text: [Themes: fantasy, fantasy, war, humor, action]
  
  You! Yes, you. Are you looking for a life of adventure? Do you want your name to live forever in history? Join the High King's army today, and all that (and more!) could be yours! *the High King is not responsible for any bodily harm or fatalities allegedly caused by this message.
  
  Another poster on a billboard littered with hundreds of them. The entire wall is covered with similar messages, the High King's insignia proudly displayed in the middle. It's a simple insignia for a man who is the most powerful in the world. Your neighbor to the east, Supreme Leader Fargrave, might not agree. Still, it's your High King who is leading and profiting from expeditions to the New World, not Fargrave and the territory of Magda. Back to the billboard in front of you; another catches your eye. And yes, in the center is an upside down sword with a golden crown at the top.
  
  The gunslinger's life is a hard lonely road. The High King offers abundance in both food and comradery! Safety in numbers!
  
  Not the most creative of slogans, or the catchiest, but something's doing the trick. Your peers are enlisting by the thousands. At this point, it's easier to remember who hasn't enlisted rather than who has. And who wouldn't join? There are countless stories of treasures discovered, battles won, and wealth sent back to families. The town crier wails every night on the High King's victory in the New World, seeping his message into the very dreams of the citizens of Alteran.
  
  Rumors are that the New World is even larger than the Old. The High King's Alteran and Fargrave's Magda take up about sixty percent of the landmass of the Old. The rest is littered with various republics and "the people's blah, blah, blah." Who even keeps track of those small territories? None present an actual threat in either trade, military power, or--well, that's all that matters. Give it a hundred years or so and they'll all belong to either the High King or the Supreme Leader (spit). You've never had the best of luck in the gambling den, but you'd put your money on that bet every time.
  
  Fools. Some things are just too good to be true. The New World speaks to a man. It whispers tender secrets of possession and satisfaction, lining the message with a good ol' fashioned appeal to man's stubbornness. Come to me, it says. Your efforts will be rewarded. It's a hard life, but the payout is well worth it. Or stay put. Live the rest of your life wondering "What if?" Men with no military experience sign up for the frontlines. For what purpose? To avoid asking themselves that very question. What if?
  
  Fools. They can't think for themselves, needing the High King's expedition to lead them into a life full of adventure, putting their life in danger for material wealth and prosperity. And you? Heh. You're the biggest fool of them all. You enlisted before the New World expeditions even began.
  
  "Were you going to join us or do you prefer the company of the billboard?"
  
  You turn to see Corporal Redding. The man's scraggly beard, now graying, is stained with ale, the top two buttons of his uniform open. The High King's military uniform. At times, it looks too proper for the messiness of war. Still, that's how the High King governs, with a proper chain of command and regal attire. A long sweeping coat accompanies the uniform, reaching nearly to the standard issue knee-high boots. It's a dark navy color, stitched with golden trim, seven buttons down the front, gold as well.
  
  Redding takes a large gulp of ale as he expectantly awaits your answer.
  
  > say "These posters are getting worse everyday."
  "These posters are getting worse everyday," you comment. "Look at this one. 'I lost my father to sickness, but gained another through the High King.' Do people actually enlist because of this shit?"
  
  Corporal Redding laughs. A few ale droplets from his beard take flight in the air. "Ha! Those would be your esteemed brothers-in-arms. If anything, they can distract the enemy long enough for you to find an opening."
  
  "That's not exactly a winning strategy. The High King will soon run out of meat shields."
  
  "Careful with that," Redding lowers his voice, sobering for a moment. "You shouldn't say such things in cities like this one. "The High King's superior weaponry and engineering vastly overshadow any of our shortcomings."
  
  "It's a road of ups and downs," you say. Pondering a moment, you continue. "Actually it's more like a circle. Wizards used to rule the battlefield. Then we invented the flintlock. Then breastplates were worn without a full suit of armor as people realized the majority of bullets were hitting the chest area. Since that's the case, why weigh yourself down with steel greaves and gauntlets? But then these partially armored men found themselves severely underprotected against full armored knights, and guess what? More emphasis was put on training wizards, coming full circle."
  
  "Makes you wonder what's next," Redding comments.
  
  You sigh. "Probably something similar to what we've seen before, only to a much deadlier degree."
  
  "Can't say I disagree with you there. Come on and enjoy the company of the men. Who knows when we'll get another chance."
  
