Of Pirates and Prehistorics: Norman's Adventure of Plundering Monsters

[Chronicler]

Well, this is gonna be a serial I’m starting over the summer and expect to end in the summer. It was created off the premise I had for an original pirate story and a “pirates vs. dinosaurs” premise. So here we go. Welcome to…

#Chapter 1 ~ The Verdict

The Final Words of Norman Squallin
June 12th, 1689

I’m writing this from my jail cell. I fear this is thy final day here on this fine earth. If there is one thing I’d like to say, it’s that I repenteth from the evil I have done. I hath stolen and killed in the name of thy Excellency. For what? Nothing. None of this gold and plunder was stolen legally. At least, that’s what they told me as I docked up.

Y’see, when I started years ‘go as a sailor, I became good at thy trade. If only thou hadst known what it would get me into. Too good I became as a sailor that thy Excellency had asked me to become a royal privateer. A treasured position during a time of war, of course.

So to spite thee King of Spain, I robb’d his precious Spanish Galleons and took all of his plunder. The gold belonged to the king, of course. Little did I knowest that I’d come back to the land of England to discov’r that I was a criminal.

“The king hath back-stabbed thee!” I proclaimed. But none of thy subjects and knights would listen. They captured me and stuck me into a jail cell. O king? Why doest thou stab me behind thy back? Have you lost any sense of morality? You betrayed thy own country for striking a deal behind the curtain with the wretch’d King of Spain.

You may call thee a traitor, your Excellency, but I will only take thy word and spin it back at you. You betrayed the good name of England. May Elizabeth’s good ghost hang thee one day. Even when you pretend to be at war with thy “enemy” you still make him thy friend. How crook’d you are.

That is thy word. Complete and full. If these shall be thy final words, so be it. Just let it known to all of England that I didn’t die without a patriot’s heart.

~Norman Squallin

[EvilLobsterKing]

I would read this but I’m lazy.
Can I get an audio-book version?

[Chronicler]

I would love to, but it’s getting late.

Perhaps I’ll do it some other time? Or you can use a Chrome plug-in called SpeakIt!

[EvilLobsterKing]

Hmnmm.
I will investigate…

[Lord_Tuma]

Pretty cool! I can’t wait to read the next one.

[Chronicler]

Thy Majesty’s Court
June 13th, 1688

Thy Majesty had brought me to his court. Seemed like ages had goneby since I saw him. I was younger, by around ten years. However, I was in for a surprise when I had finally arrived to see the king. This was no Englishman. No, this was a dutch man. I almost felt insulted by this.

“Who is this dutch man on the throne?” I asketh one of the guards.

“Been gone a long time, haven’t ya lad?” replied one of the scottish guardsmen. “You missed out on quite the glorious revolution. James is gone. William the Third is in his place now, a king chosen by the people.”

“But why a dutch man?” I asked.

The guard didn’t answer. He ushered me into the king’s court in a hurry. I was still in my nice clothes, but they got dirty in the jail cell. Some of the guards were eyeballing my jacket. They must have been expecting my death.

So I was escorted to thy Majesty, the new King of England. Seated next to him was his English Queen. He look’d sternly at thy face and then understood it.

“Norman Squallin.”

He gestures to his guards. They let go of me. I come closer to the king, but not too close. I’m chained by the legs and arms.

“You’ve missed a lot on your ‘ventures out at sea. Unfortunately, I’m not like thy former Majesty, James. You’re being charged as a criminal by France, Spain and Portugal. I have no idea why James even assigned you to be a privateer, but I’m sure it was hidden.”

I speak up after waiting a few seconds. Interrupting the king would have been a terrible mistake. “He wasn’t the one who assigned me, your Majesty. One of the naval generals hired me. However, my imprisonment makes sense now. You’re not my former king, as I was expecting.”

“No, I wouldn’t be. However, my tolerance for your actions are higher than you can imagine.”

“Then why was I arrested?” I asked him.

“On behalf of France, I’m afraid. They knew you were making a round back. The ‘Sun King’ as French call him has sent his guards here to arrest you. The people who picked you up were all French, not under my jurisdiction.”

I gave a breath of life. I realized I had been mistaken.

“However, I can’t say you’ll be exactly safe now that you’re in my hands. I can’t afford to start any wars, even if they are our Catholic enemies. I need to turn you over.”

“What?”

“You’re pardoned on behalf of England and Ireland, but I can’t say the same for France. They want thy blood spilled, Norman. They want a noose around thy neck.”

“You can’t do this to me, your Majesty!”

“I’m afraid I have to.”

“But can’t you declare me a free man here in my own land?”

“Why would we want to?” the Queen spoke up. A guard was next to her. He was not there before.

