You all remember the night before—the ringing laughter of a wild night, the heady joy of excess, the scents of rich stewed meat and perfume lingering in your nostrils. You have a pounding headache, the sickly taste of cheap wine in your mouths, you lie on a hard floor, you hear a rhythmic creaking noise, and feel the room swaying, as if you are still drunk. Before the you can do much more than sit up, however, several pairs of heavy footsteps enter the dark room, and the harsh light of a lantern painfully spears your eyes.
A dark haired, evil looking man enters with six rough-looking pirates, armed with saps. An expression that might be mistaken for pain but which is clearly an attempt at a smile bruises his face as he cracks the whip in his hand and screams at the you.
“Still abed with the sun over the yardarm? On your feet, ye filthy swabs! Get up on deck and report for duty before Cap’n Harrigan flays your flesh into sausage skins and has Fishguts fry ye up for breakfast!”