1706s Realistic Pirate RPG | Age of Sail | Lorebook

Starting Location: Port Royal The year was 1706, and Port Royal sat on Jamaica’s spit of sand like a swaggering rogue who’d survived a duel, a fire, and a bad marriage, and was determined to keep drinking anyway. The earthquake of 1692 had smashed much of the city into the sea, where the ruins still lay like a cautionary sermon. But sermons never stopped Port Royal—if anything, it treated the disaster as an excuse to start drinking earlier in the day. The harbor remained the envy of the Caribbean: deep, wide, and crowded with ships of every shape and reputation. Sleek English frigates bearing the King’s colors rested at anchor beside heavy merchantmen stuffed with sugar, rum, and slaves, their sails still smelling of Africa. Between them bobbed the smaller craft—the sloops, the brigs, and the suspiciously well-armed vessels whose papers might not stand up to much inspection. In Port Royal, a ship without a past was as unlikely as a sailor without lice. Trade poured through the city in tides as steady as the sea. Casks of molasses rolled down the wharves, hogsheads of rum clattered into tavern cellars, and coin clinked into the hands of anyone fast enough to grab it. Merchants grew fat, taverns louder, and the brothels brighter. Here, fortunes could be made overnight—usually spent by morning on drink, dice, and decisions that required explaining to the magistrate. Yet danger walked as openly as trade. English soldiers patrolled the crooked streets, muskets on shoulders and suspicion in their eyes. The Crown had grown prickly about piracy, and gallows loomed by the waterfront as a constant reminder. Skeletons swayed in the sea breeze, creaking softly as if applauding the hangman’s work. Port Royal had once sheltered the Brethren of the Coast; now it displayed them as warnings. Still, no amount of nooses could wring out the city’s spirit. Port Royal lived on the knife’s edge between profit and ruin, law and lawlessness, salvation and damnation. And if the sea itself had already tried to drown it once, the city seemed to take that as proof it was worth keeping.

Starting Location: Nassau The year was 1706. The sea rolled in lazy indifference toward the low, sandy spit of Nassau, as though it couldn’t quite decide whether the place was worth the trouble of drowning. The town squatted there anyway, all ramshackle roofs and stubborn planks, like a drunk who’d built a house out of every barstool he’d ever fallen off. From a distance, Nassau looked almost respectable—sunlight gilding the bay, palms swaying obligingly—but anyone who set foot ashore soon realized that respectability had packed up and left years ago, without so much as paying its bar tab. Down on the beach, a frigate lay careened on her side, her barnacled belly exposed to the hot Caribbean sun. She flew no colors, which in itself was a sort of color—an absence loud enough to make every honest merchant mutter and every dishonest one take sudden interest. Men clambered over her hull with buckets of tar and scraping tools, voices raised in song or argument, which often sounded much the same. Each strike of a hammer was a promise that the ship would rise again, faster and hungrier, though no one dared say whose cause she’d serve. The air was thick with competing perfumes: smoke from fish roasting over driftwood fires, the sharp tang of pitch, the sweet-sour fug of rum spilled where it was too much trouble to drink it properly. A pack of goats roamed freely through the market, chewing whatever wasn’t nailed down, and in Nassau very little was nailed down for long. Traders shouted their wares in a babel of tongues; pirates bartered loudly for powder and quietly for pardons; and the occasional missionary wandered the street with the vague air of someone who’d mislaid both their faith and their luggage. The fort on the hill was a sad, crumbling affair, its guns more ornamental than practical, manned by soldiers whose discipline could be bought for the price of a mug. It was said the cannons hadn’t fired in anger for so long that even the crabs had begun nesting in their muzzles. Still, they pointed dutifully out to sea, which was a comforting lie if you didn’t look too closely. Yet Nassau lived, in the way weeds live—tenaciously, almost cheerfully, and without asking anyone’s permission. It was a place where law wore thin boots and laughter wore sharp knives, where fortunes could be made overnight and spent by morning. The frigate on the beach was a reminder: in Nassau, ships and men alike might fall, but they always found a way to rise again.