  "Is that an order?" you lightheartedly ask.
  
  "Damn right it is."
  
  > Continue
  There are twelve of you total, including Corporal Redding. The High King is about order; he's about structure. There is a clear chain of command in the army, and you best follow it. Often jumping rank, not reporting to your immediate superior, ends with blame on the one jumping, even if the subject of discussion is your immediate superior. It's not a perfect system, but it's a clean one. Neat and orderly, just the way the High King likes it.
  
  "And he shat his pants mid-swing!"
  
  While the High King values pristine order, his soldiers have a different emphasis. Staying alive for one, the gentle manners of a gentleman coming second, and second is being generous.
  
  "Bastus, I was there. I seem to remember you being the one with the loaded trousers," another soldier chimes in. Lionel, perhaps the most proper of you all. His clean shaven head and face speaks to keeping military standards. You prefer to keep your hair long and a little scruff.
  
  "No, I don't think that's right," Bastus ponders, placing a hand on his chin in thought. It disappears into the thicket of his foot-long beard. "Hard to say what really happened. If only we had eye-witnesses."
  
  "I was there!"
  
  "Ok, ok, does it really matter who exactly wore the loaded trousers?"
  
  This went on for another thirty minutes. Your mind began to wander early on. It's a story you've heard before, one of Bastus' favorites to tell at the ale table. Man does he like telling stories revolving around a fecal focal point.
  
  As night slowly creeps in, you excuse yourself from the table in order to rest up for the morning. Your journey to the New World embarks in mere hours, and you'd rather not spend the first day nursing a hangover. You'll save that for midway through when boredom settles in, one of the perks of enlisting in the army rather than the navy. The High King's sailors will be hard at work; you just need to stay out of their way.
  
  Caught deep in thoughts of tomorrow, you almost don't see them.
  
  Two brigands brandishing large knives step into your path, abandoning their hiding place in the comforting shadows of a nearby alleyway. Their clothing is poor. Not even boasting simple leather as protection, the bare minimum. Booze reeks from their breath, likely the only reason enough courage is mustered to approach a soldier in the High King's army. Even then, they seem a little hesitant.
  
  "Can I help you gentlemen?" your voice fills the silence of the night.
  
  They glance at one another. "We're a little down on our luck, good sir, and could aid in the form of coin," one says.
  
  "Seems you have enough luck to afford a bottle," you comment. "Surely, that doesn't mean you're too far down on luck."
  
  "Fortunate we came across it," the other one inputs. "What about tomorrow? What about--" As he speaks, he walks towards your flank. You cut him off mid-sentence. The distinct click from your flintlock echoes from your palm.
  
  "That's far enough. Now I'm tired and a little drunk and I have to be up early tomorrow. I can't speak for you, but I highly recommend finding easier prey. You see, I'm one of those soldiers who notch their kills." Briefly you flash the grip of your pistol. "That's only this year. The High King likes to ensure his soldiers have pristine equipment. You should see my issued flintlock from last year. The handle was a god damn puzzle piece by the end. Now I have no problem shooting you dead and continuing on my way. What will keep me up at night, is deciding whether or not your miserable bodies are deserving of being notched. I'm leaning towards no, but a kill is a kill."
  
  "Just looking for a spare coin is all," the first one answers. "You have a good night, good sir."
  
  "You as well, gentlemen," you say, allowing them to move out of your walking path. Perhaps when they're sober tomorrow they'll realize no soldier in their right mind would notch a flintlock. Perhaps they'll realize the High King doesn't refresh equipment every year. Perhaps they'll realize you were lying through your teeth. Perhaps they knew you were lying just now, but they caught the one and only truthful statement from your little monologue: you have no problem shooting them dead and continuing on your way.
  
  > The next day
  You didn't get as much sleep as you hoped. Such is the life of a soldier. When not touring, you're out late drinking. When on duty, you're fighting for your life. Sometimes those two actions feel the same. Either way, you're used to operating on minimal sleep. Despite how you feel, it's time to get up. There's a parade for your send-off, after all.
  
  It's not specifically for you, of course. If anyone could claim that honor, it'd be Captain Briggs, the ranking officer in charge of the entire battalion. Still, you doubt much of the man's commands are his. The High King loves structure. Orders are likely passed, trickling down like a pail of water spilled at the top of a hill. The result is a stage of stringed puppets, with the High King (and his trusted advisors) holding the strings.
  
