Oh, Jhonny was a daring lad,
He left his ho one fateful morn, beneath a golden sky.
With naught but wind to guide his way, he set upon the tide,
To seek his fate on distant shores, where restless spirits ride."
Through raging storms, through waters black as night,
He danced upon the deck with fate, a devil in the fight.
The silver shone, the torch burned, the gold was piled high,
And Jhonny swore he'd not return 'til riches t his eye.
Oh, Jhonny, bold Jhonny, the sea it made you free,
With cutlass drawn and sails unfurled, you laughed upon the breeze.
Through battles fierce and tempests wild, your na was known afar,
A pirate king, a reaver bold, a demon born for war!
But old n dream of hearth and ho when youth has had its say,
And so, with pockets full of gold, he turned his ship away.
To find the village he had left, a lifeti in the past,
And place his weary bones to rest in peace and gold at last.
A great roar of voices thundered into the night, thousands of throats bellowing the final lines with drunken mirth. The song soared over the beaches and the waters beyond, where the wrecks of Rolian ships still drifted like broken corpses upon the tide. Fires burned high into the sky, casting wild shadows over the revelers—pirates, sailors, and warriors of the Free Isles, their victory sealed in blood and fire.
They had done it.
The Rolian fleet lay shattered, their proud banners torn and trampled underfoot. Their ships, once mighty, had been sunk, or taken as prizes. The night was theirs, and the sea itself seed to celebrate with them, waves crashing against the shore in rhythm with the beat of drums.
Casks of wine and barrels of ale had been broken open, their contents spilling freely into waiting cups. The scent of roasted at filled the air, mingling with the salty breeze. n danced around the great bonfires, arms slung over shoulders, faces flush with victory and drink.
This was, in fact, the third day since the great battle.
The first two had been spent scouring the sea, hunting down the Rolian ships that had tried to flee.
There had been no rcy. So were overtaken on the open water, their hulls splintered by ramming prows, their decks sward by boarding crews with axes and blades, further adding more ships as loot.
Others were cornered near the isles, their desperate defenders cut down before their ships were set afla and left to the tide.
By the ti the hunt was over, a good quarter of what remained of the Rolian fleet had been sunk or captured.
Only then did the victors turn their sails howard, their banners snapping in the wind as they returned to Harmway, the new pumping heart of the Confederation.
Now, the blood and fire of battle had given way to roaring laughter and raucous song. The beaches, of Harmway were alive with celebration. The taverns had thrown their doors wide, the brothels filled to the brim, and barrels of wine had been cracked open for all to share.
Victory belonged to them, and they would make damn sure the world knew it.
This was more than just a victory—it was the dawn of a new era. The golden age of the Confederation had begun. With the Imperial fleet lying in shattered ruin beneath the waves, there was no power left in the southern seas to challenge them. No trade route beyond their reach, no rchant vessel beyond their grasp.
The north, of course, still held the Azanian fleet, a force that in better tis could have rivaled them. But these were not better tis. The Azanians were bleeding in their own civil war, their navy left undermanned and underfunded as rival claimants tore the empire apart.
The Free Isles did not know this yet—news traveled slowly in these days of chaos, with both Rolia and Azania collapsing under the weight of their own struggles,still it was just a matter of ti before they knew and did sothing to take advantage of the situation, with the n at the center of it all still being the one that made all of this possible.
Perhapse , just perhapse, it was not unthinkable for a new mariti empire to be born anew from the ashes of the olds.
That was a matter for the future. Right now, they were too deep in their victory—whoring, feasting, drinking, and raising their cups in roaring toasts to the na on every man's lips: Lord Blake of House Elio.
His na echoed through the night, repeated over and over in song and drunken slurs, the admiral who had led them to the triumph they had craved since the bitter defeat at Rock Bottom. Many saw in him the key to their rise, the man who had cracked the Rolian yoke and given them dominion over the southern seas.
Those who had fought aboard The Roaring Axe were treated like legends, their words hung onto as they spilled every detail of the battle. With cups of wine and ale in hand, they boasted of the admiral's ferocity, how he carved through n like they were cattle, how not even the armored Rolians could stand against him.
"I swear it on my mother's grave," one pirate declared, slamming his cup on the table, "I saw the admiral take on three Rolians at once—three of 'em! One ca at him with a spear, and he broke the damn thing with his knee, let the bastard stumble past him, then drove his axe into his back like he was chopping firewood."
