Captain Crowe, with a sense of urgency borne from necessity, promptly commanded the Viper to set sail from Mythralis. He was well aware that with the news of their precious cargo now a whisper on the wind, it wouldn't be long before it reached the ears of rival pirate crews.
In the world of piracy, boasting and braggadocio were as common as the salt in the sea. Tales of treasure and conquest were traded like currency, inflating in value with each telling. The Captain knew all too well that the allure of this prize would soon draw unwanted attention, and speed was of the essence.
Thus, the Viper, a ship that had long prowled the waters around Mythralis, slipped away into the vast, open sea. Her sails billowed with the urgency of their mission, carrying her and her crew into the uncertainty of the waters beyond.
The sun hung high in the sky as the Obsidian Viper sailed steadily through the open sea. A sense of purpose coursed through the veins of the crew as they prepared for their next daring endeavour—the gathering of supplies and armaments essential for their mission.
Marcellus stood at the helm, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon. He knew that to seize the treasure galleon, Andorra La Vella, they needed more than just a daring crew and a relentless spirit. They required the tools of their trade—weapons, ammunition, and provisions to sustain them on their perilous journey.
As the ship navigated towards the nearest port, the crew buzzed with anticipation. They knew the importance of this task, for it would shape their success or failure in the upcoming battle for Andorra La Vella.
The thought of the prize that awaited them fueled their enthusiasm and drove them to push forward. This would be a prize worth taking; they would tell tales of this for days to come.
In the past, merely mentioning the idea of confronting a galleon would have resulted in being laughed out of a crew. Initially, pirates were nothing more than privateers or fishermen.
Moreover, the Draewyn Empire's navy the Imperial was known for its fierce reputation, capable of obliterating any daring pirate without breaking a sweat.
Lastly, no captain had ever possessed the audacity to undertake such a daring feat.
However, Captain Crowe was different, at least he thought he was.
He had the balls, skills, and valuable information to succeed. Moreover, the Draewyn Empire was in a unique situation. They were embroiled in internal conflict as the former Emperor passed away without naming a successor.
The empire was divided into three factions, each mirroring the support of one of the other three empires. Captain Crowe intended to intercept this support, recognizing it as an opportunity.
Captain Crowe, always the strategic mind, divided the crew into three smaller groups to maximize efficiency.
The first group, led by the formidable Tommy Bones, was tasked with acquiring the necessary arsenal for their impending battles. They embarked on a perilous mission to secure 100 casks of powder, a staggering arsenal of destruction. Alongside the powder, they sought 1,000 rounds of shots to feed the insatiable hunger of the menacing 12-pounder Cannons.
They sought to make more than a dent in the Galleon.
Meanwhile, another faction, under the guidance of Dufrene, a man known for his meticulous nature and distinguishable yellow-rimmed glasses, embarked on a different quest. Their mission was to procure vital sustenance and essential supplies that would sustain the crew on their perilous voyage. Dufrene, with his keen eye for detail and calculation, meticulously managed the accounts and logistics, ensuring that no provisions were overlooked.
Lastly, a select few set out on the daunting task of finding a companion vessel—a consort—to accompany Captain Crowe and his crew on their treacherous journey. They were not stupid to follow Captain Crowe alone they needed more gun power and more manpower.
Marcellus found himself part of the team responsible for procuring firearms and ammunition—a crucial element in their arsenal, Tommy was also in this group.
The streets of the port town bustled with activity as Marcellus and his companions navigated the maze of vendors and shops.
The air was thick with the scent of sea salt and the clamour of merchants haggling over goods. They moved with purpose, their eyes scanning the wares displayed in shop windows.
There was a stark contrast between this place and Mythralis, an unmistakable difference in the way people carried themselves. Here, amidst the shadows and whispers of this unfamiliar realm, there was an undeniable sense of order—a semblance of structure that veiled the chaos lurking beneath the surface.
