Good Wayne

Friday, January 27, 2006

It's A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad, Pirate World

Finally, we've gotten to the point where we have enough of the rules settled that we can actually post something. Which is cutting it a little close as February starts next week and I haven't given too many details about the game itself except that it's pirate-based.

But there are so many factors to worry about. Hell, we haven't been able to get wind and sailing mechanics finished as of yet. But we couldn't really wait much longer and expect people to still have enough time to plan for the game.

I've cobbled together a PDF file for the rules. Here's a link to the file: MadPirates_1-5.PDF.

It contains the rules as they are right now. I plan on updating it once the wind and sail mechanics are done; I've updated it once already since I posted it. Which is sort of a problem here: Every update will mean invalidating the previous version. Therefore, if you are downloading it now and get a 404 error, it probably means there's a more up-to-date version available.

Somewhere before the game is actually played (and most definitely after) there will be a finalize PDF available.

If you don't really care about game setup and mechanics, then I present the introductory flavor text here for your amusement (or the RTs, you be the judge):

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It's A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad, Pirate World

The De Vette Prostituee was disturbingly empty for an evening.

The tavern’s cheap women that normally roamed about the men like crows circling a dead animal, picking and choosing their marks with a sense of superiority, were having a rough night. Each vied for the attention—and the money—of the few men who hadn’t been locked up or fled the port since the first sighting of the Spanish fleet, which was on its way to once again fight over territory for which it had little use.

But the men, the skeleton crews from a half-dozen or so ships that were scattered around the harbor, sat in the bar, some drinking heavily. Most seemed too absorbed in wondering how they were supposed to keep a ship afloat once the Spaniards finally arrived. Many lacked the funds to outfit any real escape. The high seas were not what they had once been.

The subdued air was disturbed by the dramatic door opening. An old man, dressed in a torn red-and-white striped shirt, pants filthy with dirt and dried seaweed, staggered in and violently crashed to the floor.

At first, nobody moved.

It was not uncommon for men to stumble into the bar and pass out on the floor. A guard or an attendant of the bar would shove his way through the crowd and remove the man to the outside, where all too often he would remain at closing time.

At first, it seemed no different tonight. But as the attendant turned the man’s body over, he gasped so loudly that the patrons simultaneously looked in his direction.

Feeling the eyes upon him, he looked up, and with a stunned voice said, “This is Ned Land!”

“Ned Land?!?” One of the Brits shouted.

“Impossible!” shouted another, possibly Spanish. “Land isn’t much older than me!”

Most of the men were on their feet at the name. They rushed forward to the man on the floor.

“It is Land! Look at the tattoo!” remarked the German.

Clearly enough for all to see was Ned Land’s signature tattoo.

“What's happened to him?” cried the Dutch.

“He’s gotten so old!” the second Englishman observed.

“Who the hell is Ned Land?” one of the men, a first mate on the French ship, asked without getting up. He was finding himself lost having only recently arrived at this small tropical island.

The prostitute standing next to him bent down, her bodice hardly containing her full bosom as she shifted the pull of gravity on it, and into his ear she whispered, “Ned was part of the Captain Jack's crew looking for the Orb of the Caribbean, a mystical jewel from the Aztec priesthood. It's supposed to be large and invaluable. They all disappeared over eight months ago.”

“Who are you, the narrator?” replied the snooty French sailor.

At which the girl harrumphed, turned up her nose, and stormed away.

There was a cacophony of men shouting questions at Ned as he lay on the floor. Where had he been? Had he found the Orb? Where was his ship, the Whiteraven? Where was the crew? What was that smell?!

There were more, but the maze of languages and accents made it impossible to hear anything coherently.

“Shut up!” the Italian finally shouted, “He's trying to say something.”

A hush passed over the cluster of men, and a small, strangled voice wavered and cracked, “We found it!”

A murmur threatened to extinguish any further conversation, but a series of sharp hushes killed it before it had a chance.

“The Orb of the Caribbean,” he said, his hands, shaking and twitching, came up and formed a half-circle in the air, as if he were holding an invisible sphere. “I held it in my hands! My very own hands...”

A coughing spat over took him and his whole body seemed to seize with each torturous expulsion of air.

“Ugh,” said an Englishman in back. “He looks like he's about to die.”

“Where is the orb now?” one of the men closer to Land said.

“...a mystical jewel of ungodly power,” Land said, finishing his statement. “And, I did mention it was the size of a watermelon, didn't I?”

“Yes, yes,” the Frenchman said. “But where is the orb?”

“Captain Jack found it, where no man would have expected... but then,” more coughing, each one seeming to take more of Land's life with it, “... the fog... something... the weather turned terribly bad... We were forced back into the island group.”

“He is dying,” someone, possibly the Portugese, whispered.

“Quickly, Land! Tell us where the orb is!” the Spaniard demanded.

Land coughed and twitched. With his body racked with pain, he convulsed, “After Captain Jack died, the others got the greedy eyes...”

“When did Jack die?” someone in the back said to his French counterpart. “Did I miss part of the story?”

The counterpart shrugged, annoyed, trying to listen to the old man on the floor.

