[Captain Del]

And here we are, mates! Another chapter, just for you! Hopefully the title of this one sounds familiar...

And so, I present:

Those Condemned To Freedom

The Victory Shark rocked quietly back and forth against the light waves that corressed it, the calm breezes of the night shifting the masts between their forward position, and being craddled backwards. The stars were shrouded by a topping of clouds that stretched from every point on the horizon, sending from the heavans a measly rain that pattered against the solid wooden decks. A faint glimpse of the moon vibrated behind the layer, but it was not enough to match the thick shroud of darkness that consumed the abyss. It was as though the ship was the only existence on these waters, a lone planet in the blank coldness of space. The latterns that usually sat along the edge of the ship to keep the night alit were now submerged out, either drenched of their fires, or thrown over in to the deep seas that rocked below. The only form of light eminating was that of a group of well-lit latterns and candles, that shined through the light within the Captain's Quarters.

The crew was allowed in this part of a ship only because of the unfamiliar cold weather that plagued the crew's quarters, and because it was a common superstition amongst the crew that the night after a crew mate lives, their ghost wanders by their belongings, until they appropiately sent off on a piece of driftwood. They sat on rare, tattered cushions scattered on the floor, chairs, and even on Delmaria's hammock, eating their dinner - Delmaria didn't mind, as he was more concerned over what he was reading.

The Captain's eye's glazed hurriedly over the journal, his feet propped up against a few less-than-important-more-than-dire papers that were now crumpled on his desk, leaning back in nearly and fourty-five degree angle. He was reading over the research book that Wisdom was almost constantly writing in, tucking it away when anybody ever tried to see what he was writing. The arcane images and texts that he had been writing down were disturbing and confusing, but Delmaria got the general idea down.

Wisdom was studying the nature of the Caribbean, how "it's waters were more majestical, it's skies more wide, it's depth more undefined" than any other place on Earth. He somehow connected the features and wavelengths of each and every near organism and event in the the sea to a constantly shifting yet relatable pattern, each moving in a direct and indirect direction to another aspect. When a tree was planted, five ships would enter port in Tortuga. When a pirate was hung, two alligators died, and other nonconsistent mumbo-jumbo like that. Yet Wisdom somehow broke it all down to a unique yet recognizable science, which was connected to everything, but nothing in particular.

Cracking this code, in Wisdom's mind, would give one sole understanding and control over the Caribbean, and in return, ultimate power. Unfortunately, he would never live to see his goal of supreme dictatorship reached, and Darkskull could care less about how fascinating the "logorithms of crabs" were. But he saw this as more of look in to a being than an experiment.

In reality, Wisdom seemed to be consumed by wisdom, ironicly. He would allow himself to be consumed by facts and theorums, preventing his mind from wandering anywhere beyond the realm of the known. Was his mind so hungry of knowledge that it could only be satisfied by a lust for power?

After reaching in to about a third of the massive book, Delmaria swung the book upward, and let it fall on to his desk with a loud thud. The entire group reached up their heads in response, as Darkskull folded is hands in his lap. He tilted his head back and stared up to the wooden ceiling, like he was expecting it to say something. He took a deep sigh, and asked out to the crew "Do you know why I do this?"

Andrew, who was sitting with legs crossed on a little cushion in the corner of the room, huddled over a small bowl sitting in his lap, cautiously answered "Do... what?"

Delmaria stood up, picking the journal up off the desk, and walked around, craddled behind his back. "Why I'm one of you, of course."

They looked around, questioning each other with glances. Darkskull rounded to the front of his desk, and sat on it's front. He shook his head with a light smile, and continued.

"Freedom is sometimes never a choice, my friends. I wasn't brought here by dream, by rebellion, by philosophy - I was brought here by force. I run my life constantly moving, not able to plant roots or enjoy the simpler things of life. A family, a home, a..son....." his voice trailed off, but he refocused and forged on. "I'm here because I was jailed in to this lifestyle, and I was locked in with no key to help me out. Life has simply turned me in to the mouse, and society is the cat. I wander, I fight, I plunder - but for what? I always asked myself. But now I have realized, I do it for a purpose.

"I do it because what we were taught is wrong. That we must not lead ourselves to follow, that we are precious in our own hearts and minds alike! We are not born to be the pawns in a game of chess! We are here to live, to thrive, and to be different! We are those condemned to freedom, but this is the prison we are proud to serve in!"

The pirates sat in silence, awed by the presence and voice their captain beheld to himself. They were unsure whether to cheer uproariously, or nod in agreement.

But the eerie silence was ended when Lawrence hurried himself in, and slammed the door behind him, the wind outside now at full blast. His clothes were dripping wet as he splashed to the center of the room as quietly as possible. "Destination set, captain."

"Destination?" Delmaria questioned. "I never said to set out anywhere.."