It was a stark departure from the lawlessness that permeated Mythralis, where survival reigned supreme.
Walking alongside Tommy, Marcellus couldn't help but notice a certain gait about his companion. Tommy seemed to exude a unique aura, as if he possessed a mastery over his own breath, employing a technique reminiscent of the knights Marcellus had encountered.
It differed from the Harmonious Nexus path Marcel had learned, yet there were subtle similarities that intrigued him.
Seizing the opportunity to numb the silence, Marcellus initiated a conversation with Tommy, hoping to unravel the mysteries of this new breathing technique.
"Tommy," Marcellus began, his tone tinged with a genuine curiosity,
"Forgive my intrusion, but I've observed something about you. Your breathing... it has a rhythm, a pattern that reminds me of the knights" His eyes studied Tommy with a keen interest, seeking to unravel the mystery behind his unique breathing technique.
Marcellus's voice held a mixture of genuine fascination and curiosity. He yearned to expand his understanding of the world, to know more about the war. He had always thought knight breathing techniques were a secret.
Marcellus's inquiry about Tommy's breathing technique sparked a mischievous glint in Tommy's eyes, with a sly grin, he replied, "Ah, Blackeye, me matey, you be curious 'bout me breathin', do you? Let's just say, I borrowed it from a Merchant's Guard who found himself in a rather compromising position. But fear not, ye can usually find similar techniques for sale in the shadiest corners of the black market."
Is he mocking my Valar accent?
Marcel's eyes widened. "A borrowed technique, eh? I must say, Tommy, you do have a talent for... acquisition. But I reckon there's more to it."
Tommy's smile broadened.
Their search led them to a hidden enclave tucked away in the rugged countryside, where the most esteemed cannon makers resided. The stall is tucked away in a dimly lit alley.
As they entered the establishment, a tingling sense of anticipation filled the air. Shelves lined with an assortment of firearms, ranging from flintlock pistols to muskets, greeted their eager eyes. The room hummed with whispers of hidden power, of the capacity for destruction and the means to defend.
Marcellus approached the counter with Tommy along with others from the crew.
Tommy strode up to the shopkeeper's counter and leaned in. "Good sir," he began, his voice laced with excitement, "we need, swords, ammunition, 12-pound long guns, and last but not least heavy cannons"
The shopkeeper, a weathered man with a knowing grin, exchanged a glance with his assistant before disappearing into the depths of the shop. Moments later, he returned, bearing crates filled with an assortment of firearms and ammunition.
Marcellus's gaze swept across the room, taking in the sight of the powerful artillery. "Truly magnificent," he murmured, his voice filled with awe, this was the second time he had seen a gun up close.
Guns were incredibly scarce, and tightly controlled by the Church for a specific reason—the Church of Machinery, the Church held a dominant position, and their dogma revolved around the belief that machines were divine creations imbued with sacred power. They preached that firearms were of divine invention so they monopolized it.
As a result, the Church of Machinery strictly limited the distribution and production of guns, securing the potential disruption to the established religious order. Only a select few within the government and the Church were authorized to possess firearms, maintaining a tight grip on the means of violence. This scarcity made obtaining guns a near-impossible task for the average person, regardless of their status or intentions.
Hence Marcellus's awe, the creation and distribution of firearms rested solely within the hands of the Church of Machinery.
They held a complete monopoly over the manufacturing and sale of such weapons, as well as the authority to decide who would be granted permission to own them.
The Church's control was absolute, and acquiring a firearm without clear permission from the Church was seen as a direct challenge to their authority.
The Church of Machinery viewed firearms as sacred tools, intricately tied to their dogma of divine engineering.
Their belief system held that only those who had proven their unwavering devotion to the Church's teachings could be entrusted with the responsibility of owning and wielding such weapons. The Church considered themselves the ultimate arbiters of who was worthy of this privilege.
This what what Marcellus knew because a slave at Bastard's inn told him stories of his country.