Glory of the Forsaken

[Captain Del]

Ahoy mates!

I would like to welcome you all once again to my work! Having decided to abandon Blood of the Liberated, and work more towards developing Delmaria's present, I will once again be reintroducing the Delmaria we all know and love back in to the story forum.

This story is meant to take place during the current time in the game - as such, you will often find that current events that go in the game may end up being a part of my story. Rest assured, however, this will not be a POTCO dependent story, as it will still continue to introduce places never explored in the world of Pirates of the Caribbean, much like my last story. Also, I will not be putting people in to my story regardless of how many times you ask. The only exception to this rule is if I ask you if I can allow your character to make a cameo in my story, which may happen once in a blue moon. Also, do not so much see this as a story for myself, as it is a salute to all the pirates of the Caribbean

This story is also supposed to take place after the events of my previous present-day story, Those Condemned to Freedom. While this story may not require much of prior knowledge to get involved, it is still suggested you look through the old story just a little bit (mainly the later chapters.)

And I must remind you all once again that my story is perhaps one of the "darker" stories here on POF, so you may or may not want to read a few parts depending on the chapter.

Now, shall we continue? I present to you all, the first chapter of "Glory of the Forsaken,"

The Rising Tide

August 29th, 1725
Tortuga, Hispaniola
9:30 PM

To John Christopher Balnette, loyalty was something that he owed to his father, to his mother, and to the men that had given him his life. Loyalty in his eyes was defined as staying faithful to his fellow countrymen, especially the soldiers who he used to admire as he ran about the docks in his home town. The red uniform to him meant a symbol of singularity, and to him, patriotism was undeniably one of the strongest and most noble characteristics a man could hold. His inferiority to the crown was but his gift to the men that he served and would serve in society, for giving him a place in this world, under proper nature. But to Delmaria Darkskull, loyalty was something he owed solely to himself - for when the world turns their back on you, you should find it not a damning experience, but an experience of freedom. The chains that held you down no longer existed, and for the first time you had been liberated. Loyalties, in his eyes, were not deserved - they were earned by those he were loyal to, for loyalty is the highest form of flattery.

Delmaria often had plenty of time to think to himself. He wondered why for so long he had pitied himself, when now he knew very well that the only way to free your mind was to free yourself of doubt. Perhaps it was the third weight that gave him that sense of self-pity - for we, as the living, will always be bound to loyalties whether out of our control or not. Perhaps it was not that we so much pitied ourselves, as we pitied the living as a whole, for the dead are the only ones who will be able to know true happiness. When he died, Delmaria wanted his funeral to be a celebration, for his remaining friends and family would know that he had passed to a place where he could finally be free, heaven or hell did it not matter.

An increasingly rough storm had hit the Caribbean like a pile driver just a few hours before nightfall, but by then the legions of ships that were out on the seas had already made it to port, flaunting about their riches as they recollected over a few pints their adventures in the past days and weeks. Now, the ships once packed to the brim with eager pirates were now being wiped clean as Neptune brushed his hand over the vacant decks of each ship, sending the warm salt water down in loads on to the vessels. He beat against them from below, where the waves mixed violently in the bay, and from above, as rain droplets the size of bullets pelted the decks in sheets against the rough, howling winds. It built a wall of mist that covered every inch in front of you, and they called it a wall in two respects; the other being even attempting to step outside would knock a man down and take him along for a ride, just like the chairs, benches, barrels, and crates that were now swept up in the turbulence and being thrown against the facades of the buildings.

At some point the waves began to splash up on to the beaches of the island in the form of ten foot tall waves that forced themselves through the roads. A small flood gathered out in the streets, picking up smaller objects such as thrown down leaves, bottles, and pieces of torn flags and washing them up and down the muddy paths. The mires overflowed with rancid swamp water that carried with it a putrid smell of decaying life as it washed in to the soup that washed Tortuga clean. Inside the old dingy stone buildings men and women carried out their normal lives ignoring the gale force winds that blasted against the windows and doors of their homes and shops, though particularly straying away from the boarded-up windows that rattled off their nails each time a stronger gust of wind came barreling down the narrow straights. Even through a storm as mighty as this could a tavern on Tortuga be filled, and much so was the case with the Faithful Bride, which was as packed as usual with it's usual revelers and drunkards. Today, however, was a day for celebration unlike before.

All while the inside life of the city was abruptly going about it's business, the outside world was dead quiet, left for Mother Nature alone to make her work. Only one soul joined her out in the open, and against the harsh winds and cold rain he stood in the center of the town square. He was surrounded by buildings covered in poorly constructed scaffolding meant to serve for repairs, though after the storm it would need repairs themselves. Even months after Jolly Roger's invasion of the city it was still left in devastation, many buildings still missing large pieces. The entire Caribbean was licking its wounds at this time, friend and foe alike, as each tried to outdo the other in a continuous war for the Caribbean. Each time the pirates would gain the upper hand, the other side would turn the tables, and vice versa.

Between the waves that splashed in the fountain, whose center spiral was still not completely rebuilt, he looked down at a small bronze plaque that sat on the bottom of it, quietly beneath the waves. Engraved on it was a name and a date - Anne Bonny, 1702 - 1725, with a small quote etched in just below it - "I stand firm in stature and belief that even a woman such as myself would be able to run a group of men as rowdy as you, and if, by God, not, die trying."

Delmaria's black cloak was pelted relentlessly by the rain, taking the bounce out of the feather in his hat and leaving a stream of water to pour down to his boots, but he still stood there against the gale force winds, locked on the small metal plate. Even though she had always tried to contradict him, Anne was always like Delmaria's little sister, as she filled the void that stood where his family should have been. All Delmaria ever wanted to be again was a child, for now he knew that childhood was something one should hold on to and cherish for as long as possible - once you lose your childhood, you lose what makes everything in the world to you special.

Delmaria remembered looking down to his hands, still dusty and rusted from time as they always had been. Among the six rings that sat across his two hands, two had still stood out to him; though not the prettiest of the bunch, the terribly scratched gold band that on the ring finger of his left hand was the one Teague had given to him when he been crowned as pirate king, if only for a moment. He would have considered it his most prized possession, if not for the ring that sat directly across from it, on the index finger of the same hand, an equally simple silver band, with the initials ""JCB" and "MT" etched on the inside - it had served as his wedding band to his wife. They both seemed as though they balanced each other out, between what he considered important; one side, freedom, the other, love. And though they sat in harmony, he wanted them to be interconnected, as a man cannot be complete if the parts of himself are not together. So, he had the two rings bonded together in to an earring that sat from his left ear - and as he played with it in between the fingers of his left hand, he smiled to himself. Anne was a symbol of both of those parts of his life, and in them she lived on.

Delmaria turned to his right and followed the blurred light that hid behind the wall of rain, kicking his boots in the dingy water. He nearly toppled over every few steps from the fierceness of the storm, but by now he had learned to weigh himself down enough that even the wind could not move him much more than an inch. As he could begin to make out the wooden surface of the double doors underneath the small balcony, drenched to a darker color, he could hear the buzz of the tavern speak to him from inside. He reached out two long arms and pushed the two doors open wide, stepping inside to the King's Arm.

The open room of the King's Arm sent a warm breath that encased Delmaria as the two doors slammed shut behind him. Every single one of the tables in the room was packed, sitting in the aura of the bright yellow light given off by the candle's that sat on the wall. At the back of the room, through the open archway, the courtyard normally filled with the excess of pirates was desolant, left to the black roar of the storm. Johnny McVane stood behind the bar along the left wall of the room, wiping a dirty washcloth over the mugs left on the counter, doing a little jig to himself as Bran Winds played a light sea shanty over in his corner of the tavern, the corner just before the bar on the near side, sitting right before the staircase that led up to the balcony overhead.

It took him a minute to notice him, but once he did Johnny's face lit up with a smile. He put the rag down on the counter and walked down and out of the bar, coming over to meet the pirate. "Delmaria Darkskull you son of a gun, how are ya!?" McVane shouted as he came up and reached out a hand. The two shook hands as Johnny looked up and down Delmaria, noticing his drenched outfit. "God, why the hell were you outside!? It's a damn hurricane out there! Gimme your coat!"

Delmaria took off his black, heavy leather coat and his gold-feathered hat and placed it in to Johnny's arms, who ferried in to a small clothing rack that he kept at the side of the bar. Delmaria's clothes were still moist from the rain, but it was still relieving to get off the unbearable weight of his drenched trench coat. He followed Johnny to the bar and took a seat down at one of the empty stools in the middle, where the bartender had left his dirty rag on the counter. "Ah, nothing much. I just wanted to walk around a little, is all. Haven't been in port for a while."

Johnny automatically went back to rubbing his rag on the counter, though he did it without any thought or attention, so it just went on in the same spot. "Yah, well, tonight isn't exactly the night to do it. Besides, you should'a been here, spending your time with us!" Johnny waved a little hand out over the bar. "As they say-"

“‘If every port were like Tortuga, no man would ever feel unwanted.'" Delmaria repeated in a swaying voice. "I know, I know. Just odd to see the port at this time, so why not experience it while you can?"

"HA!" Johnny laughed loudly - the man often forgot how to control his voice, accustomed to yelling over the roar of the bar. "Suppose you're right. You've been makin' quite a stir lately, ya know."

"Ah, so I guess the word of our exploits is spreading?" Delmaria smiled under the black bandanna that hung down in front of his face.