"Well, you said we needed some new mates, aye?"

"Aye."

Lawrence grinned. "Then I know just the place!"

1

"Bloodied privateers!" Delmaria cried out angriedly as he fell to his knees on the sun-frenched dock, staring at the numerous battle-scars across his ship. "Why in God's creation were those light sloops made to carry such artilery! Unnatural, I say!" He stood up and started kicking the wood below him, throwing his hat in each direction - running after it, throwing it, repeat.

The rest of the crew hopped on to the small dock, the sun blazing at it's highest peak in the clear blue sky, pappable to the crystal waters that sat with no motion. It glistened quietly, as the long, narrow dock led as though it were a connection the bustle of the strange strip of land off at their side. It was a long, horizontal beach that slowly inclined up to a break of vegetation at the left end, where the hill began stepper, and then led off to a group of trees that extended over a cliff parallel to the beach, which ended it at it's way inward. Huge rocks sat at the base of the massive cliff, which bore small, ragged tents that took shade from the light above. Among the tents where small shops - a small, wooden, black hut that had long drapes of exotic, silken cloth over it's front, a rogue gypsy cart that sat amongst the waves of people that flooded the sand - even a gunsmith, his shop craftfully shaped in the form of the bow of a large war ship that had "rammed" itself to the lower end of the wall of stone, where the continuation of the hill connected itself to the overpass. The land curved up with the hill at the right, creating a small wall that was washed by the licking of the waters. A small mountain rose out from the sea to meet that small end, and with it, in it's front, sat a tavern, resembling well to the others of the Caribbean, just barely touching the edge.

Delmaria motioned Lawrence over to the shipwright, a bag of clanking gold coins jumping from the captain's hand to his mate's, as they stepped from the meager dock to the wet sand below. They could finally see the full length of the island - and a sight to behold, it was. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of people, cloaked in soot and rich fabric alike, scattered amongst the massive crowd that moved from tent to tent. Tongues of languages of new and old flooded the air, making but a usual buzzing sound, with a slight accent of flavor. When the cliff made it's final curve with the wrap of the island far at the left, a large, stable tower rose out of the ground, the triumphant monument of the glorious scene. It was tall yet fat, a few stories high, opening at the top to a small area, then topped with a thick roof grazed with enormous mounds of boxes and barrels, sacks and bags. At it's face, a long, swaying flag of blue, white and red shined like the crown jewel of the port.

"This is where we're supposed to get our new blood?" Grace's jaw dropped as she sighed, waving her brimmed hat in her face to cool herself off.

"What did you expect? We need a cannoneer, and what not a better place?" Darkskull pranced as he headed up the littlr incline, emersing himself in the crowd. As the people passed about him, he twirled himself slightly, breathing in the embrace of the familiar area around him. He felt as though he had shifted back in time, remembering the old times he spent along this same patch of gravel, and the seas around it. He brushed his upper right arm lightly, where, under heavy layers of leather and cloth, sat the smeared ink of a fleur-de-lis.

A loud shout, smothered by the overpowering roar of the day, rang out not to far from Delmaria - at the top of the hill, at the side of the tavern. A group of highly decorated privateers, drapped in light, sleeveless, tight blue clothes from head to toe pushed over a small, young looking fellow as he tumbled over down the hill. A girl, screaming, ran down after him, as the men threw down small objects at him, ranging from rocks to fragments of led, most likely from cannonballs. He rolled until he was nearly hidden by the crowd, his outline glistening by the feet of other people walking by, not giving a care to the dramas about them. As long as they were not involved, they would not get involved, they talked to themselves, staring as they passed the flowly forming pool of blood that ringed around the boy's face.

Darkskull, compelled, ran to the boy as the frenchies at the top of the hill continued to call names. He knelt by the side of the blood, who was lying face first, his arms propped in a praying, bridge like position under his head, gasping heavily. "You ok, mate?"

The boy just turned to him, his face streak red, dazed and confused. He rambled out a twisted and tough work of slips and slurks, speaking in French, no doubt. Delmaria shook his head no, as the girl ran furiously to his side, kneeling opposite Delmaria. She called in a light french accent, barely noticable - mixed with English, it sounded. She swatted little bands of hair out of her face as she gasped "Oh, my poor brother! Are you ok?"

"He's just winded, is all. He'll be fine." Delmaria assured as he tugged off his heavy, black leather coat.

"Oh, I hope so.." She flipped the boy on to his back, whipping blood away from his mouth with a small, pure white hankerchief.

"His name?" Delmaria questioned as he tucked his coat in a ball under the boy's head, to act as support. The girl was too flustered to pay attention - she turned to face the men at the top of the hill, and began screaming at them as she pounded her feet up the hill, swearing in all unmentionable terms and slangs. She took of her small, black feathered hat and threw it on the ground, almost in a challenging manner, as the boys just taunted her. Delmaria turned back to the boy, and pointed to the boy's chest, shaping his face in a questioning manner.