Starting Location: New Orleans The year was 1706, and New Orleans was less a city and more an argument with the swamp that just happened to involve buildings. The French, in their particular Gallic wisdom, had chosen a spot where the river curled like a lazy serpent and declared, “Here shall be commerce!” The swamp, meanwhile, declared, “Here shall be mosquitoes the size of small birds,” and had been winning ever since. From a pirate’s eye, though, the place glimmered. The Mississippi was a great, mud-brown highway of fortune, carrying furs, timber, tobacco, and every other good thing foolish enough to travel by water. Ships heavy with trade huffed up and down its currents, and wherever men shipped goods, other men made plans about how to ship them elsewhere, less officially. A clever captain could melt into the river’s endless bends and bayous and vanish quicker than a tavern’s last bottle. Opportunity was thick here—thicker, sometimes, than the mosquitoes. But danger stalked with equal stride. The French crown kept the town bristling with soldiers whose muskets worked better than their tempers, and forts squatted along the riverbanks like toads daring you to step too close. Every man in a tricorn hat was either an officer, a smuggler, or a fool, and often all three. The law in New Orleans was enthusiastic, if not always efficient, and it had a fondness for making examples. Pirates who miscalculated found themselves nailed in public memory as efficiently as they were nailed in public places. The land itself was no ally. The air clung wet as a fever, the ground swallowed boots whole, and the swamp’s creatures considered human flesh part of a balanced diet. Alligators lurked with the patience of saints, snakes slithered with the enthusiasm of sinners, and the mosquitoes... well, the mosquitoes had ambitions. And yet, for those willing to risk it, New Orleans offered riches as grand as Havana and as unguarded as Nassau. The markets bustled with traders speaking half a dozen tongues, each eager to turn fur into coin or coin into drink. Warehouses along the docks sagged with goods waiting for ships that might not reach France intact. The river was a lifeline, but lifelines, as pirates knew, could also be cut.

Starting Location: Martinique The year was 1706, and Martinique sat in the Caribbean like a jewel someone had dropped in a rum glass—bright, intoxicating, and slightly dangerous if swallowed whole. The French claimed it proudly, and the French, being French, immediately set about planting sugar everywhere they could convince soil and slaves to suffer for it. The island bloomed with cane fields that shimmered green in the heat, whispering wealth for some and misery for many. From the sea, Martinique looked inviting: lush hillsides, volcanic peaks, and little towns with red-tiled roofs that suggested order and civility. But the closer one sailed, the more the island revealed its sharp edges. The forts loomed over the harbors, their cannon aimed at anyone with more ambition than manners. French warships lay at anchor like large, humorless dogs, waiting to be fed. Even the marketplaces smelled faintly of powder beneath the sweet perfume of sugar and spice. Opportunity, of course, thrived in such places. Ships from France unloaded silks, wine, and the sort of delicate luxuries that pirates could never use but could always sell. In return, holds were packed with sugar, rum, and tobacco bound for Europe—cargo so tempting it practically begged to be stolen. Every barrel represented coin, and coin represented trouble, and trouble had a way of finding its way back to the docks with a cutlass in hand. Yet danger lingered everywhere. The plantations were policed with an iron will, soldiers and overseers ensuring order with a precision that suggested imagination was considered a crime. The French Navy kept an especially sharp eye on Martinique, knowing full well it was the beating heart of their Caribbean empire. Pirates caught prowling here rarely lived long enough to regret it. Those who did survive had to contend with the island itself: the volcano brooding in the background, the jungles that devoured men who wandered too far inland, and the air, thick with both sugar dust and whispers of revolt. Martinique was wealth and warning in equal measure. To pirates, it was a siren song: dazzling, irresistible, and always just a little too close to the rocks.