  You prepare for the parade with the rest of the company. Messenger boys arrive early in the morning to pick up equipment for the voyage. The High King's soldiers can't be seen lugging their own cargo. No, that wouldn't be proper. It's their duty to dress nice, to reflect the High King's honor in their apparel. It took a few times, but you're finally used to dressing as if you're attending a classy wedding when shipping off to war.
  
  Thankfully, since the tour is first by sea, you don't have to strap on armor. Seems even the Alteran citizens will question the logic of a bunch of armored soldiers piling into a boat. The last border dispute your company took part in required marching through the streets in full plate. A few miles out of town, you were allowed to remove it. Whoever issued the command obviously has never marched in full plate before. The little show made the company a day late to the border. Corporal Redding sure got an earful for that, not that the man cared.
  
  Your long navy coat is buttoned completely to the top, tight against your neck, but not overly so. The length of the coat nearly touches your knee-high boots, which are freshly shined thanks to the High King. You holster your flintlock to your thigh. It melds underneath the length of your coat, poking its head through with each step. Your longsword crosses your back from right shoulder to left hip. The twelve of you, led by Corporal Redding, looking as classy as royal butlers, though a little more heavily armed, make your way into the street.
  
  The parade takes you down the center street of the city. On either side of you, citizens gather to see the spectacle. Wizards, strategically placed, fire spells into the air. After a few of such parades, the High King learned fireworks get too messy. Someone's got to pick up the remains. With each explosive spell in the air, the crowd oohs and ahhs, the occasional child hiding behind their mother.
  
  > focus on the crowd
  It may not be your first one of these, but damn if you won't enjoy it. It's not every day thousands upon thousands of people are cheering for you. As you march down the cobbled streets, you raise a hand and flash a smile towards the sea of faces. The result is a cheer from the crowd, their incessant cries raising in volume. That's neat. You're about to send them another wave when Corporal Redding stops you.
  
  "Enough of that, man."
  
  "I'm just giving the people what they want," you answer.
  
  "I wouldn't draw too much attention to yourself."
  
  "Why?"
  
  Redding marches in silence for a few seconds, then whispers back. "In the field, danger comes in the form of opposing colors. The city doesn't afford such a luxury."
  
  Strange. Corporal Redding is someone who typically enjoys the finer things in life, like a mug of ale and...well, sometimes that's all you need. What's got him spooked? Despite his tendency to drink, something that ails most soldiers, he's always been good to you. If he doesn't want you to react to the crowd, then you won't. An order is an order, even those arriving in cryptic form.
  
  You continue your march taking on a stoic demeanor. Citizens love that version as well, a soldier mulling over the gravity of his situation, possibly marching through the streets of his city for the final time, a life risked for the glory of the High King. Eyes. Yes, there are countless upon you, but you suddenly get the feeling of being watched, not from a cheering member of the crowd, but from someone with an ulterior motive for attending the parade.
  
  Your eyes quickly scan through the crowd, searching for danger. It may be nothing. It may just be all in your head, but as a soldier you've learned to trust your instincts. They've kept you alive so far, so might as well continue the streak. All you find are cheering citizens, nothing of the sinister nature you felt. It may be nothing. But you continue to stay alert just in case.
  
  > continue marching
  The street leads directly to the harbor. Along the way, a little girl breaks from the citizen barriers and runs up to you. She hands you a small flower, a single stem with blooming white petals, then quickly runs back to her mother. Out of the corner of your eye, you see members of the city watch approaching the mother. They engage in an argument, and you know full-well who wins in the end. The path of the parade takes you away from them. As you set the flower into your coat pocket, you silently hope the repercussions wouldn't be too great on the mother. Still, it's the watch's duty to preserve order. They can't have people rushing past barriers, children or no.
  
  Your home for the next few weeks stares back at you. Devastator, a galleon of tremendous size, boasting enough space for several companies to reside, while still maintaining ample firepower. Smaller ships, brigatines, travel in the fleet as the main defense, their smaller bodies able to navigate the sea for quick aid should trouble arise. The company, led by Corporal Redding, takes to the boardwalk and onto the galleon. They have you stand at the ship's rails, along with the other companies aboard Devastator. Just in front of the docks lies a stage and podium. It wouldn't be a proper send-off to war without a speech from the damn mayor.
  