“What?” I asked her.

“William, rapture here for one moment. Thy prisoner has written slander and treason against thee.”

William walks over to his Queen, and reads my accursed “final words.” Thy majesty’s brows lower as he reads the letter. He swings his body back to me.

“Norman, if you expect to have ever gotten out of this alive, you are highly mistaken. What you have written is the most insulting piece of slander. France is thy enemy.”

“That was intended for James!” I cried.

“Who it was intended for is disputed. Guards, take this fool away. I don’t need him in my presence much longer. He will be a life best left forgotten.”

The knights grab my arms and pull me away. I ruined every opportunity for freedom. Now, both France and England hated me. How was I going to escape this?

[Scorpion_Strike]

Hmm… I like this so far. Well written, and in an historical setting, the older English style fits nicely; a bit of a pain to read at first, but it helps the characters come alive. Couple that with a “Pirates vs. Dinosaurs” premise (what Bionicle fan wouldn’t go crazy for that?) and this looks very promising indeed. I’m envisioning pirate wilderness survival on an island from “The Lost World,” or something like that… anyways, great story so far, and I’m looking forward to more.

[LurkingEhlek]

Can’t wait for more.

[Chronicler]

June 18th, 1688
King’s Dungeon

Word surely doth spread fast ‘ere in England. After I was arrested, they hid me in a dungeon here in London for me to be executed on the 19th of June, 1688, Anno Domini. For five days I waited for my death. It was long and painful, to be very truthful. Loom’n over death, wondering what I had done wrong be not what a man should spend ‘is days doin’. But what else did I have?

While I waited in misery, on the 4th night the guard knocked a bar on me cell door.

“Ya have a vis’ter,” he whispered.

I got up carefully, since I had cuffs on my arms.

“Who is it?”

“Sum priest.”

A priest? Why would one ev’r visit a vile criminal like thee? Then the image of an old friend entered my head. Father Bartholomew knew me well before I ‘came a privateer. As a sailor, he served as a missionary on the boat, but ‘ventually had to come back to his family in England. His anglican duties called ‘em back anyways. Howev’r, twas a friend I could count on.

Lo, it was father Bartholomew! He had arrived just in time, before my execution day. He walked down to my cell, hands clasped almost in a praying position. He saw me standing in my cell. I was in bad shape. My clothes began to smell due to the hot sun of the summer. I hadn’t shaved for a while, so I was developing a beard. Flies came around my smelly body. Truth be told, I was in bad shape.

Bartholomew spoke. “Norman, I understand you called out for repentance of your sins in your letter. Is this correct?”

I was about to tell him that I didn’t want to discuss it, but then I realized what he was going to do: he was going to make thy case a clergy one. The clergy case would be decided ‘pon by the church.

“That is correct, Father.”

“Thank the Lord, Norman. I found you just in time. I couldn’t imagine you being hung right after you repented.”

I nodded. “I’m in the lowest of places, father. A den of swine. The dirt coverth my body and I stench a foul odor. I am miserable.”

Father Bartholomew gave a good smell, and agreed wholeheartedly. He showed me mine own letter. He smiled as he showed me how he could try and urge for a clergy case for me instead of the king.

“The process is much late, though, is it not?” I asked.

Bartholomew looked at me. He licked his lips and moved his jaw. His eyes wandered around the room until they came back to me.

“I don’t believe thy own king knows law as well as thy clergy. Thyne attempt is the best you can get.”

He rolled up the letter and stuffed it into a side purse he carried.

“G’night, Norman. May the Lord’s mercy endure forever.”

“G’night, Father Bartholomew.”

The priest turned around and left. His hand gestur’d toward one of the guards. They closed the doors behind ‘em, and with that, I sat back down in my cell. I prayed to the Lord Almighty that he’d bring me salvation from the brick prison.

Now it’s night again. I must hurry. I hear sounds outside. I need to pretend I am asleep and not writing.

[Chronicler]

June 19th, 1688

I’m still awaiting Father Bartholomew. He said he’d be able to help in this situation by making this a clergy issue, however I’m not sure His Majesty will agree.

No doubt I’m going to rot in this cell until my very execution day. I’m wondering what they’ll do to execute me. Will they put me against a wall and shoot at thee? Or will they do thee ol’ classic “string him and drop ‘em.” That seems like the most plausible solution. Either way, it’s going to be a quick and easy death.

I think there is a vermin in this cell aswell. I hope it goes ‘way.

Oh Father Bartholomew, hurry.

