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-Prussian privateer Pov second moon 289 AC
The icy wind lashed against my cheeks as I rose on the deck, the oars beating a dull drumbeat against the hull. Amid the murmurs of my crew—men hardened by sea and war—I raised my fist to command silence.
"Ship spotted!" cried the lookout from atop the mast. Through the morning mist, I made out the enemy rigging, dyed in crimson and black.
I knelt beside the weapons chest and gripped my sword, its hilt as cold as my resolve.
"Listen well," I shouted, my voice echoing across the planks. "That banner of Volantis belongs to slavers. Today they answer for every chain they forged." I spoke in German, though I doubted they understood me.
As I tightened the straps of my breastplate, my eyes scanned my comrades—one preparing a grappling hook with a firm gesture, another already loading a crossbow, seeking his target.
"All ready… loading rhythm," I said, lifting my sword to set the pace of the oars. "Prepare grapples, cock your crossbows, and draw your steel!" I shouted.
The wind whispered through the rigging as I kept my hand steady, not rushing. A meter from me, the oars struck the water in steady cadence—one blow after another, a silent crescendo that thudded against the hull like a pulsing heartbeat. I watched my men lean in rhythm, their backs taut and ceremonial, gloved hands gripping the oars with precision.
As we advanced, I ran a mental inspection of every detail. I saw the grapples, ready to leap; the loaded crossbows, aching for the clash. The din had not yet broken, but in this tense silence beat the certainty of victory.
The silhouette of the Volantene ship loomed larger with every stroke. I sensed the slight sway of the galley as their sailors readied themselves on the other side, just as tense. I raised my voice, soft yet firm, so that all would feel the moment:
"Steady on deck. Keep the rhythm. When I raise the sword—release the grapples."
The galley's pent-up roar became a steady pulse: water splitting under the blades, the drum marking the rhythm, and the rhythmic breath of my men was the only music as we closed in.
I bowed my head, lowered my hand, and reached for my sword hilt, checking the edge one last time before raising my voice:"Crossbowmen… ready… release!"By now they had picked up a few words and followed my command.
A moment later, dozens of bolts cut through the air with a deadly hiss. I watched them strike the side of the merchant ship—splinters flying, Volantene crew diving for cover or letting out strangled cries.
"Reload quickly!" I ordered, feeling each row like another heartbeat in my chest. "Keep the pressure on… heads down!" I kept shouting.
But then, a hail of enemy arrows tore through the mist. I heard the cries of pain as some struck the arms and shoulders of my men. The drum faltered for a moment, and the rhythm of the oars threatened to collapse.
I leaned over the railing, controlling my breath to infuse them with courage:"Do not yield! Let fear not dim your fury!"
With that single phrase, their gazes hardened again. The rowers pressed their blades into the water, quickening the tempo. I felt the galley pick up speed, slicing through the waves.
The enemy prow was no longer a blur on the horizon—it was a tangible monster: splintered planks, sails torn by our first volley, men rushing back and forth trying to repel the threat.
I took a deep breath: the distance was minimal. With each stroke, each beat of the drum, we drew closer to the decisive clash.
The twang of crossbows rang again. I saw bolts rain down on their archers. Some crumpled and fell into the sea, freeing our rowers from the rain of arrows that had threatened to halt us.
I raised my sword and shouted over the noise:"Grapples, now!"
Dozens of hooks arced through the air, crashing into the side of their galley. Ropes whistled taut, and I felt the pull as we slammed side by side. Beneath my feet, the hull vibrated as the two vessels locked together.
On deck, some of their men attacked our grapples with knives and axes, trying to cut us loose. I saw two of my crossbowmen lean over the rail and unleash another storm of bolts on those who dared approach.
The scent of salt mixed with the cold sweat of tension. I heard the groaning of splintering planks as the enemy hull strained.
I stepped back a few paces to build momentum, fixed my gaze on the enemy rail, and—without hesitation—hurled myself into the void. The clash of steel against the enemy deck thundered in my ears, and I had no time to steady myself: several sailors struck me with a brutal shove, and I fell face-first.
Instinctively, I drew my dagger with a sharp twist of the wrist and lashed out. One fell to my right—his muffled scream drowned in the crunch of my blade—and I shoved another aside with my forearm before driving the tip into his thigh. I felt the wood beneath us stain red.
They tried to pin me down, two at once, but I twisted violently and slid my dagger into any gap I found in their grip.
Chaos reigned: clashing helms, snapping ropes, and the sour stench of blood thick in the salty air.
More of my men climbed over the rail, boots slamming down on the deck as they struck down the last of those pinning me. With a firm push, they freed me from the sailors on top, and at last I stood again. My hand found the sword hilt lying on the floor.
The contrast was immediate. These Volantene sailors wore cracked leather at best; I bore the cold solidity of Gothic plate. Their crude weapons—daggers, axes—bounced uselessly off my breastplate and greaves.
I swung wide, and my blade traced a deadly arc across the deck. The man who tried to strike me from behind cursed as my sword split his wrist. Without hesitation, I drove the point into his throat, tearing it open in a single thrust. My blade and armor were soaked in his blood.