  The mayor takes position at the podium, dressed in a neat blue suit, his hair perfectly combed to the side. Next to him, a wizard casts a spell to magically project the mayor's words over the crowd.
  
  "Good citizens of the High King! Greetings! (A cheer rises from the crowd). We have before us the finest men and women created by God, those possessing an unsurpassed bravery and call of duty. They have answered the call of their God and High King to bring our, yes all of our, glory to the New World. Unlimited wealth lies on the other side of the sea, a land so vast that it puts ours to shame. (Murmuring ensues.) Yes, really. It is imperative that each citizen does their part. After all, our enemies seek the same wealth. They seek to steal it from between our fingers. (Cries of anger). I know, I know!"
  
  The mayor's arms move up and down like a little bird flapping its wings, motioning to quiet down the crowd.
  
  "This battalion isn't the first, and it won't be the last! With each voyage sent across the sea, the High King's claim is solidified even further in the New World."
  
  The mayor's voice quiets down as if he's speaking softly to a friend. He even leans on the podium with one elbow.
  
  "This time next week another fleet is departing for the New World, a place of promise with endless possibilities. Do your duty. Enlist. Secure your future now. The world is in a time unlike another other, a New one lies before us, untamed and unkempt. Do your part."
  
  A bony finger from the mayor suddenly points at a single city watch member sitting at a table off to the side of the docks. Shining gold reflects sunlight, a perfectly fitted gold ring rests on the mayor's finger, drawing even more attention to his outstretched finger.
  
  "Sign your name on the list. Be a part of the High King's army. Bring glory to your country!"
  
  With the mayor's final word, the naval captains take that as their cue to set sail. Sailors follow orders barked from the helm, scurrying to untie rope and raise anchor. God damn there's a lot of rope on a ship. As the fleet sails away, you can't but notice the sheer look of horror on the face of the recruiter. A single man at a single table, hundreds of citizens rushing towards him. You can almost make out the faintest One at a time, please! The enlistees may be gathering like animals, but the High King's army would sure as hell put some civility in 'em.
  
  > Voyage
  It's been weeks since departing from Alteran. During that time, your days have largely been the same: Wake up to yelling sailors, attempt to fall back asleep--to no avail, then visit the ship's cook for stew and tea. After a few friendly exchanges, the cook switched your morning tea with morning ale. It pays to have friends in high places, or at least in charge of rations. Today is no different. After your morning routine, you find yourself sitting at the bow of the ship, dangling your legs over edge, sipping at your "tea."
  
  Footsteps heavy on the deck cause you to turn around. Corporal Redding approaches, holding an entire pitcher of ale.
  
  "How'd you score that?" you ask, nodding towards the pitcher.
  
  "Command brings its benefits," he replies, taking a seat next to you. After glancing in your cup, he tops it off. "Strange times we live in. A whole New World to discover. There could be others we're missing as well."
  
  "Could be," you answer, taking a sip. "Or this could be the last undiscovered region of the earth. Who knows? One thing's for certain, if another world is found, the High King will send us there, too, on his behalf."
  
  "Some things never change," Redding says with a laugh. "I've noticed you staring out over the sea of late. The other men busy themselves at the card table. Well, it's just a storage barrel, but it does the trick."
  
  Seems your absence has been noticed, again. As if anything goes unnoticed stuck on a ship with one another. Your gaze turns from Redding's scraggly beard to the open waters before you. Sally III is sailing next to you, a schooner armed to the teeth meant to be the primary defence for the now-transport galleon you ride on. White foam crashes against its bow, spraying into the air like a child jumping into rain puddles. Blue water, far as the eye can see, surrounds you, painted with a fleet sent by the High King himself. This view is much preferred to your drunken colleagues, gambling what few possessions are theirs.
  
  Before you can put the image before you into words, Redding speaks again. "I get it. You know, kid. Sometimes I think you're too smart to be an enlisted soldier."
  
  "I wouldn't say that," you answer. "I'd rather just spend what little luck I have on staying alive."
  
  "Point proven," Redding smiles, leaving you to your thoughts. You notice he also leaves the pitcher of ale. As you pour yourself another, a shout from the crow's nest draws your attention.
  
  "Sails!"
  