[Chronicler]

June 20th, 1688
Execution Day

They decided to go with the ol’ rope trick they like to use. How uneventful that was! They locked my arms in chains and made me walk up the gallows. I could see many peasantry there in the court. They weren’t there for patriot’s values, of course. No, this was all like an ol’ play to them. Just bitter entertainment to watch a “traitor” die. I scoffed at the muck-filled crowd.

So this is how I die? I asked myself. I die in front of a bunch of low lifes who have nothing to do but watch my death. Disgusting it was!

One of the soldiers looked at me. I looked much better because I managed to shave before I was executed. Don’t ask me what was on the mind of the guard, but I have a feeling he wasn’t too enthused with William of Orange.

They removed my wig to show thy bald head. Not something I was proud display’d, but it must have been apart of their shaming process.

They placed a bag over thy head and walked me toward the place I was to stand.

“Here, sire. Stand strait. Now steady. We’re gunna place this rope here ‘round thy neck.”

I closed my eyes as they began to place it around my head. Someone yelled in the crowd.

“SEIZE THE FIRE!”

A loud crack came from the audience. Suddenly, I heard a woosh over my head. The gallows cracked hard and the guards removed the rope off of me. They came down the stairs. I stood in silence before I knew they’d be gone. Then, stuggle’n with mighty, I managed to remove the hood.

The gallows were destroyed by a cannon ball. I looked out in the audience. I could see some soldiers trying to apprehend other soldiers. A man came behind me. He took a knife and broke the bindings around my arms.

“You’re free. Now escape. Run. Godspeed, godspeed!”

I looked around. It was Father Bartholomew!

“We don’t have much time Norman. Run for your life! I’ll need to get out of here!”

I ran down the stairs. Some of the peasantry backed away from me. The guards ran after me with their swords. Quickly, I bopped one of them in the head and stole his sword. Then, I cut thy neck with the cutlass. Bartholomew ran to a canon near’by. He ignited it, and another cannon ball shot through the air! The peasants ran toward the exits in mass hysteria.

Two soldiers apprehend’d Father Bartholomew. I looked back at him, before I noticed I was surrounded by soldiers.

“Norman, you need to escape without me. I’m already a traitor for doing this! Run!”

So I ran. The commander of the guards brought his sword, but it was only blocked by thyne. I can’t ‘member the exactness of thy tale, as I was filled with adrenaline. I knew I managed to kill another one of the guards, before one of them shot at me. I was hit in the arm, but I didn’t feel it.

I jump’d top on a soldier to make it toward a pully. I climbed the pully to make it to the torrents. There, more soldiers fired at me. Well, more at thy rope, but regardless, I got on top of the pully where the wood was ‘fore the rope was shot down. There I jumped over the guards. I turn’d round and sliced their backs. I stole one of their guns and made it toward the outside of the gates, where some peasants had a horse wait’n for me.

“Make for the woods! They’ll lose you there!”

I nodded at them.

“I’ll make sure I do, good sirs.”

And with a steady speed, I gallop’d way. That was the first time I near’d death. Definitely not the last.

[Chronicler]

June 23rd, 1688
Port London

I would have hoped the guardsmen left me to my peace in the woods, but alas, it did not transpire that way. I lived two days in the woods until at night I slipped out and made my way 'wards Port London. I was hoping I’d get a good ship to escape on.

I hid among the barrels and cargo on the docks.

I hope I am not recognizable, I told myself.

Twas doubted by me any way. Barely any normal peasant knew what I looked like. Only soldiers would know. I wondered, 'twould one recognize me if I entered a bar? I felt it would be to risky.

As I hid in the boxes, a man lifted the one above me. He became startled. I told him to shush.

“Sorry, sire.”

“Just relax. I need to get out of these crates.”

“What are you doing hiding in there?”

“None of thy business. Wait. Do you happen to work on a ship?”

The man rubbed his chin.

“Yes, I do. We’re looking for more crew for the ship, too. Perhaps you can help us. Say, what skills do you have for the ship?”

“I can take any job you offer me, really. Now, can you help me up.”

The pudgy man reached his arm out and grabbed ahold of mine. He was a pit shorter than me, had glasses and brown hair. I can draw a decent sketch of him, but I will admit, thou is not the best artisan in the world. I pref’r to use amore different style. Regardless, it’s not worth any money in the market.

'Tis Gary, a navigator for the ship The Merrow. 'Twas an Irish-owned ship, but fool it must not. 'Twas Spanish in every way with it’s structure. I followed Gary upon the ship, where I met the recruiter.

“Thy name?” he asked.

I paused a bit. I couldn’t use thy real name. I had to create one.

“Bartholomew.”

Surely enough, my lies managed to work. I was hired upon the ship, and we set sail the next morn’n. Away from Britain. Forever, I’d hope.

