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20 Questions


1.    Where is your hero from?

2.    How would your hero physically describe him/herself? Is this different from how others would?

A beautiful pirate captain. Others might say the same, or similar. 


3.    Does your hero have distinguishing speech characteristics or recurring mannerisms?
A strange European accent. 


4.    What is your hero's motivation?

Hunt out the cult of the Yellow Sign. Treasure and rum and song. Adventure. A pirate’s life. 


5.    What are your hero's greatest strengths and weaknesses?
Charm and wit are her greatest strengths, counterpoised by a weakness for Rum and Gold. 

6.    What does your hero love? What does your hero hate?
Flintlock loves her crew, in a loyal sort of way. People, in a general sort of way. Her lovers through the ages and seas, in a romantic sort of way. 

She hates draconian ways, cultists, the authorities, boring people, and cruelty. 


7.    How would you describe your character's mental and emotional state?
Fun loving hedonist who is a little insane, thanks to contact with elder things who should not be contacted. 


8.    What does your hero fear the most?
The great elder gods of the outer stars. 


9.    What is your character's greatest ambition?
Fame and fortune


10.    How does your hero feel about the state of the world and his/her place in it?
Something of a misfit, which means she travels far and wide. 


11.    Does your hero have any prejudices? How does he/she get along with others?
Very well to individuals, less so to systems. 


12.    Where do your heroes loyalties lie? In what order?

There is no order. Her crew, herself, people, treasure. There may well be conflict of loyalties. 


13.    Does your hero have a lover or partner? How do they feel about the hero now?
A lover in every (well, many) ports, not just on this plane of existence. 


14.    Does your hero have a family? What is the relationship there like?
Not any longer. 


15.    How would the people closest to your hero describe him or her?
A wild woman with a serious streak. 


16.    Is your hero a role model?

No. Unless you want to be a Pirate Witch. Which is unlikely. 


17.    How spiritual is your hero? Does your hero follow a religious tradition?
Very spiritual, no religion or belief in monotheism. Distrusts anything to do with Gods. 


18.    Is your hero part of a team, or would he/she like to be? Why?
No, but might be. A bit to mercurial in practice?


19.    How does your hero feel about the place of metahumans and aliens on Earth?
Slightly suspicious, but not antagonistic. Perhaps intrigued?


20.    If you could give one piece of advice to your hero, what would it be?
Proceed with caution when unleashing the things from beyond!


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  • 3 months later...

Flintlock Origin Story

“Say yer prayers, lads! We goin’ ta hell!” yelled Handsome Jack, first Mate of the Black Flag.


The Black Flag was a fast ship, and for such a speedy, small vessel, it was armed well enough. Armed enough to splinter the timber of galleons and merchantmen, fast enough to outrun the men of war fielded by the English and French.


But today, the Black Flag was facing Captain Blood and his ship, the Black Plunder.


The Black Plunder was faster. The Black Plunder had more artillery. And Captain Blood was determined to sink the only contender to his crown as Pirate captain of the Caribbean.


Said Contender was Captain Annabelle Flint. Buxom red head, with sunburnt flesh and most splendid hat. Swordswoman, pirate, and even occasional singer. She did not feel much like singing now.


With another crack of canon fire from the Black Plunder, all hope vanished. The slow sinking of the Black Flag accelerated into a rapid descent into the waves. It was dark, with just a pale moon. Rain and cloud filled the skies. The sea was angry, with deep rolling waves, just short of a full blown storm.


“’Tis been a pleasure, me mates! See you at the bottom!” she said, fiercely, as the Black Flag took in a wave, capsized, and drifted to the depths.


What spirit kept her defiant to the end?


As ship and crew sped downwards, to a watery and gloomy grave, she leapt from the ship, into the waves of the rolling sea. A fool’s hope, surely.


‘Twas however, not for Captain Flintlock to die that night. She could stay afloat in the rain. The Black Plunder did not tarry, for, as far as Captain Blood was concerned, the task was done.


Morning came, sweet rays of sunshine breaking through the dissipating clouds and diminishing rain. By the time the sun had rose past the horizon, it could almost have been a pleasant day.


Flintlock had only a small scrap of sodden wood to hold on to. The rest of the Black Flag was splinters or sunk. Where was she? The stars had not been seen. She fancied not waiting further. She could guess her rough position from whence they sank. Islands to the west, she supposed. At least, it was best to try, despite the long odds. Her odds would grow smaller still if she waited.


Hence, to swim. And swim, she did. A goodly swimmer, she was, but this was a feat of grit, teeth, and parched lips. Of flagging muscles, and flagging spirits. But most of all, a feat of sheer luck. For the dice rolled kindly, beyond reasonable hope. At first, ‘twas but a thin strip of possibility on the horizon, taunting the Captain. Then, with laboured stroke, laboured stroke, salt water in eye and nose, it firmed, to become an island.


Lungs aflame with brine and exhaustion, our brave Captain crawled across beaches of black sand, and lay still. Even hunger could not, for a moment, arouse her from a foetal slumber. Limbs were sore, and bones were cold.


The island had, for one thing, heat. But not, alas, of the pleasant kind. A damp, fetid mist hung most unnatural on the island, making the sun hot but hazy. Her skin never truly dried, but wetness clung to her rags.


Some semblance of life, sufficient for a ragged pace of foot, had entered her, when she heard the insane yelping and calling. At first, she fancied it was baboons, or some porcine beast. But, worse, it was men.