  Sure enough, two pairs of them are barely visible on the horizon. They're a long way off, too far to tell which colors they fly. The High King isn't the only one taking advantage of the New World. The seas surrounding it are breeding grounds for pirates, hence Sally III and similar ships of the fleet. The ships could be harmless. Or they could be scouts for a larger force. There's also the possibility that Supreme Leader Fargrave (spit) is preying on the High King's vessels, masquardering his men as pirates. The two rulers may be at odds, but no blood has been shed as far as you know. Who knows, the wealth of the New World may warrant such a thing. Funny how man's search for wealth often paints a target on his own back.
  
  > pursue the sails
  There is but one option for the threat before you: flag down the vessels and assess their intention, and if that intention turns out hostile, sink them to the bottom of the ocean. It's a foolproof plan. Too bad you aren't in control of the fleet. As luck would have it, the fleet admiral motions for the ships to pursue the sails. Perhaps you should have spent your time gambling with the others.
  
  The expedition redirects their course, turning towards the two pairs of sails. Lady luck is truly on your side as the fleet is aided with the wind at its back. Each captain shouts orders to their crew from the helm, causing sailors to scramble into their position. Awful timing for you, downing a considerable amount of ale for how early it is, but there's no going back now. In the case you find an opponent before you, better keep that in mind. Ale-induced confidence has been the downfall of many men.
  
  Soldiers aboard each ship strap on leather armor, meant for traveling, and form ranks, you among them. One by one, a designated man runs down the line, placing spears in the soldiers' hands. It's not your usual weapon, but it's not unfamiliar either. Your longsword and flintlock rest comfortably in their position, should they be asked to play.
  
  The sails draw closer. Downwind, the ships know they can't escape the approaching fleet, so they patiently await your arrival. As you draw near, the color of their flag appears. It's purple with three red stars in the corner: Fargrave's colors. The fleet stops just outside hostile distance, but still keeps its cannons and spellcasters aimed at the two ships. We may not start a fight, but we'll sure as hell finish one.
  
  "Hello, captain," a voice rings out over the water from one of the two ships, pronouncing the word as cap-ee-tan.
  
  "Admiral," Admiral Conway correctively answers. Conway is a woman with tight, pursed lips. Direct. Straight to the point. Captain Briggs stands next to the admiral. While technically being a captain, he's an army captain with no vessel to his name.
  
  "Admiral," the voice rings again (as add-meer-all). "Quite fortuitous timing you have. Stay your artillery a moment. I would have a word, one that doesn't strain my voice or disturb sea life."
  
  Conway shouts back. "I will honor your parley. Remove all weapons and your overcoat. You may row a single transport boat over with one in accompaniment, also visibly unarmed."
  
  As Fargrave's man bows, you see Conway whisper something to Captain Briggs. Whatever the man is told, you can tell he doesn't like it. After a few shakes of his head, he finally nods, then starts to scan the fleet watching the two leaders. His eyes lock with Corporal Redding, who is standing to your right and apparently the only one in command not averting his eyes from Briggs'.
  
  "Fuck," Redding utters. "Dust off your fine coats, gentlemen. We're dining like civilized men tonight."
  
  > A frock coat and white gloves
  The coat is your standard military issue, but the gloves are a little much in your opinion. What's even more puzzling is the fact they packed white serving gloves on a voyage. Soldiers are an extension of the High King, so it's your duty to portray his civilized and proper mannerisms out in the field. Too bad you don't actually get to dine on the food in front of you.
  
  No, instead, you and the rest of Corporal Redding's soldiers get to play the role of servers tonight. A small dining table, though too large to be packed on a voyage (another opinion of yours), is placed in the center of Admiral Conway's vessel, Yarden's Lot. The galleon deck boasts more than enough space for the VIPs of the evening, which include the admiral, Captain Briggs, and Fargrave's man.
  
  Unsurprising at this point, fine dining ware is placed upon a satin table cloth, complete with lids for each plate. Utensils are put on the left side of the plate, obviously, and dainty wine glasses shine brilliantly behind each plate. It's standard practice between the High King and the Supreme Leader (spit) to present their best during a parley, often each side attempting to outdo the other in mannerisms and civility. The result is a fancy feast and your hands inside white, spotless gloves.
  