"Yah, but not to the best of places." McVane turned around and pulled a piece of parchment that was nailed to the backboard of his tavern. He flipped it over and handed it to Delmaria, who took it and read it as Darkskull stared down at him with a glaring look:

"BY ORDER OF THE BRITISH ROYAL NAVY, WHOSE JURISDICTION LIES WITHIN THE TOWNSHIP OF THE ISLAND OF TORTUGA,

I. STREETS, ROADS, AND OTHER MEANS OF TRANSPORTATION within the port of Tortuga are now subject to patrol, and those who access said mediums will be subject to inspection.

II. THE PORT OF TORTUGA IS TO REMAIN FREE OF ANY NOTABLE signs of the presence of free captains who have committed acts against the crown, or "pirates."

III. ANY MAN WHO IS IN POSSESSION OF A PIECE OF PIRATE propaganda, or a notice which suggests potential acts against the Crown, are subject to immediate jailing and/or execution.

IV. ANY MAN WHO IS FOUND OF DISTRIBUTING OR AIDING IN THE distribution of pirate propaganda, or a notice which suggests potential acts against the Crown, shall be subject to immediate jailing and/or execution."

Delmaria laughed at the end of the notice, before crumpling it up in his hand and throwing it off to the side of the bar. McVane gasped and jogged to get it, barking at the pirate over his shoulder. "What the 'ell is wrong with you!?"

"Oh, relax, will you? If the Navy couldn't stop a rag-tag group of pirates from nearly throwing them off this God forsaken island, how do they expect the remainder of them to fight us off?"

"Delmaria, they were able to capture you, weren't they?"

Delmaria's face dropped from a smile to a sharp frown, and he gripped the paper fiercely as he stared down McVane in the eyes.

"Easy, easy. Look, they've been out and about recently. 'Couple of days ago I saw some fresh flood making their way down the street as if they owned the place." McVane made a little walking man with his two fingers that strutted up and down the bar.

"Fresh blood?" Delmaria repeated, a little shocked. "How could have a Navy ship made it in to port undetected."

"That's the thing." Johnny shrugged as he rubbed his two hands together beneath the old washcloth. "Nobody's really been seein' any of their ships around lately. Eh, maybe I'm just seein' things." McVane brushed it off, walking down to the far end of the bar to deal with a few rowdy customers.

Delmaria uncrumpled the piece of paper and scanned over it again, rubbing his fingers over the still slightly moist ink. Even holding the notice made the brand that sat on his forearm burn all-over again with the same intense pain that he felt the first time it was burnt in to his flesh. Darkskull always wore long clothing for a reason, as it helped keep his mind off of the bruises that he had acquired from his enemies over the years; if he didn't see them, then he supposed they were not there.

Just as Delmaria neatly placed the notice back on the bar, Johnny returned, sliding a small, frothing mug across the counter with him. He slid the drink out of his hand and right in front of Delmaria, who stared down at it questionably. Johnny directed his attention up, and pointed out to the far right corner of the bar. "Courtesy of the gentlema- well, should I say, gentlewoman in the black cap."

Delmaria turned slightly to look through the corner of his eye to the area where Johnny pointed, and in the corner of the bar he spotted the figure he was looking for. Two thick black boots were propped up on a small, vacant table, and behind them sat a very shady, dark-skinned woman. She wore a dark crimson long coat closed over a dull brown vest, one side tucked neatly in to her loose dingy green crew pants. A small, black gaucho hat tipped over her face, but it was obvious she could still see by the sincere wave of the hand that she sent towards Delmaria.

"Don't get yourself in to a fuss now." Johnny mumbled as Delmaria stood up from his seat, holding the mug in his hand as he walked towards the woman. He passed in between the dozens of pirates that crammed the tables, with a few pirates attempting to signal Darkskull's attention. Their efforts were meager, however, as Darkskull had his sights locked solely on the mischievous soul at the far table, who tilted her head up slowly to reveal a small , swirling piece of ink directly under he left eye. She shot him a smile as he approached the table, nearly slamming the mug down on it.

"Ahoy, Mr. Darkskull. Please, take a seat." She smiled deviously as she motioned to the chair directly across from her.

Delmaria shimmied in to the chair, angling it so he could look at her behind her boots. Delmaria, too, had a smile on his face. "Did you honestly expect me to drink this?" he pointed to the mug, now overflowing with foam.

"What do you mean?" she tipped her head sideways, as if she was trying to playfully put something off.

"I haven't seen a drink foam as much as this one than when I saw this same exact drink on the desk of Sir Victor Mayhew, who nearly died from poisoning just days after. Tell me I don't look that gullible by now, do I?" he mimicked her, tipping his head and smiling in the same fashion.

She chuckled, taking her feet off the table and sitting upward. "Very good. I must say, you aren't the prettiest pirate in the bunch, but you do know your way."

Delmaria nodded, not necessarily agreeing with her as he was taking in what she said. "So, is Rott really so much of a coward that he couldn't come and try to kill me himself?"

She laughed again, this time leaning over the table to lower her voice. As she leaned over, it revealed a small skull-and-cross-swords identical to Ezekiel's just behind the right side of her vest. "My Captain is a very busy man, Captain Darkskull. He doesn't have much time for stopping at every single island in the blasted Caribbean to kill off every pirate that has given him problems."

Delmaria leaned forward as well, getting within a foot of her face. "Obviously if I wasn't a problem to him he wouldn't have sent you, Ramona."

She licked her lips and leaned back a little more. She smiled again. "I suppose that is the case."

"So tell me, what interests does Rott have in the Navy? I suppose the ghouls on the other side of the seas didn't provide enough for him?"

"Well, Delmaria, when you unite your friends, you also unite your enemies. Unfortunately he isn't much of the submissive type."

"If he was, he would have been long gone by now." Darkskull slumped back in to his hard, wooden chair. He sighed and looked up and down the woman. "Miss Guerra, I still fail to see why such a fine woman as yourself would join such a ruthless group of men as the Casa de Muertos. Have you no sense of shame?"

Ramona took her gaucho off and placed it down on the table, revealing her short, black hair that came down just below her ears. "When my husband died, I lost respect for the world I knew, Delmaria. When it came down to the line, my benefactor promised me something that would allow me to reinvent myself, anew."

Delmaria shook his head. "Your benefactor is dead, Ramona."

She shook her head back, tilting it to the side and giving another sharp smile. "That's what you think."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A slow start, but with big things to come.

Well, how do you like it so far, mates? Be sure to comment and review below!

[Crestshot]

Del. Keep writing your philosophical mumbo jumbo that I can almost not follow. Savvy and I thrive on it.

[Chalupa]

Ok if chalupa pops up randomly just one time. that would be amazing. lol good story, I would like to read on.

[The Stealthy Pirate]

I missed Those Condemmend to Freedom.... Good start mate!!

[Captain Del]

Thank you, mates!

Not much I can say about this one. It's special to me, because it's the first time I ever cried while writing a story.

Remembrance

August 29th, 1725
Tortuga, Hispaniola
7:23 AM

By morning the storm had drastically settled down, the tide slowly receding back to the bay with only a blanket of gray clouds still lingering overhead. The street was littered with assortments of objects swept up by the small flood and carried out in to the middle of the road, which varied from boxes and crates to the bodies of dead livestock whose owner was too negligent to shelter them properly. A rancid smell filled the streets; a dank, rancid smell that often stayed close to the swamps and the ghettos of the gypsy quarters, but had now split out in to the main part of the city with the overflow of the marshes that sat unkempt at the side of the city. Many of the towns local residents, who were far enough from the swamps of the port to not care about the poorer districts, now felt sorry for themselves that they had to put up with such a disgusting atmosphere.

Delmaria couldn't sleep that night. Ramona's words echoed in the back of his mind long after the crowds had quieted down in the tavern and she had slithered in to the recesses of the rain. Darkskull had moved to the back door of the King's Arm to watch her sway in to the darkness, and even hours after she was gone he stood there, leaning on the banister as he stared out in the courtyard. It was only after Johnny had ferried him to an empty room for what remained of the night that he moved, but even then he stood near the window above the small desk in his room, staring out in to the void.

By now he had set himself up so that he could look out the window in to the town square as he wrote down in his small, black, weathered journal. His quill ran furiously over the pages as he spilled out anything that he was thinking, or anything he could think of, his handwriting swerving and spinning over the blank pages. He wasn't so much as writing a well-constructed entry as we was rambling, throwing down poorly connected sentences and phrases that came to his mind. It eerily reminded him of the journal of Sir Francis Drake that his father had so fruitlessly hunted down and tried to protect, and at that point he wrote down "El Draque the --------" and began scribbling over it angrily, at one point tearing the page across from side to side. It was a part of his past that made him angry, to think he had wasted his life for his father's ambitions. Delmaria slunk back in his chair as the sun banked over the horizon above the buildings, throwing his dripping when quill pen on the floor and slapping the ink jar off the desk. It shattered on the crisp wall at his side, splattering ink all over the wall.