Or men and women, to be more precise. Not that it seemed to matter much which was which. A degenerate tribe of every race, shipwrecked madman she imagined. Dressed in rags or filth, or nothing at all, dancing, hollering, communicating in some base creole. More emphatically, they communicated with convulsions of the body, frantic and diseased, with bulging eyes, with acts of injury to own flesh or even others.


The ragged tribesmen were clearly insane, both individually and a gestalt. They prodded her, poked her, and eventually jumped her. She understood little of their gibbering; perhaps even they themselves did not understand much, if any, of their tongue. She caught sound of strange names, strange deities, and the Black Maw.


It turned out that the Black Maw was the sorcerer of the tribe, dressed in a French Naval officers uniform (now sadly worn and infested), and, one would hazard a guess, also dressed with the previous wearer of that uniform. Namely, a skull dangling around his neck, and fingerbones adorning his waist. Black Maw was a small, spindly man, clearly affected with rather purulent disease of more than one denomination. His eyes protruded so far from his bald sweaty skull that one would fear they might pop out. His mouth, lips, and teeth where all jet black, although from one process, mundane disease or other worldly sorcery, one could not rightly say.


All this Captain Flintlock observed being trussed up, and being gently lowered into a simmering cauldron of sweet, noxious ‘erbs and spices. The fact that she would end up tasting so foul somehow added insult to injury.


The repugnant Black maw, his dark mouth grinning, a little slobber oozing from black lips, seemed to understand English a little better than the others.


“Look at me, all skin and bones! Surely you would get better meat for your mouth if I served you, rather than you have me served!”


‘Twas desperate words from Captain Flintlock, aye, but better to live as a slave and fight another day. And a little play on words might at least endear her to some of the lunatics whirling around her.


“Aye, speaking truth, serving girl, clap n’ irons!”


“No de Irons! Bones, Vines, Noose on d’Neck! Hahahaha!”


It was hard to follow them, but soon enough, with a rope round her neck, she was lead away by Black Maw too his dark, damp, cave.


‘Twas dim, ‘twas gloomy. Flintlock caught such an awful chill for the next week that many thought she would die. Hah! If nothing else, to spite them, she lived.


At first she feared most heartily that the old Black Maw would be vile of intent, but the sorcerer seemed to have lost all lust, other than practicing his mad magicks. Instead, she was serving girl to him, beaten and slapped, worked half to death, but nothing worse.


Black Maw had an impressive collection of scrawls and tomes, but his elderly eyes could no longer read any but the largest (and often least informative) texts. Few of the tribe could read, and those that could had no wish to descend further into lunacy by reading about the arts most black. In this, Flintlock made herself useful. She had managed to learn to read growing up; not well (alas, lacking proper education of any fine sort), but well enough to get by. ‘Twas hard going, given the chaos of the scrawls, the nature of Black Maw, and the plain horror of the texts, but she kept at it. For it was her skin; and by virtue of her value, her safety, and even relative comfort, was assured.


The texts and tomes spoke of strange gods. The Unspeakable ones. The dreaming gods in strange cities, deep beneath the ocean. Of spiders and ghaunts, and shambling horrors in forgotten non Euclidean tombs. Her mind reeled, and wheeled, from the strange and terrible stories. For most unnerving of all was the realisation that they were not just stories…


From these words came spells. To contact the deep ones, the aliens, the dread Gods. And more still, to summon them, bind them. Yay, for as terrible as the unspeakable one was, there was at least a glimmer of hope, for in such black magicks were spells to contain, command, and banish these dread beings. Great power, indeed.


And, with time, and study, with deftness of tongue and plenty of deceit, such spells became the arsenal of Captain Flintlock.


She had no wish for such terrible power to be in the hands of Black Maw. So, one day, she poisoned his gruel with ‘erb and disease. She did not enjoy tending to him as he let his life drain out (in manner most unpleasant) from rear end over the next few days, but from such trail came desired effect; the sorcerer collapsed in on himself, a dead withered old man.


The tribe now seemed suspicious, but our brave Captain used spell to bring forth a spectral horror that drove the tribesman quite mad with fear and fury. As they proceeded to rend each other asunder with tooth and nail, she stole away to the beach.


And here, she called forth the Deep ones. Toad-men, amphibious, evil, wet, and degenerate. A parley could still be made. A debt she would surely pay later, be it decades or centuries. Never the less, it was an agreement she had to make; for she did surely not wish to spend her days on the Island.


Carried through oceans by the repugnant deep ones, she came to the site of the sunken Black Flag. Now, calling forth every mighty spell, from her heart, from depths cold and bleak, from pipes of madness, she drew up the Black Flag with spectral hands, with spectral tentacles, and with spectral bonds.


Timber joined again, with sorcerous strength. Sails billowed, spraying deep brine. The decks littered with rotting submarine horrors (fish of most unusual and ugly appearance). And the crew of the Black Flag, undead, bones and rotting flesh, come animated once more.


“Better this than the ocean floor!” said Handsome Jack, the first mate (now, with bones and sinew grey and swollen, more uglier than ever; and he had been remarkably ugly in life). And despite the grim situation, ‘twas sentiment shared (to greater or lesser extent) by the whole crew. Spirits, undead as they were, lifted a little when it was found that even in unlife, a state of intoxication could indeed be reached upon imbuing sufficient quantities of alcohol (in this case, stolen Rum).


And, dead as they were, there was still Piracy to be had. A Captain stronger than ever. A ship that could sail all the shores of the world, aye, and worlds beyond.


So set sail the Black Flag, Captain Flintlock, and the Skeleton Crew!

Edited by Supercape
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