Starting Location: Providence Island The year was 1706, and Providence Island was less a crown jewel and more a half-forgotten button rattling about in the Caribbean’s pocket. Once a Puritan stronghold, later an English foothold, it had drifted into that peculiar state of being officially claimed yet practically neglected. Which, of course, made it perfect for pirates. The harbor was small, but snug, and the surrounding reefs were as tricky and spiteful as an unpaid gambler. Any ship that didn’t know the waters risked leaving its keel behind as a souvenir. To a pirate, this was excellent news: reefs were free fortresses, and Providence had plenty. A man could anchor in safety here, careen a ship on the beach, and patch it with stolen timber while keeping one eye out for sails on the horizon. There wasn’t much of a town—just a huddle of huts, a rough tavern or two, and a fort whose stones looked as though they’d been mortared together with optimism rather than engineering. Spain and England both liked to wave claims at the place, but neither cared enough to send more than the occasional patrol. Which meant Providence belonged, in practice, to whoever had the most guns on any given Tuesday. Still, opportunity thrived in such neglect. Smugglers moved freely through the island, trading sugar, tobacco, and the occasional barrel of gunpowder that had mysteriously lost its bill of lading. Slaves escaped from the Spanish Main sometimes found refuge here, and freebooters found the company of men who asked few questions and poured rum with both hands. If Havana was the iron fist of empire, Providence was the gap between its fingers. But danger was never far. Spanish patrols occasionally appeared, burning huts and stringing up the unlucky. The reefs that guarded the harbor so fiercely could just as easily devour a ship that misjudged its course by a hair. And the island itself—humid, feverish, crawling with insects—seemed intent on reminding everyone that the Caribbean was not, in fact, paradise. To the powers of Europe, Providence Island was a nuisance. To pirates, it was a refuge—temporary, precarious, and all the more precious for it.

Starting Location: Tortuga The year was 1706, and Tortuga still clung to its reputation the way a drunk clings to the last bottle: tightly, noisily, and with only a dim awareness that the party had already moved elsewhere. Once the very byword for piracy, the island had become less a roaring den of freebooters and more a creaking stage where the actors refused to leave even after the play was done. The French now ruled the place with a certain weary efficiency. A fort crouched on the heights, its guns pointed seawards more out of habit than enthusiasm, while the governor below counted barrels of sugar, tobacco, and hides that drifted in from Saint-Domingue. The taverns still rang with laughter, curses, and the occasional knife fight, but these days the drinkers were more often weary traders, smugglers, or privateers with paperwork than the cutthroats of old. Tortuga still smelled of salt, rum, and smoke—only now the smoke mostly came from cookfires instead of burning ships. Yet opportunity lingered, as it always did on islands the Crown only half-watched. The nearby ports of Port-au-Prince and Petit-Goâve pulsed with French wealth, their warehouses bulging with sugar bound for Europe, their soldiers busy trying to look sober. To the west, Port Royal in Jamaica bristled under English control, a rival nest where smugglers and privateers plotted in taverns just as smoky as Tortuga’s. The currents between these places carried gossip, goods, and the occasional fugitive with alarming speed. Danger, of course, remained part of the décor. Spanish patrols prowled the Windward Passage, and a man unlucky enough to cross them could expect a short trial and a long drop. Disease haunted the humid air, taking sailors as easily as bullets. And the law, whether French or Spanish or English, had grown less forgiving since the old days, when “piracy” could be excused as patriotism provided the loot was shared with the right officials. Tortuga, in 1706, was no longer the unruly capital of the Brethren of the Coast. But it was still a crossroads: a place where old pirates told newer ones how grand things used to be, where smugglers found willing buyers, and where fortunes could still be made—if one didn’t mind the fact that the noose was never far behind.

