A few years prior to the Coalition founding, there was a hard season upon the sea, and the crew of the Damned Promise was suffering for it. Supplies were dwindling, hunger gnawed at even the captain’s bones, and desperation set in. The captain, the infamous Francis “Redbeard”, recalled a town on La Florida’s east coast where a promising young crewmate, Meg, was sent a month or so prior to establish a base there. Rather than risk the treacherous intracoastal waters with a galleon, he and a small crew took the Pale Maiden ashore, leaving Quartermaster McGrew in command of the flagship. With him came his bo’sin, Toringard, and vanguard, Chris the “Dead Pool”.

It was a few days sail until their arrival at the town led them to The Black Gull; a weathered tavern where the more seedy folks were known to frequent. Within its dimly lit, smoky depths, they found their crewmate not at a table but locked in a paid duel. She fought like a cyclone, moving with sharp efficiency as her opponent faltered under her strikes. With a final, decisive blow, the man collapsed, and she turned to the newcomers, a flicker of recognition crossing her face before she broke into a grin.

After a round of drinks and explanations, Redbeard asked Meg if any ships were arriving that might serve as easy prey. She shook her head but offered a better opportunity: a festival the next day, where Spanish governors and nobility would be in attendance. More importantly, a warehouse stocked with goods meant to resupply the Spanish fleet sat heavily guarded but ripe for the taking. Torin with excitement suggested they also crash the private gathering of local officials happening afterward. What’s a little fun after they complete their work?

The next morning found them hungover but determined as they made their way through the bustling festival. Torin, despite his throbbing head, was as eager as ever, drinking in the sights and sounds. The warehouse stood on the outskirts, guarded by royal soldiers armed with flintlocks, but through careful words and a few pouches of coin, they executed their heist flawlessly. Who would have thought Spanish guards were so easily swayed by a few doubloons. With the supplies on their way to the Pale Maiden, Meg excused herself, tending to personal matters, while Chris was lured away by a maiden’s smile.

Celebration was in order, and hopefully more gold to replenish their pockets as Redbeard and Torin made their way toward the estate hosting the governor’s gathering. The entrance was heavily guarded, but the true challenge lay in the sheer contrast of their presence—fine silks, gilded masks, and powdered faces surrounded them, making their sea-worn attire stand out. Before they could be questioned, a masked couple approached, their interest piqued by the out-of-place pirates.

Torin’s hand went to his sword, but Redbeard stayed his arm, ready to talk. The couple quite easily saw them for who they were yet had no intent on raising the alarm. Possibly infatuated by the tales of pirates, they offered a means of entry, passing them off as distant cousins—humble merchants from the sea. With little choice but to accept, Redbeard and Torin followed their benefactors, weaving through the masked aristocrats toward the manor steps.

The plan unraveled the moment they entered the crowd. Torin was swallowed by the revelers, his excited energy no match for the pull of the festivities. Redbeard could do little but move forward, relying on the ruse that had been handed to him. The guards barely gave him a second glance, their attention drawn more to the wealthier guests than their supposed merchant kin.

Inside the lavish estate, music and laughter filled the halls, and tables overflowed with indulgence. What had begun as a weekend of thievery quickly turned into a night of drunken debate, lively song, and more fine wine than our heroes had ever intended to drink. The two were undoubtedly tangled in chaos, lost to the revelry.

By the time the bells tolled deep into the night, Redbeard slouched against a marble column, his coat unbuttoned, a half-eaten fig in his hand. He did not have riches to show for the night’s work, but as he wiped wine from his beard with the back of his hand, he could only grin. Whatever trouble awaited them tomorrow, at least they had lived this night to the fullest, for this night they lived as royalty.