[Chronicler]

#Chapter 2 ~ The Sea

June 25th, 1688
Atlantic Ocean

The ship job was not of great pay, unfortunately for me. I had to do the dirty work for being an extra man. With sponge I scrub’d the floors, and with thy hands I lifted and moved cargo. Hard work ‘twas. Yet, at days end, I got a fine meal with crew and slaves. Gary came to me as he saw me eating bread.

“Not what ye expected, huh?”

I shook my head. “Thou hast sailed ‘fore, mate. Still, bothersome is thy heart. How far in sea are we now?”

“Ah, good thing you have me as your friend! We’re far off from England now, but we still sail near their waters.”

I moved thy lips to the side. “Gary, doth thou know who I really am?”

“Pretty sure thy name was Bartholomew.”

I nodded. “Alright, good. But does everyone know who I am?”

Gary rubbed his chin. “No, I do not believe so. Why do ye ask?”

“I strive to rid of rumors, Gary. I’ve been hearing of them. About me.”

“I have not heareth of any.”

“They say I’m a criminal, who boarded this ship. Please, you need to back me up. They might maroon thee.”

Gary’s eyes widened. “Marooned? Lad, this is a merchant ship. They would not maroon thee. They have more class than that.”

I lower my head. “I don’t want them hav’n any ideas. Do you have anything to disguiseth me?”

Gary looked around, and spotted a bandana.

“Take this, mate.”

I put it around my head. “I hope nobody was using this.”

Gary looked at my ■■■■■. “That’s a fancy ■■■■■, Norman. But if you really wanna make yourself different, rid of it.”

I took it off, exposing the top of my body.

“There. Now ya look like a sailor if I nev’r seen un.”

“Good to know,” I spoke, a grin on my face.

---

I’d like to see some comments this time around!

[Whaddon]

so to become a Pirate
I need to take my top off and wear a Bandanna
seems accurate enough

[Chronicler]

Well, at this stage he’s working more as a commercial sailor. So not technically a pirate, but I guess.

[Chronicler]

July 1st, 1688. Atlantic Ocean.

Quite a lot has passed over the past six days. Now thy hand shall write in thy journal again, and explain thy exploits.

Y’see, I was talking with thy friend, Gary. He be a fine listener. He allowed me to talk about thyself for the longest of times. He seemed to grasp information and then store it in the warehouse of his head, where he’d use it for times of latter. Regardless, ‘long comes this bigger sailor who is looking at thy head.

“Ye have me headband, laddy,” said the bruting Scot.

It had to be a Scot, didenit? I know Charles ‘twas a Scot, but most of them are rowdy and passion’d with obnoxiousness. This one, howev’r, wanted a fight.

“Y’stole me bandanna, laddy. ‘Twant it back.”

“I found it, sire. Didn’t know ‘twas thyne. Can have it back if you want.”

“Not how things go with me, laddy.”

Gary look’d like nervous fella. He grabb’d the table by the sides and flipped the old thing over. He hid behind while the Scot held up his fists.

“Y’shall regret this decision.”

I can not exactly describe such a fight, however, I will let you know that I did indeed lose. And took quite the beating. Y’see, the Scot pretty much felt nothing. But I felt everything.
Gary came to tend my wounds.

“Nasty punch he gave ye on the eye.”

“It’ll heal.”

“I’d hope so, mate.”

Gary pour’d some fine alcohol on me wounds, which burned like a thousand bees sting’n you at one moment. Regardless, it helped.

The other few days have been nothing but doing my work. Regardless I do not not whether I can survive this place much longer.

---

Short journal entry today. Focused mostly on the drawings. Tell me what you guys think!

[Whaddon]

the man in the background has seen some stuff

[Chronicler]

July 3rd, 1688. Atlantic Ocean.

We’re under attack of enemy ships. I write this here entry to bring thoughts of this attack. If any non-pirates manages to find this message, then I’ll give ye a warning of what to look out for.

The dreaded Bloodbeard had caught up to thy ship I called home for ‘while. He flies a dreaded black flag with a red-bearded skull and two swords behind it’s head. It has shine to the texture of it, leading me to conclude no wool was sewn into it.

His ship is a mighty black one. Made of sturdy wood and golden designs, his hearty scottish laugh would make anyone quiver in fear. Ye can hear it for miles! His crew is a diverse one, filled with men from the continent of Africa, to spaniards, to hispanics, and white men.

They don’t give any warning but a flag and Bloodbeard’s laugh. As soon as they near, they board the ship. Unfortunately for our ship, we ended up being caught by Bloodbeard’s ol’ Capricorn. What he will do with us is unknown. However, I must finish this. I hope none of his crew recognizes me and turns me in.

~Norman Squallin