  As you pour wine into one of the dainty glasses, Fagrave's man meets your eyes. He is of dark skin, hair cut almost to a shiny bald, like the beard length of a mountain man who had a clean shave in the morning. He's dressed in extravagant purple, frills lining the lapel and sleeves of his overcoat. A large hat rests on his knee, complete with a feather sticking out. What is that? Peacock? Apparently, "remove your overcoat" means "put on a fancier one." You don't see his accompanying ally. Perhaps he's relegated to boat-watching duty.
  
  "Delightful," the man comments. (Dee-lite-fool.)
  
  "Now," Admiral Conways speaks through a set of pursed lips. "What are the terms of your surrender?"
  
  Fargrave's man laughs, placing his wine glass on the table. "Ha ha ha. You are mistaken, my dear. I'm not here to discuss any sort of surrender. I'm here to discuss partnership."
  
  "There will be none. Discussion ended," Captain Briggs inputs.
  
  "Wait just a moment, cap-ee-tan, and hear me out. Pirates. Brigands. Men of nefarious nature."
  
  "Go on," Conway directs.
  
  "They've been causing us trouble on the seas. They think far out here, away from civilized nations, they can prey on whomever. It's in our best interests that they don't think that. I know where they are operating out of, but firepower is currently lacking."
  
  "He does make a fair point," the admiral comments to Captain Briggs. "The New World needs to be established as a place of order. Lawlessness and piracy cannot be allowed to thrive. The High King knows this."
  
  "As does Fargrave."
  
  "If we were to aid you," the admiral begins. "All repossessed wealth is claimed by the High King."
  
  "If I were to accept your aid, the good High King can have half," the man answers.
  
  "Unacceptable. The High King will have the entire cache."
  
  The man looks around. "And just where do you expect to store it? Your fleet appears to be transporting at capacity." Dump a few dining tables and boxes of white gloves, and we'll have room, you think to yourself. "Allow me to make a proposal. You need transport ships. I have two with plenty of room for cargo. We'll serve as your transports for, say, thirty percent of the wealth. We'll surrender all artillery of course, which will be returned upon landing."
  
  Admiral Conway sits back in her chair, pondering a moment. The man is right. She can't hold much more cargo. There's likely not even room to hold Fargrave's cannons, although the fleet can hold some, dispersed among all the ships. Continuing to the New World will mean risking the pirates' escape, allowing them to roam freely on the sea plundering as they see fit. No, she'll have to address them now.
  
  "We are in agreement," Admiral Conway says, offering a hand out.
  
  The man shakes it. "Oh, and we'll need muscle to move everything."
  
  Inwardly, you groan. Somehow, you know you will be volunteered, yet again, for the duty.
  
  > Pirates!
  The agreement made, the two men are sent back to their ships. Soon after, you see their cannons being retracted from trained positions. Fargrave's man is holding up his part of the deal. First, the schooners and brigatines, the ones carrying heavy artillery, navigate to surround the two ships, putting their full broadside facing the two ships as if to say, one wrong step, and ka-boom.
  
  The galleons pull up, placing boardwalks between the vessels for transporting cargo. There's only room for less than half of them, which is more than enough to put Fargrave's men at a serious disadvantage. Outgunned, outmanned, any sort of betrayal would mean their end.
  
  As part of the "muscle," Corporal Redding's team is assigned to travel with Fargrave's men.
  
  "Now that we are comrades," Fargrave's man says, "you can call me by name. Captain Lugo, at your service." Lugo finishes with a deep bow. "That's Jerkins over there," Lugo adds, pointing at the man who accompanied him earlier, though remained from sight. Noticing your attention, Jerkins stops, flashing a gap-toothed grin, and turns to wave, much to the dismay of the others attempting to transport a cannon to Admiral Conway's galleon.
  
  Lugo fills you in on the details. "The pirates are holed up in a cove half a day's journey from here. We'll be able to land at night and sneak up on the bastards. I'm sure your leaders want the glory for themselves, so we'll act as the reserves, supporting as necessary. Once the way is clear, we'll get to work transporting the goods, good?"
  
  "Good," Corporal Redding answers on your behalf.
  
  "Good," Lugo finishes. A little bit aways, Jerkins flashes you another smile. Great.
  
  "There are many smaller islands such as this," Lugo explains as you row silently in the night. Moonlight glints off the water, reflecting the stars sparkling in the night sky above. "Unnamed, mostly uncharted. Perfect place for holing up pirates."
  