Darkskull huffed, throwing his head back and looking up at the ceiling. He still wondered why he had kept that journal of his, it's binding falling apart at the seams and nearly every page torn and ripped at the edges. Perhaps it was because he knew that he could not escape his past no matter how far he tried to put it off - after all, the past can always be found in the present. He leaned forward and laid a big hand down on the small book, pulling it in to his lap and he propped his feet up on the desk. He began flipping backwards through the pages of the journal, smiling at his entries became older and older. Some of them told of celebrations, others of battles, skirmishes and wars, and some of them were just mental vomits that he had done only a few moments ago. Yet as he neared the inside cover of the book, he came to a page that was completely salvaged by time, with only two small words scribbled in the center.

Hello John

John.

Nobody had called him his real name in such a long time, that even reading it on a piece of paper was a shock to him. Whenever he read something, we would usually put a voice to in inside his head, usually a voice that he had created himself and had little to no connection to the person who had written it. This time, however, he read it in a very real voice - Maria's.

Delmaria closed the journal quietly, letting his hand drop to his side and taking the book down with him to smash in to the floor. The sound of his wife's voice sent a chill down his spine, though it wasn't as much a sound as it was remembering what it sounded like. It reminded him of the years that spent with her, where they lived and loved with whatever they had. Luxuries were a rarity, and they took life as it came. It was a hard life, but it was a beautiful one - and Delmaria distinctly remembered the day that it had ended.

1

January 15th, 1714
Padres Del Fuego
10:57 AM

Delmaria poked his head behind the soft cloth that covered his home's window, looking out over the vacant courtyard. The stone buildings rested quietly around him as the sun ascended overhead, casting a shadow that seemed to reach out to him from the opposite side. Not a soul was seen or heard, which relieved Delmaria for just a little bit as he turned back to his modest home. The fireplace cackled quietly in the back as Delpadros and Marina played with a few small rag dolls that fell limp in their hands. Maria paced back and forth in between the table, which sat to the right end of the room, and the cubboard at the left end. She worriedly wiped her hands on her blouse, leaving the mess that had built up from cooking that morning on her accessory before taking it off and placing it across the table. Her black, elegant hair still feel straight from her beautiful soft face, and even though she was covered in dirt and grime, Delmaria saw past that to the true beauty that sat beneath it. But, now was not the time to think of such things.

"It doesn't have to be like this, you know." Delmaria said, resting his back against the wooden door. A small ray of light that snuck in between the broken shingles of the roof fell directly on to Maria's face, lighting it as she turned briskly to face him. Her dark, tanned skin was illuminated, and her eyes sparkled like gems for a brief moment before she stepped out towards him.

"Be like what? How it always has been? We've been living in this same, decrepit house for years now, and you expect it to get better now?" Her light Spanish accent still rolled off her tongue with every breath as she spoke.

"If you're so eager to leave this house, then the only thing we can do is leave this god damn island!" Delmaria heated up, stepping off the door.

"You say it like it's so simple." Maria shook her head, turning to the back of the room and hurrying over to a small metal pot that hung over the giggling fire, checking to see how it's contents were going along. Delmaria chased after her, stopping roughly five feet behind her.

"Maria, think of them." Delmaria said, pointing a hand down to the two children that sat on the ground. Even though only a year older than her (he was 8 and she was 7) Delpadros still attempted to instruct and guide Marina on how to play with their small cache of straw dolls that Maria had woven for them as a Christmas present.

"Think of them? You? You would rather take them out on the seas and risk their lives than have them stay safe on this island?"

"RIGHT, because if the British find them they won't kill us all for having such close ties to one another. We either head out now, and try to save them, or we wait here for the soldiers to come and kill us!" Darkskull became enraged, throwing his hands around as he tried to drive his point to Maria.

"AND WHOSE FAULT IS THAT? You're the one who wanted to trust that Victorio! Now look where that has gotten you!" She scoffed, shaking her fist at him.

Delmaria violently gripped her arm, making her wince under the pain as he gripped her tighter and tighter. "I did it for the best interest of all of us." He gritted his teeth. "If it wasn't for me you'd have been dead by the time they found you!" He pushed her, sending her stumbling back and hitting her hard against the wall, causing her to slump down just at the side of the fireplace. Marina let out a little cry and started to sob like any child would when they saw the fighting such as this transpire before them, while Delpadros just covered his ears, trying to block out the world. While the children cried, a blanket of shouts could be heard far off in the distance, like a unity of men and women walking back and forth.

Delmaria ran to the window and quickly peered back through the cloth, relieved that there was nothing going on in the courtyard in front of his home. Still, he turned back around to the chaos within it, and shouted "WILL YOU SHUT IT?" at Marina, which only made her whimper and cry even louder as she started to crawl back, away from the general direction of her father.

Delmaria turned his attention to Maria, who was pulling herself up off the ground by the wall. She gave him a very cold, unworthy glare, and his heart sank as he saw what he had done to her - a large, red bruise covered her entire right forearm, so twisted and irritated it almost seemed like it had been burned. She swatted her hair out of her face as she gathered her balance, and began to stumble forward, towards him. "I see how much you care for them!" she growled in a low, disgusted tone.

She walked right up to him, and past him, to the small wooden door that waited quietly behind them. She ran her hand through her hair again, before opening the door, and beginning to storm out. "Where the hell are you going!?" Delmaria called after her, his angry overtone still lingering in his voice.

"Away from you!" she shouted over her shoulder. She knew that he didn't have it in him to run after her and subdue her, because she wouldn't be turning around for quite some time. "Goodbye, John!"

Instead of chasing after her, Delmaria slammed the door shut with all of his force. He stared at the empty, black wooden door for a few good minutes, and in that time the world had become quiet to him. Marina's crying had halted, Delpadros had calmed down, and even the fire that sat in the back of the room had gone from laughing to whispering as he stood there, staring at the door. He tried to look through it, but he couldn't - he felt that looking at that door was the same as looking in to a mirror, because behind the great beard that covered his face and the black dye that covered his naturally blonde follicles, he could find himself - but on the outside, he wasn't there.

He finally lost his control, taking his fists and repeatedly smashing them in to the wooden door as he pounded the boards over and over, making them splinter and crack with each blow he gave to them. She bellowed a deep, diabolical roar, that didn't so much came from him as it did the hellish demons that resided within him, louder than any noise that had ever come out of his mouth. He rocked the door with one final haymaker, so powerful that the board it made contact with snapped in to two halves, both of which flew out of the door and landed in the courtyard a few good yards away from his home. The door itself broke off it's top hinge, flinging out wildly and nearly smashing off the frame.

Delmaria stepped back, panting heavily as he looked at the destruction he had created. He looked down at his hands, bloodied and splintered, and wondered why anything he had ever done with them was necessary - why all of the bloodshed, the crimes, the betrayals, and all that he had ever done with them, had been necessary. For a change his own blood was spilled on his palms, almost in a bittersweet kind of fashion. The only thing that stood unscathed on his hand was the small, glimmering wedding band that sat quietly on his finger, which he was glad for. He was only glad that his wife's blood had not been on them.

Just as he turned back to the room, he heard it - a loud, awful gun being shot off in the distance, followed by an eruption of terror and screams that shrieked over the clashing of metal on skin, teeth and bone. He hurried to the doorframe, and watched as a few men ran by, many of which he had known and men, charging with pitchforks, muskets, and even small swords down the alleyway to the main area of Padres. Delmaria couldn't see it, but he knew just by the feeling that slithered through him that something had gone wrong. He turned to his children, who had huddled to the back of the room, and told them to calmly "Wait here."

He dashed down the length of the walled-in courtyard, turning sharply to his left as he hit the Ratskellar and running underneath the archway to the larger port of Padres Del Fuego, the rolling, enormous wasteland of small crevices and geysers the rolled up plums of smoke in to the sky. But that was not the old smoke he saw - across them, at the farthest and largest of the mounds just before the branch off to the Fort, a large group of citizens were caught in a skirmish with the local red coats, perhaps showing disdain for the now-tyrannical rule of Don Victorio in the shadows of the city. Though their efforts proved to be fruitless, as each one of the men who tried to rebel were struck further and further back by the Navy, each man who tried to storm them being shot or stabbed through the chest.

And admist the chaos, Delmaria could see very clearly a fair-skin maiden, black hair waving in the wind, being shot down by a passing soldier.

In certain moments in life, time seems to slow down. It seems as though the world around you has taken a moment to stand at your side and gasp with you, like all other life forms for just that one moment had become insignificant for you. The blood runs to a chill as your skin shrivels in it's place, and as the face of death descends down from the heavens, you feel struck, as though you have just peered in to the face of God, or in some cases, Satan. All of the feeling in your body is gone, and the only feelings you have then are indescribable, as they are conserved for those moments only. Poets would describe it as a moment of truth, priests would call it a divine experience - but only men know that, in those times, the weight of the world both falls down upon you, and drags you forward in to the light. And no matter how much you try to deny that the light is there, it is there, growing stronger and stronger with each beat and pulse that has become but an afterthought, reduced to only a feeling that can only be perceived by looking for it. And as the light shines down upon you and you feel it's embrace, you push it back, for it is unwelcome. But, it never leaves.

Delmaria couldn't make any sound other than a blunt, forced scream as he sprinted with all of his power towards Maria. He felt everything come back to him one by one - first the gusts of air that hit against his face, then the stone beneath his boots that rocked his hardened knees, and then the scent of fire that rocketed up his nose. He nearly fell as he stumbled up on of the smaller mounds, scraping his hand on a small rock that left a trail of blood whirling through the wind as he pumped his arms faster and faster, to the beat of his fiery heart. And then, he finally felt his body collapse as he fell in to the middle of the fight, landing just at Maria's side.