"Pah, that's nothing," another interrupted, leaning forward with a drunken smirk. "Didn't you see what he did to the captain of that Rolian galley? The bastard tried to run, but Blake caught him by the hair and yanked him back—cut his head clean off with one swing! One swing, I tell you! Blood shot up like a damn fountain!"
"I saw it with my own eyes," one man slurred, waving his cup. "He grasped a Rolian by the throat, lifted him clear off the deck, and smashed his skull against the planks—once, twice—until the bastard went limp."
Laughter and disbelief rippled through the crowd.
"That's a load of horse shit if I ever heard one!" another jeered.
The first man narrowed his eyes, thumped his chest, and swore, "By the Sea-God himself, I speak true."
Silence. Then murmurs.
No man was foolish enough to invoke the Sea-God's ire in vain
---------------------
While the common n feasted in the streets, drinking and singing around roaring bonfires, the lords of the Confederation had claid a grander stage for their own revelry. The governor's palace, once the seat of Rolian power on the island, was the place where they drunk and ate. The tapestries bearing the Imperial eagle had been ripped down long ago , the Rolian banners trampled underfoot. In their place, crude wooden tables were piled high with roasted sheep and cows , fresh fish, bread, and an endless flow of wine and ale.
They drank from silver goblets, tore into their als with greasy hands, and laughed loudly, relishing the taste of victory as much as the food before them.
But the true star of the night, the man whose na echoed from every ship deck and tavern, was too preoccupied to bask in the praise. Lord Blake of House Elio, the man who had led them to victory, sat at the high table, his cup ever full, sharing a drink with Kroll—the sa man whose fleet had sealed the Rolians' doom.
Kroll, had in fact under Blake's order before the battle sailed around the island and struck at the Rolian flank just as the battle reached its breaking point. His arrival had been the hamr blow, the sight of his sails finally shattering the resolve of the already bloodied Imperial fleet, forcing them into full retreat. Now, he and Blake sat side by side, tankards in hand, drinking deep as the lords around them raised their cups in their honor.
"You mad bastard," Kroll said, slamming his cup against Blake's. "I thought for sure you'd be dead by the ti I got there."
Blake chuckled, taking a long drink before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Not for lack of trying on the Rolians' part,mind you" he said, voice rough from days of barking orders and battle cries. "But you, my friend, tid your entrance like the sea-God himself was guiding you."
Kroll grinned. "Aye, and now there's nothing left of that Imperial fleet but splinters and shark bait.Still it was your plan was it not?"
Around them, the other lords continued to toast, drink, and gorge themselves, the weight of their victory sinking in.
Kroll suddendly slamd his silver goblet onto the long wooden table, the force of it sending droplets of wine splattering onto the polished surface. His voice, rough and thunderous, bood through the great hall.
"Rock Bottom is avenged!" he roared, his scarred face alight with savage satisfaction.
A great cheer erupted from the lords around him, fists pounding tables, tankards raised in triumph. The mory of their humiliating defeat at Rock Bottom had festered in the hearts of every man in the Confederation, a wound that had never quite healed—until now. This victory had cleansed that sha in blood and fire.
Blake took a long drink, setting his cup down before turning to Kroll with a smirk. "And now that you've had your vengeance, what's next for you?"
Kroll wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grinned. "Got a hell of a lot of loot to offload first—gold, slaves and weapons, all that fine Imperial treasure I'd got. After that?" He let out a short laugh. "I'll keep doing what I always did. Raiding, pillaging, taking what I want and leaving the rest to rot. The sea's ours now, Blake. No damned Rolian warships to hunt us down. We can take what we please, when we please."
Blake nodded, swirling the wine in his cup before taking another sip. "A fine way to live," he admitted. "I'd do the sa, but unfortunately, I've got so debts to settle first."
Kroll raised a thick brow. "Debts? Didn't know you owed anyone.Who would be so foolish as to lend you money "
Blake let out a low chuckle. "They're self-given debts,not of gold" he said, leaning back in his chair. "There is one who've done good service for , and it's about ti I repaid . And on the road to doing that, well… it might just be the most audacious venture I've ever commanded."
Kroll eyed him for a mont, curiosity flickering across his face before he let out a barking laugh. "You always did have a taste for madness, debts that are self-given, that is new!"
Blake simply smiled, lifting his cup once more. "Madness, maybe. Or just unfinished business."
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