The boy turned up, and, between a gasp, said "Je... je suis... je suis Le... Le Corsaire!"

Delmaria was to respond, when a shriek came out from the direction where the girl was. The pirate turned to see one of the privateer's gripping his massive hand around her arm, tugging her in sporadic directions to shake her up. She was not scared nor intimadated, but only kicked at him, trying to make him let her go. Slowly, the other men came down the hill, preparing to encircle her.

In a fatherly instinctive motion, Delmaria stood up and ran up to the one gripping the girl by the arm. Before he could turn to face him, a large, stern, tanned first crunched against his cheek, knocking him off of the girl, and away from him. Darkskull continued forward, sending another punch to the ribcage, bending the man over in a gasp of lost wind. He gripped on to the back of his head, pulled it up, and slammed the privateer's face directly in to his knee, tossing him away like garbage. When another tried to approach him in rebuttle, he simply slapped him in a mocking way across the face, then kicking him in to chest, away from him. As the others became interested, Delmaria whipped out his golden, shining cutlass, immediately turning them away.

"How dare you!" Delmaria shouted, almost disappointed. The others saw it as a challenge, but the captain elaborated. "To take advantage of a brother and sister of your native blood, and for what? Have you no shame! We are all equal, and you above known should know that! A disgrace to freedom is as free as you'll ever be!"

The privateers looked disgusted, and Delmaria jumped forward tauntingly, startling them backward. "You make my spine shiver, to think that I have to share these seas with the arrogant, otherly-loathing likes of you! If it weren't for my honor...." Darkskull was caught offguard by John, who clamped his hand on the pirate's shoulder from behind. He directed the captain's attention to the boy and girl, who were being helped up by the rest of the crew; that, and the circle of attention that had formed around him. Eeriely, it was quiet.

2

"I must thank you again.. you, have no idea..." the girl thanked over again and again, her hands rubbing against the wooden bar table. They sat in the middle of the French tavern, darkly and medievally lit and decored, although the setup was similar to that of the usual complex - circle of tables, unorganized, unassigned chairs, stools, and benches, random bottles and jars laying in every inch of movement, and a heavily packed bar at the back, with a long overhang of various cargoes of liquiors, meats, and grains tied and bound orderly. People flooded through the bar, much like outside, only cramped to a small quarter area.

"It's fine.. the buggers deserved it." Delmaria sipped an extraordinarily strong bottle of wine, more than likely spiked by the bartender, who Delmaria believed to be scoping him out "because of his devil-like looks."

The girl smirked, a little laugh, and said "I apologize," she reached out a hand. "Sierra, is my name. And my brother," she motioned to the man, heavily leaning over a bottle, his head tilted down to ignore contact, "his name is Adrien - but, he prefers Le Corsaire Francias."

"The kind of a blind patriot, I see. Not much of a talker?"

"Nah, he's much of one - he just needs to be opened up, get to know you. Plus, he understands little English."

"I assure you, I understand little English as well under certain conditions of intoxication."

She huffed. "Funny. What brings a pirate like you to the Rough Waters?"

"We've recently undergone a recent... change. We're missing two crew mates, due to them.. dropping out. And it seems, we'll be needing two more..."

She picked up the hint easily. "Well, I'm not sure... you see... I come here to raise my money, aye? My brother and I, we have no place to go - as do many of here, sharing the same situation. Many think that living the life of a privateer is glamorous, adventurous.... but all we know is fear. Constant fear, death, and sorrows. Not a day goes by we do not give our grace, pray that we were not left out on the waters which we sail every, single, day."

Delmaria hushed her, an understanding nod. "Which is why I'm here. I can be your messiah, my friemd."

"Blasphemy!" A booming, heavy accent screamed from behind. Delmaria turned to face the murky, overpowering stench of cologne, that smelled more like perfum than anything else. A stingy, heavily maked-up face stared down at him, the face pale white, with roses of red and blue showing out lightly in the cheeks and around the eyes. His long, pointed nose looked as though it was accusing you, but his red, curly hair contradicted that, more like a clowns wig than actual hair. "Ah.. so it was true!"

Delmaria stood up, giving a humorous bow as the rest of the tavern went quiet, hanging their heads in solemn, nearly forced respect. "Good evening Senorita Porc. And you are?"

The lord glared, but shrugged off the comment. "You know well not to come here anymore! Not after.."

"Your treason? Yes, I know of your tyranical, traitorious ways."

"SILENCE!" He snapped at him. "If you come here, you have come to repay your debt, NOT to take more of my followers."

"You mean slaves?"

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Well, that's it for now. I'll cut it off nice and abrupt - let your imagination take over for now