Life is real. Pain is real.

He struggled to grab her hand, his shaking so quickly under pain that he fought just to find them. Her eyes looked lost as they peered blankly in the sky above him, and gone was the unique shine that always warmed him when he awoke next to her every morning. He found her hand resting just above her heart, where he blood came out in a constantly steam, staining her shirt a dark crimson. He grabbed her hand tightly, his wedding ring touching against hers as he tried to look in to her eyes one last time. When he did, they didn't follow like they always had - they didn't look up and down his face, which followed by her hand brushing against his cheek, and her soft lips kissing his forehead. They didn't peer in to his mind and soul like they always had, igniting in his heart the connection that he had always looked for. But most of all, they didn't see him - they looked beyond him, to where she had gone.

"M-m-maria, don't you leave me!" he said playfully, pretending like she could hear him. He shook his head rapidly back and forth. "No, please don't play! Please!" He tried shaking her hand, but the blood still poured out of her body, and her soul went with it. "Pleas..."

He looked at her again. She didn't move - she didn't run up to hug him, or run her fingers through his hair, commenting how she missed it's blond flow. She didn't laugh whenever he looked at her funny, or perhaps made a small joke, or picked up Marina in one arm and Delpadros in the other and spin them around. She didn't turn to him in the middle of the night, and spend hours looking at him like she used to, telling him how much she loved him. She didn't rub his back as they stood down at the docks, watching the sun fall down behind the horizon as the world ignored them for once. She wasn't there to love him anymore, although he knew he would always be there for her.

His lips murmured before he let out a bloodcurdling yell, far louder than the noise he had made minutes before. He tossed his head back - he wanted his voice to reach the heavens, so that he could talk to her one last time. "MARIA!!!"

2

Delmaria looked out the window in to Tortuga, watching the trees sway off in the distance in an early-morning gust, just catching the back end of storm. It seemed so quiet outside, just as it was inside - the floorboards in the room next to him creaked, the glasses in the tavern below clanked as they were cleaned, and Delmaria's breathing echoed through the room. His hands still sat quietly in his lap, and throughout that painful experience of remembering, he hadn't moved. He didn't want to.

Delmaria picked up the quill and journal from the floor at his side. He placed it down on the desk, and flipped to the very last, clean page. With whatever ink that remained in his pen, he wrote down in the very center:

Goodbye, Maria.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Be sure to comment.

[The Stealthy Pirate]

That was.... deep..... It is good to see the other side of people, when you have seen one side of a person for so long...

[AdmiralSavvy]

Finally caught up with this story.

That chapter was deep. Any writer who can make MY eyes almost water is a darn good writer.

I'll be watching this thread. :]

[Robert Ironcastle]

Wow.That was one of the most graphic and detailed chapters you have ever written.Del,you should really think about becoming an author.

[Captain Del]

Ahoy mates!

Thanks for being patient about this one. I'm glad to see you all have already read my first two chapters, so hopefully you're eager for this one! Now, without further adieu, I present to thee..

The Prophets of Tortuga

August 29th, 1725
Tortuga, Hispaniola
9:45 AM

The people of Tortuga leaned outside of their windows, doors, and homes at the moment of eerie silence that feel over the port, normally hissing with activity underneath the grey sky above. What was once a capital of bustling public interest had slowed down to a halt, as men and women along the main street of Tortuga stepped outside of their half-repaired buildings, and turned their attention to the center of the port, where the source of the disturbance had come from.

The citizens that played and chatted in the town center turned their vision away from their games, whiskey, and friends to the fountain where a group of roughly a dozen Navy soldiers had escorted themselves to around the front rim of the structure facing down the road towards the bay, their bright red uniforms stood out like blood on a haystack under the dreary sky. They pointed their bayonets upward, towards the clouds, but by no means did that mean they were not willing to use them if provoked. They formed a small blockade around the front of the spring, perfectly distanced between one another so they seemed remotely organized as they helped one of their fellow soldiers atop the ledge, who fixed himself as a larger and larger crowd gathered before the group of red coats. They all seemed very skeptical and suspicious of the British, and as the common folk flooded nearly the entire front half of the courtyard, the British soldiers became more and more tense. Still, the stubby little Officer bravely pulled from his pocket a folded piece of parchment paper, and began to clear his throat.

"It is by decree of the British Royal Navy, under the jurisdiction of His Majesty, King George the First, that the province of Tortuga, which currently stands under the jurisdiction of-"

At the word jurisdiction, a small group of pirates in the center of the crowd began yelling curses towards the soldiers. Their outburst spread like a wildfire, and soon their shouts drowned out the short man, who was trying to speak over their roars. All the British soldiers could do is watch in horror, holding their muskets tightly, as they were ordered not to shoot until the first shot was made. At one point a group of pirates that stood near the King's Arm began running out of the tavern and throwing empty glass bottles in the general direction of the fountain, but they hit the ground and fellow pirates than they did the soldiers.

Finally, the Officer threw both of his hands up and yelled "SILENCE!," which somehow managed to subdue the pirates for just a moment. They lowered their bottles and their hats, watching the little British man as he straightened his posture, patted the notice, and looked down to continue reading. Before he could, however, a loud bang echoed through the still air, finding it's end at the little man, who froze at the sounding of the gun. His hand was shaking rapidly, the paper rocking back and forth in his hand, until it finally wavered out of his palms and downward, to the floor. What was revealed behind where the paper should have been was a deep red stain on the man's shirt, that began to seep through on to the white bands that went across his chest. A few of the women in the crowd who stood closer to the fountain shrieked and gasped in horror as they realized what had happened, but other than that, nobody spoke - even as the Officer's body toppled directly backward, smacking in to the water of the fountain, and splashing up red waves under his impact. The only sound that could be heard was the sound of clapping coming from across the left side of the square, across the distance from the King's Arm.

A dark-skinned and white-bearded man clapped underneath the overhang of one of the gun shops that stood in the square, his tall, brown hat leaning over his brown. Next to him, his bald-assistant slipped a bite of an apple in to his mouth as he placed his musket to his side, while his captain patted the back of his dusty green coat. "Nice shot, Mr. Dedman."

Ezekiel stepped out of the shadows of the overhang, his high-wig hat casting a shadow down over a dragon-like tattoo that clawed at the side of his left eye. He was wearing the same old green, dusted veteran's coat, thrown over a tight-fitted, double crossed shirt with one flap riding over the other. His belt sloppily jingled along his waist, attached to an assortment of guns and daggers that hid under the sides of his coat. His cutlass, which he waved slowly back and forth in his hand to clear his path to the fountain, was a Venetian-styled broadsword, black at its hilt and a darker brass color along the blade, which barely gave off any shine when drawn out in to the light.

Upon reaching the fountain, he immediately walked up to the two soldiers the miniature Officer had stood behind while on the ledge of the fountain, looking back and forth between either of them. While anticipating built in the crowd that they two soldiers would make an attempt to subdue him, they instead stepped to the side, allowing for Rott to climb on top of the edge of the fountain. A large part of the crowd began to whisper back and forth in shock and awe that the Navy had so eagerly given him the speaking position atop the structure, most of them unaware of the secret alliance that had been forged. Only a few knowledgeable pirates began to sink further back in to the crowd, hoping that Rott would not point them out for public execution should he recognize them.

Yet with a flick of his wrist, the crowd quieted. They all turned their heads eagerly to him, watching to see what he would do. He quietly put his sword back at his side, and panned over the crowd once more, studying each face before he began. "Gentlemen, ladies of Tortuga, perhaps I can better phrase what my dear friend here," he made a motion behind him, to the soaked body floating in the fountain "could not properly orate. My name, friends, is Captain Ezekiel Rott, though I'm sure all of you know this. I come here to all of you today with a proposition which, I believe, will lead to the proper cleansing of our dear Caribbean. I come but only in the name of the common good of all men."

"WE DON'T NEED YER HELP!" a voice hollered from the middle of the crowd. One of the captains of a local band of pirates, who much too much favored the wears of the French navy, waved his small cavalry hat back and forth as he shook his fist at Ezekiel. "Yer the one that's been causing all of our trouble!" he shouted, and to his delight his crew mates who surrounded him began nodding their heads in agreement, though they didn't go much further than that in showing support. Without even directly responding to the captain, Rott's eyes drifted off to a nearby section of the crowd, and once he seemed to lock eyes with somebody, he patted his chest with his right hand, just below his heart.

A few moments later, the blue-coated pirate was caught mid-sentence, at a loss of breath. Unbeknownst to him or his crew, Ramona had side-stepped her way through the crowd and had gripped the captain in a sleeper hold behind his head, now plunging a small piece of a glass bottle repeatedly in to his back. She let him slip out of her grip on the tenth cut in to his back, and he slithered on to the floor in a heap of torn leather and blood. The crowd around him scattered by a radius of six feet, all of them engulfed in shock and horror as they watched one of their fellow captains bleed out to death on the floor. Ramona looked around at all of them, chuckling lightly under her cap and taunting them with her shard of glass, before she turned her attention back to Rott, tipping her hat in his direction.

Ezekiel did a little salute to her, before clapping his hands together loudly in a little smile. "As you all can suggest, you are faced with many unfavorable choices in this situation. But perhaps the worst road you could go down is the path that you are taking right now, which is following behind a group of pirates that really only have their best interest at heart. Come now, you must have not seriously believed that the "leaders" you follow in to battle are doing this for you, are they?"