  The sea is filled with boats transporting soldiers to the cove. The main fleet is anchored on the opposite side so as to not alert the pirates to your presence. At a moment's notice, they could be called upon to rain cannonfire down on the place. For now, however, Admiral Conway is content to use Captain Briggs' men.
  
  Sure enough, several ships are moored on the island's inlit. The light from the moon barely allows you to see a small beach behind the ships, and behind that, is a series of primitive structures, likely in place before the pirates settled here. Built by who is up for speculation.
  
  "They fly under our colors," Lugo adds on. "Damn scoundrels. They don't deserve to wear Fargrave's sigil."
  
  "Supreme Leader Fargrave," Corporal Redding corrects, rowing next to you. Notably, he doesn't spit.
  
  "Yes, of course," Lugo answers.
  
  The first line of rowboats land. Soldiers exit with deliberate attempts to keep from splashing water. Once two or three men exit, they drag the rest of the boat to the sand so the others have a quieter place to step off. Your rowboat does the same. The beach, now littered with the High King's men, ready to enact justice on lawless thieves, feels foreign on your feet. You realize it's the first time in weeks that you've been on "solid" ground, and it will take some time to adjust--time that you don't have. A few awkward movements from your fellow soldiers alerts you that they are experiencing the same thing.
  
  The primitive structures are built in a series of ramps and huts. A few fires shine from within windows, not many on the open ground itself. As you draw closer, you realize the huts have a central tube that runs through all levels, a community chimney of sorts. Perhaps it's not so primitive after all.
  
  "How do you handle an infestation problem?" Lugo asks.
  
  The answer comes in the form of a bottle and oil-soaked rag. Lugo takes a heavy swig from the bottle's contents, stuffs the rag down the opening, and flicks a match. Lugo chucks the bottle into the nearest hut. An explosion, rivaling that of a fire mage, erupts, filling the dark night with a sudden burst of light, like exiting a cave into the noonday sun.
  
  Immediately, those in your company follow Lugo's direction. Apparently, acting as "reserves" means starting the skirmish with a bomb. Men's shouts fill the once-silent night air as the pirates scramble to muster a defense. The High King's soldiers surround the burning structures, cutting down men who seek to escape the fire within.
  
  "These folks have a firm grip on things," Lugo observes. "Might as well get started on loading the boats."
  
  Redding looks like he wants to protest, but then realizes, or perhaps, thinks about loading cargo deep into the morning. Better to get it done now. The pirates rushing from the burning structures don't even bother donning their false armor showing the sigil of the Supreme Leader. Corporal Redding nods, and those under his command follow the lead of Captain Lugo.
  
  Like any good pirate, the wealth is hidden far away. In this case, it lies in the furthest structure on the highest level. Burying it deep in the sand underneath an X is too much work for a temporary location, which is what you take the cove to be, a short-term hideout until a buyer can be found. Lugging around wealth is asking for it to be stolen. Probably how the pirates came into possession of it in the first place. Along the way, you're met with haphazard resistance; some pirates are more concerned with surviving the fire, while others find a deep sense of honor within themselves and attempt to stop you. Either way, led by honor or survival, you cut them down, casually shooting a few with your flintlock.
  
  After traversing a winding ramp, wrapped to one structure like an overgrown vine, you arrive at the top level. A single platform lies at the top, a canopy above it for shade and protection against the occasional rain, leaving the sides open, a potentially lethal fall from this distance. Broken legs for sure.
  
  "Lugo, you mad dog," a grizzled voice greets you. Its origin is an older man, wrinkles displayed on his face like war medals. Hardened by years of combat. Like the others, he's not wearing armor, save for his weapons belt tied around his waist. "How the hell did you convince the High King's men to aid you. This is an act of open war between states."
  
  Curious. He speaks as if...
  
  "It's been too long, Porter. Wasn't hard, really," Lugo answers. "I simply explained it's better for all parties if you are, let's say, unencumbered by that treasure chest of yours."
  
  There are several behind the man along with trinkets and artifacts infused with precious gems. Strange...Lugo speaks like there is a singular chest he means to take, one that is the cause for the entire raid.
  
  "Fools. Do you know what you have done? There is peace between our nations only because the New World expeditions are treated as if a competition, not open warfare. You have upset the balance finely keeping the generals at home, while explorers lead missions. All that is gone now, thanks to your little agreement with this pirate.
  
