness don't come out the same - they come out with weird looks in their eyes, and strange nervous twitches. Indeed, betimes, things seem to writhe under their skins. And that's if they come out at all. T'is said that three interns of late have disappeared with nary a trace of having ever existed, although there have been odd sightings of sharks and of other creatures in the bay - entities which be not quite fish but neither quite man - and strange screams and posts of the damned reverberating around the twisted cables of these inter-nets.
Haunted. That's a good word to describe some of the bad stuff which goes on, although I be too proud a pirate to use that awful 'shiver me timbers' phrase. Except I just did. Damnation. Now me fellow captains are going to insist I pay the forfeit and put a sack of coins into the Little Orphan Cthulhu fund.
Anways, be a taking up with some patron such as Nocticula - or mayhap Gozreh, if you don't go in for the quite-so-kinky stuff - and she might see you in relative safety through the choppy waters ahead and in to your home port.
And Besmara's tricorne be at your elbow.

Random pirate post. (Arrr!)

Fleets need ports to operate out of. They be where we go to reprovision with food and grog, to get sailcloth for new sails and to acquire lumber for the carpenters who patch any holes our vessels may acquire during combat to work their craft with. They be where we go to recaulk our vessels with pitch, acquire spiffy new paint schemes to make our boats sail faster, and to make tribute to the Pirate Queen, Besmara, in thanks for surviving another few months at sea. They be where we cap'ns go to acquire the latest flashy enchanted scimitars, and where the scurvy cabin boys go to replace the cutlasses they dropped in over-excitement into the ocean's depths during that boarding action off the coast of southern Garund.
And they be where the crew goes to seek some rest and recreation with saucy wenches in dockside taverns and houses of good repute. Blast it, we can't all afford to pay the proper tithes to Besmara and to keep a high priestess of Nocticula and attendants aboard ship too.

<shuffles blearily into thread, and starts poking round>
Arrr, this does not have the look of The Iron Mermaid tavern - well not unless there has been a great deal of redecoration. I know there was much rough-housing at The Mermaid last night, but I did not think there was sufficient damage to have left the place looking like this. Besides, if this were The Mermaid there should be that scurvy dog of a door-keep, Alphonse the Killer Gnoll, hanging round like a bad halibut, with his posh tuxedo, confounded snobbery and that blasted monocle. Even were The Mermaid demolished to timbers and ironmongery (as indeed it has been on at least two occasions when I have been present) that thrice-cursed gnoll would still be standing where the door had been, guarding the rubble.
And if this be not The Mermaid I doubt I shall find my wooden leg in these parts...
<shuffles out of thread>

Arrrr, me hearties. If only I could remember where I left me wooden leg. Not that I've lost a leg yet, Besmara be praised, or leastways not 'cepting the wooden one, but I always like to keep a wooden leg handy in case I should find myself in need of such a thing one day due to shark attacks. Or crocodiles (although I've heard as they like hands over legs). Or killer teapots. I once saw a man in the southern seas eaten alive by a killer teapot, and t'was not a pretty sight, I can tell you.
And a wooden leg is right handy for keeping the crew in order with, poking prisoners with who might have unknown electrical powers, or sitting upon whilst you watch another pirate lord bury a treasure chest from a safe distance with a spyglass.
Not that I'd be confessing to engaging in much of the latter business - I'm an out and out honest sea-dog, you see, and wouldn't dream of robbing a brother pirate for less than fifty thousand pieces of silver - but them smarmy 'privateers' with their 'letters of marque' is another matter altogether...
Hmm. I wonder if I left it in the taproom of 'The Iron Mermaid'. Now there be a thought.
<wanders off in search of wooden leg>