Rott left the crowd in silence as they all looked around at one another again, trying to find answers to the questions presented to them. As much as they felt compelled to defend their fellow pirates, they found a sliver of doubt in the back of their minds that was now growing in to a tumor, preventing them from speaking. "I thought not." he smiled. "All you are to them is but puppets in their scheme. They simply brainwash you in to fighting for them, so you can die as a proper sacrifice in their place. However, if you follow my lead, there will be no need for sacrifice.

"The Navy has provided for you all a very grand opportunity. Should you choose to fly the flag of the Casa de Muertos, you will be rewarded with immunity from prosecution by all European states currently participating in the Caribbean." Rott reached in to the recess of his coat, and pulled out a crumpled piece of black parchment paper, with a quill pen that instead of a feather, bore the skeleton of a raven's wing. From its tip, a bright gold ink dripped. "All you need to do is sign this paper. So, what do you say?"

"I wouldn't sign that paper if I was you." called a voice from the side of the court. Rott turned his head to the left, looking up to balcony of the King's Arm, where there Delmaria leaned nonchalantly against the right banister. The crowd turned their attention to him, and for a moment Rott felt a spark of anger inside of him because he was taking attention away from him.

"Well, if it isn't the Patron Saint of Damnation himself. And how are you, Mr. Darkskull? Still wiping the smell of coal out of your nostrils?"

"Not as much as you are getting the test of fish water out of your throat." Delmaria rebuttled, walking back and forth along the balcony as he kept his eyes locked on Rott.

Rott chuckled, shaking his head back and forth. "You should have known better than to come out of hiding, Delmaria. It's not the safest thing to do."

Without missing a beat or turning his head, Delmaria said "Tell Mr. Dedman that if he doesn't want the pistol pointed at his back to go off he should put down that musket."

Rott turned in confusement, and there in the shadows, sitting quietly in the doorway of the building Nathan stood in front of, a figure cloaked from head to toe in a deep blue assortment of clothing waved a little oriental pistol back and forth in her right hand, almost like if she was deciding whether to shoot him or not. With her free hand, she waved to Captain Rott, the outline of a sly smile on her hidden face. Rott nodded slowly, then turned back to face the King's Arm. "Fair enough. Seems you can still manage to play your cards."

"Oh I wouldn't be the one to worry about his cards, Captain Ezekiel. It seems you're the one that's been bluffing this entire time." Darkskull stopped, gripping the rail of the balcony and looming over it.

"I'm simply here to provide for these men and women what you can't, Mr. Darkskull - stability, honor, and above all, protection. All you've been bent on is making them a slave to your extremist agenda in these waters." Rott pointed a hand out to the pirate, taking glances at the crowd to make sure they followed him.

"You say this after you try to nearly kill us all? You pretend as though the events of the last few months have not occurred, Captain Rott. How do you expect us to trust the man who killed a man that we all respected and adored?" Delmaria shouted, pointing his hand out and looking in to the crowd. "You say that I'm the one whose brainwashed them, yet it seems you're only trying to brainwash yourself in to thinking you're still that innocent hermit who washed up on Port Royal a few years ago."

"This is besides all of that, Delmaria. I will be the first to admit that I may have had a hand in the side of your opposition, and to this day I still may stir that pot, but now," Rott turned fully to the crowd, raising his hand up to the heavens like he was a disciple of God, "I have come with an opportunity to convert these men and women to the side that, one day, will rule these waters!"

Rott was a pathetic little man. Ever since an early age when he lived in the shadow of his bigger brother, who would take the role of Head Adviser of Minertown, he was set on making the world as miserable for others as it had been in his own corner of the world. When Jolly Roger had given him to join what he believed was the "winning side," he didn't do so much as a fear that he would die, no - he did it so that he could take revenge on his brother (who he made sure was the first to suffer in the fires that consumed the town) and that he would never be considered the shorter stick ever again. But whenever faced with the possibility that he was not at the highest throne in the land, he felt young once more, and would do whatever it would take to return to the spotlight. He was not a charismatic leader, nor was he one that truly meant what he said - but he knew how to act, and to make others believe what he wanted them to, and from that he would corrupt people until he would be lead to greatness.

Delmaria shook his head. He lingered on whether he was to say what he was going to, but when he saw a few pirates making their way to Rott to accept his offer, he knew he had to. He placed his foot at angle in front of him, and called out "You're scared, aren't you Rott?"

Without even putting further thought in to it, Delmaria kicked his feet down and sprung himself backward, through the open doorway of the Kings Arm, and slamming his back on the railing that looked down on to the empty King's Arm. Though it may have seemed a little drastic, he was correct in the fact he should have moved, as an infuriated little boy known as Captain Ezekiel Rott had garnished his pistol and shot it in the general direction of Delmaria. When he saw the gold-feathered hat catch itself on the inside railing of the tavern, Rott turned to Ramona and Jeremiah. Before he could order them to chase after the pirate, Ramona had already darted towards the door of the King's Arm; Dedman, however, would not make it there in time.

As Rott had fired his pistol at Delmaria, Jeremiah made an attempt to overpower his aggressor, turning on her with his musket readied to fire. Luckily, a puddle from last night's rain fall had collected itself at the foot of the store that he was standing in front of, so as he spun around his left foot kicked out from under him. In a panic, his assailant shot her pistol with the best aim she could muster, landing a bullet square in to Dedman's chest. She fled, and there Jeremiah's body sat, bleeding out on the floor just like Ramona had done to the pirate captain. Rott showed no compassion - he only shook his head, drew his sword, and chased after Ramona.

Delmaria bounded off the inside railing of the tavern and sprinted down the short walkway to the left side of the room, where it wrapped around down to the staircase that led down to the main floor. Just as he hit the top step, he saw Ramona burst inside, catching him from the corner of her eye. Delmaria looked around and managed to find a small glass bottle sitting on top of a stack of crates that sat next to him at the top of the stairs, which he took and threw down at Ramona. She side-stepped the flurry of glass shards as it shattered in to the ground near her feet, and turned back to the pirate. Instead of seeing him, she saw the avalanche of a large group of crates barreling down the staircase in her direction. Before she could manage to flee, one of them bounced off the ground and pounced to hit her in the shin, taking her down to the floor.

Delmaria unsheathed his cutlass and began running down the stairs, though he was more concerned with getting out of the tavern than he was killing somebody. His golden sword glinted in the dim tavern light that came down upon it as he bounded over Ramona, landing on the floor just behind her. He stood next to the open doorway, and turned to watch as Rott began walking angrily towards him, the rest of the crowd following in the background to watch. Delmaria backed up in desperation, before his back hit against one of the wooden tables in the beginning of the room. As Ezekiel stepped inside the building, Darkskull turned about and climbed on top of the bottle-ridden table. Rott stopped as he watched the pirate gain his balance on top of it, and once he did he kicked one of the bottles with his heavy black boot in to Rott's face, smacking the side of his face before rebounding and hitting the floor a few feet behind him.

Rott gritted his teeth as he cut his broadsword across Delmaria's feet, making the pirate jump to avoid the swipe. Darkskull flipped his cutlass over his shoulder and brought his cutlass with a clash down on to Ezekiel's blade, which he had caught just as it veered off to his side. Delmaria pushed off and side-swiped his blade to knock Rott away again, before he jumped backwards off the table. By now, Ramona had managed to wobble to her feet, advancing on the pirate with a small steel rapier in her hand. They stood on the opposite side of the table, his two aggressors side by side as they looked over at him.

Delmaria grabbed the wooden table with his left hand and pushed it, hitting it in to the torsos of his two opponents. He grabbed a bottle that sat on the table behind his right hand and chucked it in Rott's direction, who was able to duck in time to keep it from shattering on his forehead. Ramona quickly managed to crawl on top of the table and began making her way towards Delmaria, who stepped back a little more and grabbed at more bottles from the two tables that sat at his side, chucking them through the air and at the two of them. While Rott chose to stay behind as he took shelter behind the table, Guerra was able to use her quick swordsmanship as a shield against the containers, slicing and hitting them out of the air until she finally managed to land on the other side of the table unharmed. By then, Delmaria had run out of bottles - so, with his left hand, he pulled a light wooden chair from its position and dragged it in front of him, kicking it across the floor with a slide towards Ramona.

As it came towards her, Guerra stepped up on the chair and rocketed off with ease before it spirited her away, sending her up and on to the table that sat to Delmaria's right, closer to the bar. She attempted to take a fly-by cut of Delmaria as she glided through the air, but he caught her attack with a match of his own sword, which contacted with hers and pushed it along as she reached the table. Once she landed, she was provided with the disadvantage of looking away from Darkskull, which gave him enough time to grab a firm grip on the table she stood on and flipped it over. Without a moment to spare, the dame was once again off her feet, now just barely making it off the surface of the table as it crashed behind her. With its face at her back, Delmaria placed his hands on the "bottom" of the flat and gave it a stern push, knocking it in to her back and toppling it over her as her legs finally gave in with a heave. She caught herself on her hands, but before she could rebound the heavy wooden spread pushed her downward.