There was no time to pause. An axe slashed through the air toward my head. I leaned back, felt the blade scrape my helm, recovered my stance, and adjusted my grip. I feigned a low cut—he pulled his head back to dodge—only for me to change angle at the last second, slicing through his leg above the knee.
I watched him writhe in pain as blood spilled across the deck. Without giving him a chance for a final breath, I raised my blade and, with a clean stroke, severed his head from his torso, silencing his dying moan.
For long minutes, the battle raged with fury: sweat and blood ran down the planks, the groans of the wounded mingled with the creaking of wood and the sway of the waves beneath the hull. One enemy fell here, a precise thrust landed there—until the Volantene ship was ours.
With my hands still stained in blood and the Volantene sailors kneeling around me, I made my way to the hold to inspect the cargo.
I had invested every coin earned as a caravan guard into this venture: a ship, my Gothic armor, the swords and crossbows, and the letter of marque Count Lothar had issued in the name of Tyrosh. For every enemy galley sunk or captured, I was paid handsomely. I had already claimed two—not counting the one I rammed and shattered with my steel prow.
The business was as profitable as it was ruthless. In addition to rewards for the hull and sails, I was paid for the captain's logbook and for every slave unshackled. Then I'd recruit them as free rowers—men who had survived months, even years, in chains under conditions barely fit to be called life. Their thirst for vengeance made them strong and obedient.
Managing everything with just two German-speaking comrades was a challenge, but most of these Volantene ships lacked well-armed or trained crews. A handful of motivated ex-slaves was often enough to subdue them. And every victory brought in new volunteers to replace those lost in battle.
I descended, letting the dim lantern light reveal sacks of grain, barrels of wine, and what seemed to be the real prize: a vast stockpile of fine fabrics, rolled and carefully stacked. They could fetch a high price once we reached port. After paying the crew and giving them their share of the spoils, I'd still keep around four hundred gold dragons—out of nearly a thousand. No more scraping by guarding Westerosi merchant cargo. Now I could take everything from nations that still defended slavery.
I went down to the lowest level of the galley and found around one hundred twenty slaves, as was typical for Volantene ships. All of them were chained, their skin worn and blistered by the saltwater that reached their ankles. They watched in silence, tense, expecting the worst.
My Valyrian was poor, clumsy… but the best I could manage in such circumstances."...by order of Count Lothar… you are… free," I said, repeating the same words I had learned to say every time I freed a group. Then I gave the order for my sailors to break their shackles and speak to them. They were more likely to be understood than I was.
Once the liberation was done, I climbed to the captain's cabin. I found a young man hiding beside a chest, trembling. He had the typical Valyrian features one expects in Volantis: silver hair, purple eyes… Possibly someone important, but my orders were clear.
I punched him square in the face before he could say a word. He hit the floor instantly.
I searched his belongings. I took his logbook, rummaged through a chest of coins—Volantene currency, useless except for its weight in metal—some fine clothes, and a few trinkets. Nothing remarkable.
I grabbed him by the hair and dragged him outside, onto the deck, where the rest of the prisoners were tied up.
"How did we do?" Olren asked, wiping his sword with a bloody rag.
"About a thousand dragons from the loot… two hundred more for freeing the slaves, so we did well," I replied, tossing the captain at his feet.
"Excellent… a few more of these merchant ships and we'll be living like nobles," said Karsten, still standing guard on our ship, scanning the horizon.
"Yeah… I was thinking of buying another war galley. More crew, bigger targets. You know, these are just small-time traders," I said as I removed my helmet.
"I don't know… with two more ships, we'd already have more gold than we could ever spend in the Reach. But yeah, we still have to do what the Count wants," Karsten replied from the gangplank between the vessels.
"Right," I muttered, and started giving orders to our sailors, still struggling with the language barrier.
They brought the same chains we had removed from the freed slaves and began placing them, one by one, on the Volantene sailors. Once they were all shackled—wrists and ankles bound—we led them to the edge of the deck.
And one by one, we threw them into the sea.
We watched as they desperately tried to stay afloat, only to be dragged down by the weight of their shackles.
When we cast the last sailor overboard, we turned to see the young captain, paralyzed by fear, staring at the chains we had laid out before him—convinced he was next. But he had more luck than the rest.
I approached him and pressed my dagger to his neck."You will live…" I said in my broken Valyrian.
I gave the order to approach the coast, using the newly freed slaves to row the captured ship. We drew as close as we could to the shoreline, and from there, we tossed the merchant overboard with some supplies—enough to survive the journey home.
The Count wanted Volantis to know we were actively attacking their ships.
"Well then, let's head back to Lys," I said with a smile.
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I'd like to take this opportunity to run a small poll. As you may already know, my friend and I are currently reviewing books to develop our Warhammer Fantasy story. One thing that has caused some debate between us is a difference in approach.
Personally, I would like the story to focus more on the population—events, circumstances, economy, workplaces—where it becomes clear that I've taken heavy inspiration from Europa Universalis V. In other words, a more realistic kingdom-building narrative, centered on managing population and immigration through the main character's actions.
My friend, on the other hand, prefers a less specific approach, to make the story more digestible.
So, we'll leave the decision up to you.
-HERE-
I'll be including a few polls throughout future chapters to get your opinion on how we should guide the story based on these differences.