Starting Location: Cartagena The year was 1706, and Cartagena rose from the northern coast of South America like a fortress that had read too many manuals on how to be invincible—and then decided to be polite about it. The city was Spain’s crown jewel in the Caribbean Main, a labyrinth of stone walls, bastions, and cannon, each pointed toward the sea with a polite suggestion that anyone arriving without papers might reconsider their life choices. The harbor glittered with the weight of Spanish ambition. Treasure fleets arrived from Peru and Panama, their holds swollen with silver, gold, and the occasional bale of indigo or cacao. Merchants scurried along the quays, their ledgers clutched like shields, while soldiers patrolled with muskets slung over shoulders that had long grown accustomed to authority. Every crate, barrel, and cask was stamped, counted, and observed, as if the act of cataloging could protect it from the ocean—and the pirates who treated it as an invitation. Pirates, of course, were always observing. Cartagena had learned this early: the city was surrounded by shallow reefs, mangrove inlets, and hidden coves that made it a playground for the clever, the fast, and the desperate. Henry Morgan had taught the walls lessons in humility, and every captain who passed by remembered that the Spanish might guard their gold, but geography, tides, and a daring crew could conspire to make even the best defenses look ornamental. Yet danger was never merely a question of speed or courage. The tropical heat made men sluggish, disease crept through the streets like a thief no sword could stop, and the gallows were never empty. Every day brought the risk of cannon fire, ambush, or the simple misfortune of stepping where the city’s pride decided a foreigner should not. Still, Cartagena’s wealth was impossible to ignore. The streets buzzed with traders from Europe, Africa, and the Indies, their voices blending into a constant hum of commerce, rumor, and warning. To a pirate, the city was a siren song: heavily guarded, feverish with danger, and gleaming with opportunity. One wrong move could end a life; one clever one could make a fortune. And in the Caribbean, cleverness was worth far more than caution. Cartagena, in short, was everything a Spanish port should be: rich, fortified, and very, very aware that the sea had a long memory and even longer teeth.

Starting Location: Guadeloupe The year was 1706, and Guadeloupe was the kind of island that gave the impression of being thoroughly tropical but still faintly French about it. Palm trees swayed above sugar plantations, the air smelled faintly of rum, and everyone insisted on behaving as though Paris were only a short stroll away — if one didn’t mind the occasional hurricane or Spanish raid. To the French crown, Guadeloupe was valuable: fertile soil, profitable cane, and just enough forts to look respectable in official reports. To pirates, however, it was something else entirely: not a haven, exactly, but a place where one could usually find a planter, merchant, or official who was willing to pretend that a suspiciously full hold had arrived entirely by accident. The French liked their sugar, but they also liked cheap tobacco, stolen indigo, and brandy that had been liberated from Spanish galleons. And if these things happened to fall off the back of a pirate sloop, well — business was business. The ports bustled with trade, though not all of it legitimate. Ships carried sugar to France and returned with cloth, wine, and the occasional misplaced aristocrat. Meanwhile, pirates drifted in at the edges, bartering loot for supplies, patching their sails, and generally doing their best to look like respectable privateers who had simply forgotten to carry the right papers. Governors were fond of saying they would never tolerate pirates, and then promptly tolerating them so long as their purses were heavy enough. Life on Guadeloupe was not easy. The heat made tempers short, the sugar fields demanded brutal labor, and the threat of Spanish reprisal loomed like a thundercloud. Yet the taverns were lively, the rum was strong, and a clever captain could always find a buyer for ill-gotten goods — provided he was polite enough to tip his glass to France while drinking it. Guadeloupe, in short, was everything a pirate occasionally needed: not a nest, not a fortress, but a marketplace with a slightly raised eyebrow — and in the Caribbean, an eyebrow raised in the right direction could be worth more than a fleet of cannons.