Delmaria spun to an enraged Rott, who had finally mustered enough courage to come from behind his place of hiding, and threw himself towards Delmaria. His broadsword coming down on his cutlass felt like a bag of coal being placed right in his hands, but he gripped to it tight as it was knocked off to his side with so much force he was taken with it. He spun wildly until he landed on other side of the table that he had flattened Ramona with, which was proceeded by a loud grunt that could be heard from underneath. The table slumped further down under his weight until he was nearly on his back, but Delmaria knew that if Rott tried to plunge the blade through him, he would be able to move and instead impale Ramona through her back. Instead, Rott gripped Delmaria by his long vest and lugged him off the table, before spinning him around and pistol-whipping him over the surface of the table that had gone unscathed to his left.

Delmaria slid across the wet surface of the table and landed head-first in to a chair on the opposite side, falling down as he made contact and flipping him over to land him in a sitting position as he hit the hard stone ground. Though his coat had managed to absorb most of the shock, the pain still slithered up his spine unbearably, nearly paralyzing him under its grip. He knew, however, that he could not sit there for long if he wanted to live, so he rolled over to his left in the direction of the back of the tavern, and managed to gain enough momentum to roll himself on to his feet. He made a dash in between the tables, caught in between a sprint and a limp, and managed to break out in to the courtyard that sat behind the King's Arm.

The courtyard was surrounded on all sides by crooked stone buildings just about the same height as the bar, with the exception of the farther-right side where underneath a small stone bridge that connected the roofs of two of the buildings a long alleyway lead down to another one of the roads of Tortuga. Lines of wet clothing hung overhead from small, paneled windows opposite to one another, and in the center a tree about 18 feet tall with a mushroom-cap-like canopy of leaves sat neatly trimmed within the confines of a miniature stone garden squarely raised 3 feet off the ground. Delmaria ran up to the tree and jumped on top, waiting impatiently as Rott and a bruised Ramona came through the back doorway of the King's Arm. They looked at each other, then back at him, puzzled. "Well?" he called, "What did you expect?"

Rott rushed forward as Ramona tried to catch her breath. He slashed his broadsword diagonally across Delmaria, but the pirate wrapped his left arm around the small tree that he stood next to and used it to spin himself around it gleefully. By the time he made a full revolution, he caught Rott's rebounding blade again, pushing it back as he completed another half circle around the tree and then stopping there. From behind Ezekiel, Ramona began a charge forward, pushing her captain violently aside as she jumped up on to the garden on the opposite side of Delmaria. She stuck her blade out in a jab, yet missed Delmaria entirely on the wrong side of the tree, allowing Delmaria to grab her shirt and throwing her off behind him.

Darkskull now found himself surrounded on both sides. In front of him, Rott stood menacingly in the dim light of the King's Arm emanating from inside, under the damp, dark sky. Behind him, Ramona gracefully gained her balance as she reorganized her battle plan, rubbing the blade of her blood-stained rapier against the side of her pants. Darkskull caught the eye of the crowds of pirates who had now become more and more interested in the fight, crowding inside the King's Arm and flooding in to the nearby alleyway. He knew that they were watching to decide which side they were to join, because like all pirates, they only stay interested in a side for so long until it starts losing. If he was secure himself, he would have to defend his honor.

The silence was broken when Rott and Guerra simultaneously let out a vicious battle-cry, charging forward with their swords in hand towards the garden that Delmaria stood on top of. Darkskull threw his left arm as tight as possible around the trunk of the tree, pitting it in to his elbow and clenching his muscles around it, and made a quick turn towards Ramona, who he anticipated would reach him first. He cut her blade away as he swung by, then turned right around to Rott and repeated the same action, though his sword was harder to push back than Guerra's flimsy dueling sword. He then instantly kicked off again and returned his attention to Guerra, who attempted to thrust her blade out and stick Delmaria in his side. Delmaria was able to lift a solid foot off the ground and sidekick the blade away as he turned, then flailing his blade downward and landing a small cut on her right shoulder. She let out a little whimper and walked back, which gave Delmaria enough time to deal with Rott for a few moments.

Delmaria came back around and saw that Rott was still trying to gain balance back with his incredibly heavy broadsword, tittering back and forth a little bit as he tried to plant his feet in the dirt. Delmaria bent his knees, and kicked off with both feet to send him high in to the air, bringing his cutlass over his head and coming down in a jumping slash upon the wicked man. Unfortunately his blade's tip only came within an inch of Rott's mangled white beard, but he was still able to make fierce contact with Rott's broadsword. He cut the blade straight out of the Casa de Muertos Guildmaster's hand, hitting it against the floor with a heavy thud.

Rott attempted to back up as far as he could, but he was still within dangerous reach of Delmaria's golden cutlass by the time the pirate had raised his blade to the wicked man's neck. Rott froze in his tracks as the cutlass's trip brushed against his beard, and the entire crowd of Tortuga froze in silence as they waited for Darkskull's judgment. Delmaria saw it then and there - plunging his sword straight in to Rott's neck, watching as the streams of blood poured out on the ground as the remains of Jolly Roger's mockery of the islands died before him. He would have loved the rush it would have given him, but Delmaria knew that about any satisfaction was the Pirate Code, and Tortuga was not a safe place to break it. So, he stuck to chit-chat.

"So you're the man who supposedly disabled one of the Caribbean's finest swordsmen? I find a least a few traces of deceit in that statement." Delmaria pushed out within a few pants of tired breath.

"I may have not have won fairly, but I still won. It's not cheating if you don't get caught, mate." Rott smiled devilishly.

"Seems you've been caught, though?" Delmaria smiled back.

Rott's grin widened. "Not for long."

From behind him, Delmaria could feel something rising against him. A chill crept up and down his back, and his shoulders tensed. He was receiving that feeling children felt when they stayed home alone for the first time, as darkness descends over their home and the ghosts come out to play. Across the courtyard, Ramona slowly ascended to her feet, in her hand a very basic flintlock pistol loaded with an equally basic bullet, though still potent enough to kill a man if you knew how to handle it right. The crowd unsettled itself in gasps of shock, and Delmaria's smile turned to a frown.

"Seems you've caught yourself in a bind, Delmaria. I suggest lowering the sword." Rott quirked.

Delmaria paused for a moment, before slowly lowering the sword down to his side. Darkskull just shook his head. "You've been lying to us all this time, haven't you?"

"Not necessarily lying. I killed him, yes, just not in the manner you all had anticipated. The fact is that he lost, and now he is simply a ghost a few deranged pirates see on the beaches after a few too many drinks. All he remains as is a figment of all of our imaginations."

"You know as much as I do that you saw him, Ezekiel." Delmaria tilted his chin up, looking down at Rott with a sense of disappointment. It reminded Ezekiel of how his father used to look at him every time he failed to complete the simplest tasks. He never was hit or beaten, but the stare itself was enough to scar him emotionally.

Rott leaned in and whispered in to Delmaria's ear "Nobody's ever going to see you, Delmaria."

Delmaria shook his head again. He slipped both of his hands on to Rott's shoulders, leaned in even closer, and responded with "You neither."

By the time Ramona had jolted to pull the trigger on her pistol, Delmaria had already done what he needed to do. While Rott was still uncomfortably close to him, he wrapped both of his arms around the man akin to a bear hug, grabbing him as tightly as possible.. He pulled him with all of his might, trying to make up as much time as possible, and pointed his toe in to the ground, allowing him to make a quick turn. It look like he was ballroom dancing with the pirate, but it had a much more sinister meaning.

The small lead bullet lodged itself in to the right arm of Ezekiel Rott, who almost immediately melted under the excruciating pain. Rott thought back to the first time his brother ever twisted his arm until he nearly cried, the first time he ever was pushed off a rock in to a bush of thorns, or the first time his brother ever managed to wrestle him to the ground. "You can do better than that, Zekie!" his brother always used to giggle at him before running away. And he would always try to run after his brother, but his brother was always faster than him. It was like every goal Rott ever tried to accomplish; the harder he ran towards it the farther away it would go.

As Rott slinked to the ground, Delmaria just slowly stepped back to watch the mongrel slither on to his back, gripping at his arm in pain. Ramona hastily made her way to him as he tried desperately to roll on to his side to help himself up, dropping her pistol on the ground and making her way towards him. As she slid to the ground next to him, Delmaria called from the back doorway of the King's Arm "This is the man you rally behind? Good thing you shot him."

All Ramona could do was respond with her wide variety of curses as she pulled Rott to his feet, which took a considerable amount of time considering his height over her. When he finally managed to push himself upward, he pushed her back violently with his free arm, and turned to Delmaria. "This is NOT over, you little" followed by an equally colorful vocabulary.

Delmaria shrugged it off and was delighted to the cheers and claps of the pirates who surrounded the courtyard as Ramona and Rott limped down the alleyway together. Still, Delmaria noted that a few pirates mixed in to the crowd chose not to clap at all, instead staring with a dark glare at their colleagues. He could tell that some of the men and women of the port had already chosen a new flag.

Regardless, he walked forward to pick up his cutlass from the ground, looking for his reflection as he always did when he looked in to it. It was still there, yet with a few cuts gracing the sides of his chin and cheeks; yet, a small price to pay. Delmaria turned in to the King's Arm, and before sitting down at a nearby table, noticed a sight from all the way across the courtyard.

Dedman was slowly awakening from his daze, trying to find the bullet that had lodged itself in to his heart.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sorry this one took a little longer than the others, but I never really found any time to work on it.

Well, mates, what do you think? It was a little longer than the others, but I hope you enjoyed it! Comment below, por favor!