“Then I took the orb, the beautiful orb...” Land started coughing again, as if the act of reaching out his hands to hold a phantom orb resurrected the pain. His breathing was becoming labored. He was now wheezing.

“I had to hide it, you see,” he crackled. “I had no choice.”

“Where Ned? Where did you hide such a beautiful treasure?”

“He is going to croak right now, I tell you,” a voice wafted out in between Land's coughing.

“I took it and...,” more coughing and now a splatter of blood.

“Oh yeah,” the Spaniard said. “He's going to die alright. Any moment now.”

“Shut up, you vile Spanish mongrel!”

The Spaniard made a face, but said nothing.

Land continued to cough and gag. “I hid it...”

“Yes! Yes!” several of the men said in unison, leaning in closer to Land.

“I...hid it under a giant letter K,” he gagged.

There was total silence.

“K?” Eyes darted about.

“K,” Land choked. “K for Kasey!”

“Who the heck is Kasey?” the Englishman asked to no one specifically.

“Wouldn't that be a C?” someone asked.

“Shut up!” someone else hissed and the man scowled.

“Okay, but I think you spell Casey with a C.”

“Will you be quiet?”

“Ned!” the Frenchman said, trying to rouse Land, who was clearly fading fast. “Ned, where is this K?”

“See?” a voice in the back said, a book suddenly present, “Right here, Casey with a C.”

Several people spoke at once, “Shut up!”

Land stirred at the yelling. “I'm not long for this world,” he whispered

“You got that right,” the Spaniard whispered none too softly.

“Ned,” the Frenchman started again. “You hid it under a K? Where is this K?”

“It's... it's...,” More coughing.

“This is ridiculous,” another Englishman in the back said, “He'll be dead any second.”

Land abruptly stopped coughing. He sucked in a great volume of air and spoke quickly. “It's forty leagues south of here. Passing the briny reef and then through the great fog bank.”

“The great fog bank?” the Spaniard said with a bit of fear. “You don't mean...”

Land was nodding as best he could. “The Collier de la Mort,” and he began a coughing frenzy.

Several of the men straighten at the name of the infamous island chain. Eyes darted about at each other as a murmur passed through the crowd.

“But...” the Frenchman said nervously, “that area is cursed!”

“Ha!” Land laughed, but it came out more as a twisted cough. “It was the only place for the orb to be and there it remains.” He started coughing more blood again. “Under this giant letter K?” the Englishman said with much skepticism.

“Yes,” Land said, but he was fading. “Under the K for Kasey,” he said, his voice trailing off.

Land seemed to exhale one last time and stopped moving.

“I think he's dead,” the Frenchman said.

Several men made the sign of the cross.

Then, slowly, those who were kneeling, stooping, or sitting stood up. The room was quiet except for the creaking of floorboards as the men shifted their positions around.

“Well,” the Englishman spoke. “That area is quite distasteful.”

“That's right,” his mate chimed in. “Ships get lost there all the time.”

The Frenchman opined, “Yes, the fog is quite dangerous.”

The men were formed into a rough circle around Land's body. But with each step to shift their weight, they expanded the circle ever so slightly.

“That orb is supposed to be beyond wealth,” the Spaniard said.

“And under a K?” the scowling man asked. “I still say Casey is spelled with a C.”

The Frenchman was inching towards the doorway.

“It's not like having the orb wouldn't be worthwhile. It's just that I value my life a bit more.”

“Oh, me, too,” several of the men said at once, eager to agree.

“And such a treacherous journey just to get there,” the Englishman offered.

“Yes, yes,” the Spaniard agreed. “Where would we find such hearty mates for a voyage, anyway?” And he laughed, but it a false laugh.

“And there's no guarantee that Land is telling the truth anyway.”

Several men again nodded and grumbled agreement, “Yes, yes! He was so delusional. It's surely to be a fool's errand. It would take you all night to get there only to find nothing.”

There was a pause in the banter, and it grew quiet as each seemed to contemplate the events of the night.

“Well,” the Frenchman yawned and stretched, breaking the pensive mood. “I guess I should turn in. It's getting late.” He turned towards the door and several of the other men suddenly yawned, stretched and grumbled similar intents.

Several of the prostitutes looked at each other with puzzlement.

One looked up at the clock and noted it was only 8:30.

As the Frenchman grabbed the door, he turned slightly to survey the room.

The world seemed to freeze in that moment.

He gazed upon the cluster of multicultural men and they at him.

They stood still, staring at each other, as if holding their gaze turned them to stone.

No one breathed. No one moved. The Frenchman thought he could hear a fly buzzing around his head.

Time slowed and then seemed to stand still. An eternity as they fixed in each other's gaze.

Suddenly the fly landed on his temple and, without thinking, he reached up to shoo it away.

And with that gesture, the spell was broken.

The cluster of men charged at the door and the Frenchmen, still occupied with the fly, was pushed to the ground as several men crashed into him, which in turn pulled them all to the ground.

Then there were feet, shoes and heavy boots on his hands and near his face as a parade of pirates ran over the fallen to get to the harbor.

posted by Evil Wayne | 5:11 PM

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