  Pirate. Captain Lugo. Suddenly, it all makes sense. The fleet was so concerned with their rivalry with Supreme Leader Fargrave (may you spit), they didn't question the story fed to them. Law. Order. Competition. Conway attributed the ways of the Old World to the New. That's the problem with tradition: it makes the mind stagnant, somehow creating universality where the relative needs precedent.
  
  "Shame. You've learned my dirty little secret," Lugo says to Redding and the company. At once, those under command of Lugo act from their strategically placed positions, pressing you and the High King's men to your knees, blades and flintlocks placed threateningly against the back of your necks.
  
  "Now I will spare you the usual compelling speech as we're pressed for time. I'll just read you the main parts." Lugo searches within his coat pockets, humming, as if he were looking for his last match to light a smoke. "Ah, here we are," he says, finding a crumpled piece of paper. "Wealth. Equality. Freedom."
  
  He couldn't have memorized that? Still, the choice presented is blindingly obvious. Join his crew or die.
  
  > Join
  You're presented with a choice, although it's not really a choice at all. Either you follow this path, or you finish the game (of life) prematurely. No, it may be presented like a decision, but it's sure as hell not one. You realize that you're not done living. Then again, rarely does a man decide he's done with life. Usually it's the other way around, occasionally the subconscious takes over, guiding him down that path, slowly, taking years, but eventually landing there. No, this is a simple choice. You choose life, even if that one brands you as an outlaw, an enemy of the state, oathbreaker. Hopefully your fellow soldiers make the same choice. A fraction of them do.
  
  Three of you remain, Corporal--well, just Redding now, Bastus, and yourself.
  
  "Splendid!" Captain Lugo exclaims, taking on a tone much too cheery for someone who just ordered the deaths of nine men. "My man, Jerkins, will show you the ropes later. We have many aboard the ship." Jerkins flashes you a signature toothy grin. Better get used to that. "Now there's a small matter of proving your loyalty. Trust goes both ways. I've shown that I keep my word; you're still breathing after all. Now it's your turn. Unfortunately, this man must die."
  
  "Don't listen to this pirate!" Porter, Fargrave's real man, pleads. "If you do this, you will thrust the New World into a war zone. Gods, the Old World will become a war zone. For what? To secure wealth? Your selfishness and greed will thrust both worlds into chaos."
  
  The three of you eye one another, the weight of the man's words hanging heavy in the air. Your actions could have a much bigger impact than the current moment. Still, nothing's changed since choosing sides. It may be a life originating from greed, but it's life nonetheless. Better than death, at least to you personally. In the grand scheme of things it may not be...
  
  A flash of light. Gunpowder burns your nose. Smoke rises from the barrel of your flintlock. The man looks down at his chest, surprise clearly shown on his face, before collapsing to the floor. The decision was already made, Porter's fate sealed simultaneously. You gain the ability to keep on living, but time will tell if the world is better off for it. Then again, you're only responsible for yourself; the world has managed just fine on its own, and it will continue to do so.
  
  "Looks like we have quite the eager recruit, don't we, Jerkins?" Captain Lugo comments, lightheartedly. Jerkins nods his agreement with a grin at his lips. "Now, grab that chest and let's be off. Don't want the Alterans to pick up on our little ruse."
  
  With Lugo's direction, his men make for the chest the captain alluded to earlier. Wanting to keep yourselves busy or at least appear busy—something you picked up in the High King's army—you gather nearby trinkets and valuables, stuffing them into a canvas bag. Your fellow recruits do the same. As you busy yourself, your eyes catch sight of the beach. Several pillars of flame rise where the crude structures once existed. The High King's soldiers slaughter their leader's biggest rivals. Should the tale reach it back to Fargrave, there will be repercussions. Silently, you hope they all die. The world, both the New and Old, are better that way.
  
  You return back the way you came. Briggs and Conway are busy with the skirmish and don't pay attention to the line of "Fargrave's" men transporting plundered goods. That's the plan, after all. Their ships can transport the wealth, the agreed sum going for the honor of the High King. No one says anything until you load the cargo back onto the ship, a few words offered, directing you where to place the wealth. Then, a statement that's usually followed by a pull of a trigger, a swing of the sword.
  
  "Any last words?"
  
  In your case, it's the pull of a trigger. You don't even see who fired the bullet. Damn pirates.