[The Stealthy Pirate]

gives Del Stealthy's stamp of approval.

[AdmiralSavvy]

Originally Posted by Captain Del

"I may have not have won fairly, but I still won. It's not cheating if you don't get caught, mate." Rott smiled devilishly.

[Robert Ironcastle]

* Claps * Del,why are you not an author??

[Charlotte Truebonney]

Wonderful story as always Captain Del! Waiting in anticipation for the next chapter!

[Captain Del]

Finally!

Thank you for everybody who held on as I slowly worked on my next chapter. Times have been pretty busy lately, but hopefully I've caught a break where I can work on my story more frequently. So, without further delay, I continue with:

Confessions of a "Ded Man"

The initial reaction of a dead man coming alive in the streets of Tortuga was admittedly a more hectic scene than usual in the mecca that was the pirate stronghold. When Delmaria laid eyes on Jeremiah struggling to flee while still disabled on the ground, his immediate reaction was to subdue and capture him while he would still be useful. He darted across the King's Arm before anybody else realized what he was doing, pushing over debris of the skirmish and people who stood in his way. Yet by the time he had made it across the square and thrown himself on top of Jeremiah to keep him from moving, the crowd made eye contact with who was thought to have been shot down nearly instantly upon the impact of the bullet. Some gasped, some looked away, and some just stared; however, within moments, chaos erupted.

As often described by any witty sailor, pirates in Tortuga are notoriously known as being some of the most superstitious in all of the Caribbean. Every wayward who shifts around between the tables of strangers is either looking for a drink to leech off of or a good tale to hear or share; often, some of the most notorious pirates in the entire Caribbean were the ones who were able to tell the best stories, even if some of them weren't true. Men were always looking for something to keep their minds rolling and alive, so one could imagine watching a man resurrect in the streets before their eyes is something not only to behold, but to study. Cheating death in Tortuga was often the norm, but coming back from it was a rare jewel that every pirate wanted to add to his trove, no matter what the cost.

Within seconds a crowd of vicious piranhas had swarmed to the scene, some of the more interested and violent ones attempting to tear Delmaria right off of Dedman. They grabbed at his coat, his shirt, and even his hat (which Delmaria had managed to secure to his head by wrapping a thick black ribbon around the width of his cap tightly) to try and pry him off Dedman, but he held on tightly to the pirate who was desperately trying to breath around the large group of people. They were kicking up clouds of dirt all over the place, nearly blinding the inner circle of men who tried to get at Jeremiah. On the outside of the mass, pirates tried to push their way inward, and a few pirates even ended up with fists in their faces and knees in their stomachs. It took Delmaria a few minutes to realize that this fight over Jeremiah was not just about superstition, as it was about which side you fought for.

While a group of the men who grabbed at Dedman were eager to take him prisoner, there were others with much darker intentions. They saw his ability to come back from life as though it fulfilled the scriptures, and they grabbed at him in hopes that they would lead him to a side stronger than what they were affiliated with. One woman crawled in between the legs of the pirates up to Jeremiah and spirited from him a drop of blood that was trickling down from a damaged nose, immediately rubbing it on her forehead and reciting a strange, voodoo chant of some sort before being brutally knocked over by a shift in the brawl. It was evident that just as many men would fight for freedom, some were willing to die for those who went against it.

Finally, the pirates were able to whisk Jeremiah away in to the King's Arm, and there they laid guard, keeping an eye for anybody who tried to break in and liberate him. A good group of about three dozen men held themselves up inside the tavern, securing it by nailing planks back over the windows and barricading tables and chairs against both the back and front doors. A few of the more brave were instructed to stand guard at the top of the tavern on it's forward balcony, bringing with them muskets to shoot back anybody that looked like they were preparing to storm the tavern. They locked the doors behind them for good measure as well, for it's unpredictable in the Caribbean as to who may show up at your doorstep and how acrobatic they are.

For two days the crew stayed held up inside the tavern, with none of them so much as even motioning near the doors. The large crowd that once had waited anxiously outside the bar, demanding that they release Dedman, had now settled down. Tortuga began to return to its usual pace, with still a small group of buccaneers keeping a heavy eye on the tavern. Yet while the surface still seemed calm, beneath it worry ran amok. Rumors began to shift through the backstreets and lower taverns, allegiances began to be made, and within the King's Arm, strain was beginning to be felt by those who remained loyal to the Brethren.

1

September 1st, 1725
The King's Arm, Tortuga, Hispaniola
12:03 PM

The tavern still remained tense with speculation and drag in to the third day. Many of the soldiers who held the fort down simply sat by themselves across the room, only getting up to get a drink or perhaps spark a quick conversation with their fellow man. Some of them thought it funny to let their imaginations run rampant and conjure up a few stories or rumors surrounding Captain Rott and his companions, but they stopped when Delmaria happened to walk past them. Every time he caught them of speaking of Rott, he shot them a dark, hateful glare that would silence anybody who it met face to face. Darkskull did not take talk lightly, for he knew that words could carry over in belief, and belief could carry over in to treason.

Delmaria always kept his eyes on the cellar door behind Johnny's bar, though he never actually went down there. Beneath the small trap door, Dedman had been imprisoned, and since the night he had been chained nobody even bothered going down there. Not only had he been too tired to cooperate, but he refused to speak of anything, and never even went close to the questions they asked him. The only thing he ever did was yell curses and make personal comments about whoever ventured down there, so they decided it would be best to let him sit in the dank darkness until they could figure out what they could talk to him about. If Delmaria would have had his way, Jeremiah would have been dead in the water by now; unfortunately, he knew that wouldn't serve him any good in the long run.

It was that afternoon that a loud rapping at the door protruded through the tavern. Though many of the pirates became unsettled in their seats and slowly reached for their guns, Delmaria simply dismissed them, believing it was just another disgruntled drunkard looking for a few pints from his usual bar. Yet this one seemed much more persistent - instead of fading off after a few seconds, it continued for upwards of a few minutes. Delmaria stopped pacing back and forth and watching the door shake slightly under the constant beating it was receiving from the other end. From the other side, he could hear what seemed to be a very muffled yell of a single man, and so his assumptions led him back to believe it was nobody.

It was only until one of his mates came through the balcony doors did he consider that it wasn't just anybody else. A scrawny young man with a dirty brown bandanna tied around his curved forehead came shambling through the doors (only opened by completing a specific knock on the door that resembled the rhythm of how McVane washed his bar glasses, which usually served as the entrance to the smugglers den that sat quietly around the corner from the tavern) and made eye contact with the captain, who was at little startled by a sign of active life. "Cap'n, the Fat'er is at tha' door."

"Fat'er? What's that, some sort of pig?" Delmaria joked, to which a few of the men behind him giggled to themselves.

The guardsmen rolled his eyes, saying "No s'r, no pig. I's Fat'er Molony, s'r."

Delmaria grumbled. He had never been in very good standing with the priests of the Caribbean, despite being a man of faith - many turned their backs on him because of his lifestyle of piracy, and by their words "Spawns such as these are not welcome in His house!" Father Molony was no exception; the poor old man had lived in Tortuga for the large portion of his adult life, and watched as the port slowly became more and more chaotic as the years passed on. He managed to sustain one of the only churches that remained standing on Tortuga, while the rest had been burned, looted, or torn apart for the needs of ship repairs. Even at that, his church was usually empty, and the scorning old man had even taught himself to use a pistol in case he had to defend himself against somebody who tried to steal the few artifacts that remained in his home. Ironically, one of his only patrons who did his best to make a visit each time he came in to port was Delmaria, who would often sit in the back pews as he lectured his sermons to the small group of old Spanish women who sparsely populated the front rows. Molony would always turn Darkskull away as he figured he would only draw ruckus from the pirates who loitered nearby, and from their faiths the two had derived a fierce feud against one another. Though, as much as Delmaria wanted to turn him away as he always did to him, he knew doing such a thing would be disrespectful to the men of faith beside him - so, reluctantly, he ordered Molony inside.

The old Irish man hobbled over the piles of boxes and chairs as the door was quickly opened and shut behind him. His long black robe swayed back and forth as he struggled to walk, his age and frail structure finally getting the best of him after his seventy-five years of his "God blessed" years on earth. His thinning, frizzled grey beard that hung slightly off his chin swayed back and forth a little as he came forward, directed by his old, lackluster eyes. His green eyes had the bewildered look every elderly person gains at a certain age, though they were still able to fix on Delmaria. He breathed in with a huff, and let out a raspy yet still emotionally stereotypical Irish accent. "Damn heathen, what in the name of our savior do you think you're doing!? Chaining a poor man in such rancid conditions!"

"I'd ask you the same question, considering you've so politely intruded in to our business. You're lucky you weren't shot on the way here." Delmaria looked down on the short old man, who was small in comparison to the five-foot-eleven Delmaria.

Molony breathed in a little raspily as he looked around the room at all the men who were staring at him. He then turned back to Delmaria, and pointed a bony finger in to his chest. "You think this way because you are not one with God! He protects me!"

"I don't care how many essences you've been smelling lately Father, you shouldn't be here. This is not your place." Delmaria shook his head. As much as he had a feud with Molony, he was not ready to watch a priest be killed in the mean streets of the city he devoted his life to cleansing.

