Across the wide sea that separated Saphur and New-foundland, from the frozen norths to the algae-covered swamps of the South, many a ship were to be seen sailing. There were merchant ships, military ships, exploration ships and not least of all - there were pirate ships. Now forget all the stories about pirates that one undoubtedly learns from an early age. For pirates in this world had one crucial difference -- They were the good guys. Having originated from a city long since destroyed by the empire, these stalwart and committed men and women lived a long life on the sea's horizon. Always watching, always waiting for a ship to sink, to hurt and maim the greedy and insatiable empire as much as they could in their quest for domination. The recent discovery of New-Foundland had whipped these pirates up into a frenzy. Every night the empire sent out four patrols and every night they would come back as hollow, dead carcasses trailing behind the any remaining survivors. So it is at this point in time that we come to the hero of this story, the one and only, Sir Blake.
Blake slouched in the wagon with one hand behind his head and the other lazily scratching an itch on his belly. Beside his resting form, sacks of potatoes, cabbages and lemon (the old dental care) were strewn around and above him, effectively providing him some shade from the ever-present sun. The wagon's jolting and bumping slowly bringing him out of sleep's enticing grasp, he rearranged the flintlock bandolier as it dug uncomfortably into his shoulder. He lifted his black hat from his eyes, frayed and patched from the many years at sea. Grimacing he thought about his current predicament. Having washed ashore at some small port on some unknown land, His supplies were running desperately low. The crew were growing restless on land, such was the evolution of his people, condemned to a life at sea always running or in this case, always sailing. Coming to the conclusion that something had to be done, he had managed to get directions from the locals to a slightly bigger port, 12 kilometres down the coast. He had succeeded in assembling a team made up of 15 hardy, dangerous (single) men. Those with families refusing to leave their family in a new and potentially dangerous land. Blake wasn't happy, he could not understand his sailor's feelings, but that was maybe because he had no family. Having always kept matters on land strictly separate to those on sea, all his experience came from hurried one night stands and slutty whores desperate for his money.
In the midst of reflecting back on one especially eager whore he had visited at the last port, he was remembering her exceptionally huge breasts, when the wagon came to a rattling stop, the horses' snorting protests the only discernible noise. Blake threw out a hand to steady himself as his momentum carried him further in the enclosing sacks of food. He heard unintelligible voices and the sudden bark of his first-mate;
"Oi, Stanley what in the name of Neptune is going on here?"
"Fu'king roa's blo'ked Sir, fuckin stoans in tha way" Another voice joined the fray,
"This is why we need a fucking guide, what did I say earlier? Huh? What did I say?" another voice offered his opinion on the truly vexing subject.
Chuckling at his sailor's amusing annoyance he waited to hear the impending reply of his trusted First-mate, though admittedly the reply took him by surprise.
"Take covar, u oathes, Pistals and swoards at our left, turn and face de-" the end of the command was never heard as it was brutally cut off to the sound of gurgling. A body at the front of the wagon toppled with a thud, followed by fourteen pistols going off like fireworks. Staring above from the sacks of provisions, smoke started drafting overhead, punctuated by the ringing of steel and the tell-tale thud of steel on wood. For around 30 seconds Blake simply lay there, all energy from his body absent until finally the sounds of fighting died down. He heard a voice off to his right speaking in some foreign language, so he knew his men had lost the battle. This fact gave him pause, for although he was undoubtedly the best swordsman in the known world, of exceptional renown, He was still only one man. He took comfort in that his experienced sailors must have inflicted dire casualties on the savages. Shrugging with detached indifference to his men's death, having hardened his heart to death a long time ago, he stood up and in one smooth motion drew his two battered flintlock pistols out, cocked them and unleashed two missiles at the blur of movement he saw at the corner of his eyes. He paused as he took in the situation in the moment of absolute stillness that followed. At least fifty, seven foot tall women, naked save for a sash and loincloth completed by swirling tattoos covering their muscular bodies, stood staring at him. In a flash that surprised even Blake, those nearest to him pounced forward closing the gap between them with frightening speed. Throwing his pistols down, he drew his sword and jumped backwards out of the wagon to face the swarm of club and spear wielding amazons. Half a second. That was how long Blake was given to lift his sword and parry the incoming spear coming at an impossible speed towards his shoulder. Having repelled that attack, his parries and blocks came more easily, as he got into the rhythm of the fight. The women were fast and strong, moving with impossible speed and striking with incredible strength. But Blake had spent years training with the finest sword masters. He deflected a thrust slightly to his right and quickly slapped the head of a spear away with his hand coming from his left. Ducking and weaving with expert footwork, he finally saw an opening and thrust his sword forward with one firm step. His sword struck an amazon's midriff and without pause he withdrew and twirled to his right, once again on the defensive.