Starting Location: Barataria Bay The year was 1706, and Barataria Bay was less a port than an elaborate practical joke played by the Gulf of Mexico on the concept of geography. Cartagena had its bastions, Havana its fleets, Port Royal (before its unfortunate attempt at becoming Atlantis) its taverns and brothels. Barataria had mud. And reeds. And the sort of mosquitoes that could strip a man faster than a cutpurse in a crowded marketplace. To the casual observer — and most observers were very casual, since standing still too long in Barataria meant sinking ankle-deep into something unpleasant — the bay seemed uninhabitable. No walls, no churches, not even a decent gallows to encourage civic pride. But pirates are nothing if not inventive, especially when it comes to finding somewhere other people can’t be bothered to go. Barataria, with its shifting channels and fog that smelled faintly of rot, was the perfect kind of nowhere. The authorities, French or Spanish depending on which map you were looking at that week, claimed the bay. They sent patrols now and then, all of which came back with fewer men than they set out with, plus a rash of complaints about biting insects and boats that sank without so much as the courtesy of a warning. Eventually they gave up, deciding that any place which ate soldiers faster than brandy was welcome to keep its independence. In the absence of kings, governors, or anyone willing to wear a proper hat, Barataria developed its own kind of order. Smugglers slipped through the channels with tobacco, brandy, and the occasional captive chicken. Runaway slaves built huts on stilts and glared at anyone who suggested returning them. French trappers, Spanish deserters, and English sailors who had misplaced their ships all found themselves here, bound together by the simple creed that if you could survive the swamp, you deserved whatever you could steal. To call it a pirate port was generous. There was no harbor, no quay, and the tavern was usually just a raft with a barrel of rum on it. But it had what mattered: places to hide, routes to escape, and enough fog to make a fleet vanish as if swallowed by the sea. You couldn’t march an army into Barataria — the mud would eat it. You couldn’t anchor a warship there — the shoals would laugh at you. But you could, if you were desperate or daring enough, build a life in its shadows. Barataria Bay, in short, was everything a pirate port should be: inconvenient, uncomfortable, and utterly invaluable — the sort of place you cursed while living in and praised to the heavens once you’d managed to get out alive.

Starting Location: Port-au-Prince The year was 1706, and Port-au-Prince was still deciding whether it wanted to be a respectable French colony or a particularly ambitious tavern that had gotten out of hand. It sat cupped in the bay of Saint-Domingue like a glittering coin dropped by accident, half-buried in sand and half-forgotten by its owner—but gleaming all the same. The French had built it with the same optimism they brought to most of their colonies: plenty of plans, not quite enough nails, and an unshakable belief that a bit of wine could fix the difference. Warehouses leaned companionably toward each other along the waterfront, their roofs eternally surprised by the Caribbean sun. Down on the quays, barrels of sugar and rum were stacked in uneven pyramids that looked ready to collapse at the slightest loud noise—which was unfortunate, because loud noises were Port-au-Prince’s favorite pastime. Trade was the city’s lifeblood, rum its religion, and gossip its second-favorite form of currency. Merchants haggled in French, Creole, and that universal dialect of shrugging and swearing. Slaves were marched in from the plantations, sugar was rolled out to the ships, and somewhere in between, the governor tried to look in control of things. He wasn’t, of course—governors rarely were—but he had the good sense to issue enough proclamations to make it look as though he might be someday. The harbor itself was a busy, fragrant soup of humanity and ambition. French frigates rode at anchor, sleek and disciplined, while smaller merchantmen and privateer sloops bobbed between them like mischievous younger cousins. Every so often, a ship of questionable origin would arrive—its papers wrinkled, its crew too polite, and its hold suspiciously full of goods that had “fallen off” a Spanish galleon somewhere between Havana and common sense. No one asked too many questions. Above the docks, the streets twisted uphill toward a huddle of taverns, brothels, and gambling dens that made up the city’s true government. Here, coin changed hands faster than orders, and every table held at least one man who claimed to have sailed with Henry Morgan, whether or not the math agreed. Rum was cheaper than honesty, and both flowed freely. Still, for a pirate, Port-au-Prince was a delightfully useful sort of chaos. The officials were bribable, the taverns were plentiful, and the harbor deep enough to swallow sins whole. The French navy might come calling now and then, but as long as the rum kept flowing and the taxes were roughly paid, most found the place agreeable—if a little flammable. Port-au-Prince, in 1706, was a city on the edge: part fortress, part marketplace, and entirely too fond of pretending it was civilized. But beneath the flags and formalities, it still pulsed with the same wild heartbeat that drove every port in the Caribbean—the rhythm of cannon fire, coin, and the sea’s endless promise of more.