"No, this is my place!" Molony scoffed, turning away from the pirate and beginning to walk towards McVane, who was nonchalantly drinking from one of his own bottles behind the counter. "My son, surely you can direct me to where they are keeping that poor man hostage. Your soul must not be corrupted by them!" the friar shouted, throwing his arm back to the rest of the room.

The crowd of pirates said nothing, as the majority of them relied on faith to keep them through long voyages. Delmaria, however, stormed over to the bar in protest. "God dammit, this isn't your place you old hag!"

The priest gasped, turning to Delmaria as he tried to dig in to the deep side pockets of his robe. He pulled out a small set of rosary beads, gripped it by the small cross that hung from the beads, and waved it in front of Delmaria. "Scum, speak not of your Father lest you wish to be damned yourself!"

Delmaria huffed, swiping the rosary beads viciously out of the old man's hands and wrapping them in his own hands, to make sure they didn't fall out. "I've been damned for twenty years and the devil hasn't caught me yet. You're not going to stop me." Delmaria turned about and walked straight before the landslide of rift-raft that blockaded the doors to the tavern. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to ask you leave."

Molony hobbled over, trying desperately to keep up with the captain. "You’re wrong with that! The devil may not have killed you, but his demons reside within you!" Molony pointed another bony finger in to the pirate's chest.

Perhaps the priest was correct, Delmaria thought to himself. He may not be dead, but he often caught himself thinking that he either should be, or wanted to be. All of the spoils and victories in his life were just dust covering the larger painting of his life, which played out a romantic depiction of the deaths and tragedies that he had witnessed before him. Whether the work of demons, or the work of his own doings, it was and would remain a mystery to him until he stood before the scales. As Molony turned around in rebellion and began heading back towards the bar, Delmaria tucked the rosaries in to his pocket, and chased after the old friar.

If there was one thing that Molony was, it was persistent. When reached the bar, he slammed his hands down on top and turned back to the rest of the tavern. “Please, children of God, do you not see this injustice!? Every man must be introduced to faith!” he shouted at the top of his old, dusted lungs.

Before Delmaria could turn away, however, he caught eye of a shift in the tavern. He was the men beginning to shift where they sat and rub their necks uncomfortably. They bit their lips to prevent themselves from saying anything, though they wanted to say much more than would be healthy for them if Delmaria could reach them with a few seconds of their lives. Darkskull knew that the last thing he wanted was the tavern to turn on him, because many of the men in the bar still turned to faith daily, whether on the seas for protection or just to make them through a rough night – they would turn their backs on him before they turned their backs on God.

“Fine.” Delmaria sighed loudly, breaking the composure of the tavern. Many of them sat up from their slouches and tilted their hats up in bewilderment as they watched the disgruntled pirate slide over the counter of the King’s Arm, on to the patch of floor that sat just before an old, rusty trap door that sat next to him. It was a large, heavy piece of oak looking as though it had been thrown down on the floor and left to wade under time – but beneath it, something much more sinister laid.

Delmaria reached down and grasped a firm hand around the iron rung that sat on top of the door, heaving it upward and letting a gust of stale, dusty wind come up from the basement. He pointed to five pirates closest to the bar consecutively, and then to Johnny, and finally Molony. He wanted them all to come.

2

The motley crew descended in to what looked like a black hole in the middle of the floor, in to a deep, perpetual darkness that seemed to keep them from seeing more than 3 feet in front of their face, like a black fog. Luckily Delmaria grabbed a hold of a small lantern that sat on the counter of the bar, and lit it as he descended down the narrow would stairs ahead the rest of the group. It illuminated the dank, creepy holding area; a room of complete cobblestone acting as a small winery, with two extremely large winery canisters for holding larger qualities of alcohol sitting side by side, which covered nearly the entire width of the room on their halve. Opposite, boxes, chairs, tables, brooms, and other not-so-necessary necessities were thrown lazily on top of one another, as though somebody felt like setting a bonfire but only got so close as to creative the mound of wooden junk. Cobwebs ran littered across the floor, and a few rats scampered across the floor to head in to hiding behind the barrels and crates.

Molony clenched his hand over his noise as the putrid smell of spilt and mixed alcohol fumes ran up his nose, and Johnny behind him winched painfully in remorse as though he did not want the priest to feel uncomfortable. The five pirates in front of them clutched their muskets tightly as one by one of them made eye contact with the devil that sat in the room. Delmaria simply walked in to the middle of the room and stared a cold, hard stare down at the man before him.

Jeremiah looked as though he had run through a battleground. His coat dusted and torn in patches, it was thrown dolorously off to sit at the bends of his elbows, tucked beneath the blood-stained clothes that ruffled on his body. His face was a mess, beaten and bruised in all sorts of places after hours of “interrogation” from the pirates, but the stonewall had refused to talk. He was now chained by the chest to the farthest of the two canisters, sitting with no manner in his face, and slowly drifting off to sleep.

“Get the hell up.” Delmaria kicked Jeremiah in the leg, jolting the man to an abrupt awakening. His head hit back against the wood of the container, leaving a throbbing pain in his bald head.

“Oh God, leave him be!” Molony shook as he pushed the pirate guards aside. He ran in the general direction of Dedman, but before he could reach him Delmaria quickly reached out an arm and whipped the man back.

“Oh Christ, I know you’re a missionary, but you aren’t blind!” Delmaria skimmed him back over to the rest of the men, who caught him and held him back. “You said you wanted to see him, not perform miracles. Shut your mouth and let me talk before we throw you back upstairs.”

“Tempered, aren’t we?” Dedman’s dry, twisted voice croaked from the floor.

“Damn right I am, now shut your mouth.” Delmaria gruffed. “Have you been having fun down here, staring in to the shadows?”

Jeremiah shrugged as much as his sore shoulders allowed. “It’s tiring when all you have to talk to is the rats. Nice job of cleaning, by the way, Johnny.” Dedman smiled over to McVane.

“Oh don’t baby yourself. I did this for ten days without a single mention of contact.” Delmaria lectured proudly.

“Sounds more like you pity yourself than anybody else here, Darkskull.”
Delmaria shrugged the comment off. “You know, this could all be over if you simply told us where Rott was. You would make all of us a lot happier, and we could all go our merry ways.”

“Oh obviously not. I know your game, Delmaria – you would have me rat out my captain and then shoot me on the spot. Don’t think I haven’t seen or heard of what you’ve done in the past.”

“The only reason I’ve ever shot men like that in the past is because they either begged for it, or it was because they pestered me to the point I simply needed satisfaction of killing them.”

“Ah, so that’s why you killed your son? For satisfaction?”

Delmaria’s heart stopped. Normally when he spoke or argued he gathered a pace of motion, and he was only interrupted in that pace when he was offset. In the second in which his pattern broke, and he froze, he built up enough rage to kick his foot square in to Dedman’s nose, sending a spout of blood straight down his nasal canal, and sandwiching the back of his head on to the front of the canister. Delmaria stepped back, and watched as Jeremiah moaned and groaned under his pain. He didn’t say anything yet – he wanted Jeremiah to seep up all the pain of the moment before he said anything.

When Jeremiah finally calmed down, he continued. “You truly do enjoy being a loser, don’t you?”

Dedman sniffed his nose, sending a drop of blood that dangled from his nostril back in to hiding, and moaned behind a muffled, dying voice “Only because you like seeing me as one.”

“I’m selling your freedom at this point. Either you accept my offer or we leave you here to be eaten by the rats.”

Jeremiah look around the room in a daze, as if he looked for somebody to back him up, and continued. “I have nothing to lose by dying here. The rats won’t eat their own, either.” He cackled in between shallow gasps for air.

Delmaria had had enough. He turned about and began walking by, but as he did Molony wrestled free of the pirate guards and broke away from their grip, shambling over to Jeremiah. He knelt down next to the cursed pirate, and Delmaria, in shock, turned about as he reached for his gun.

Molony pleaded with Dedman. “Oh my son, how you have been turned from your course! Can you not see the light and turn towards your savior, Jesus Christ!?”

Jeremiah nodded his head no, a disgusting, predatory smile coming over his face. Delmaria knew he had to step in, and nearly lunged forward as he reached for his gun as Molony continued.

“Why not, my son?” Molony gasped, caught in awe as he gazed in to the man’s eyes.

Dedman stopped tilting his head and instead turned straight in the direction of Molony. His eyes were lit ablaze with a deep, sickening fire, and his smile was mired by that of a lost child. “Your God is not here, Father.”

Before Dedman could slip his hand out of the chains and grip Molony by the neck, Delmaria grabbed the priest from behind and threw him backward in to the hands of the guards. His pistol went straight in to Dedman’s face, and he stomped his foot down on the pirate’s hand to keep him from taking it anywhere. For a brief moment, the two made eye contact – and in that time, Delmaria could see Dedman’s smile light up even brighter. He knew that if he let him die, death was in what he could find happiness.

He cut short the second-long decision to fire his pistol, and instead hit the barrel of the gun against the nozzle that controlled the release of the alcohol just above Dedman’s head. A deep red wine came pouring out, drowning Dedman as he gasped and fought for air. Darkskull turned around, ushering the men quickly out of the basement as a pain-stricken Molony cried in grief.

And as Delmaria descended up the stairs, he could hear Dedman shout something. It was all gurgled, except for one word; the word “Spectacular.”

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Well mates, what do you think? Please be sure to rate and comment below!

Thanks mates!

[Robert Ironcastle]

Del,you always keep us guessing.