"I want every sail open!" Edmund took long strides to avoid a batch of muskets falling, clattering on the deck with a clang, one misfiring and striking an unfortunate sailor in the knee, "And clear the damned deck!"

Right in front of him, just visible in the evening fog, was the outline of their target, the one they had hunted for weeks. The Bitterwind had caught the pirates right in the act, closing in and raking a poor merchant ship with cannons, the jolly roger flying proud. That was odd behaviour for pirates, risking their plunder and manpower, but perhaps they had been desperate. Either way, the pirates were onboard a sleek vessel, a cut above the standard pirate setup of an ill-cared for brig, but no match for a fully prepared and equipped vessel of the Royal Albionic Navy, complete with a bloodthirsty crew excited for once.

"Chainshot, Chainshot!" yelled a gunner, and a nearby idle loader popped open a crate and dragged out two balls linked by a chain. "Aim for the masts!"

Edmund could share the giddiness that his crew were feeling, but maintained a solid disposition, steely nerves and action would win this day, not feelings. The front cannons fired, and struck solidly into the rear of the pirates. Glass shattered as the cannonballs tore into the captain's quarters, and Edmund hoped that the scum was dead. Unlikely, but there was always a possibility. Then, the chainshot was released, 4 in total, but each missed their mark. The loaders set to work on the lengthy process of clearing out the cannon, padding it, loading, and finally priming. The second volley worked much better, wrapping around the main mast and causing considerable damage, with an additional shot ripping a tear down the sails. The chainshot was intended to slow down the pirates, after all, an immobolized target was a defeated one, in Edmund's eyes, and the slower the pirates got, the quicker victory would arrive.

"I want cannons four and five to load grapeshot, starboard side!" Edmund allowed one final chainshot attack to hinder the enemy, and watched his loaders open new crates, taking out canvas bags wrapped tightly with rope, bulging with smaller cannonballs inside. Grapeshot would serve to kill any exposed pirates, and the less manpower the enemy had, the less their overall effectiveness. The Bitterwind caght up, and was treated to a port-side counter volley. However, the pirates had much less guns, and from the looks of it, of a smaller calibre. The peashooters tore a few moderately sized holes in the Bitterwind, but for the most part it was absorbed, or outright ricocheted harmlessly.

"Return fire!"

A mixture of roundshot and grapeshot eviscerated the portside of the pirate vessel, fine mists of blood and gore splattering everywhere. Edmund could not see many survivors. He cupped his hands, and called to the seemingly empty midst.

"Surrender now, and you'll be treated as prisoners of war! Failure to do so will mean further attacks, and my boys are hungry today!"

His crew roared, and for a while, no answer was returned. Finally, the pirate captain, hat cocked to the side, emerged. His response was the raising of two fingers on both hands, and ropes launched from the other vessel. At the ends of them were grappling hooks, and they firmly emplanted themselves into the Bitterwind's hull. On the other side, pirates flooded the ropes, climbing up onto the larger ship, brandishing cutlasses, pistols and brutal-looking knives and implements. They were ferrying across at surprising speed, and the Bitterwind's crew could only arm themselves with whatever came to hand, the arsenal was under lock and key, and it was far too late to find muskets and sabres as the pirates leaped onto the deck like acrobatic performers.

The first fights were won by the Bitterwind, as Edmund's crew found themselves fighting two against one, but soon enough the grizzled pirates regrouped and with more desperate savagery, pushed the sailors back. Edmund fired his pistol into the crowd, risking shooting his own man but instead punching a penny sized hole into a pirate. Drawing his own sabre, a cavalry sword that had served him well for years, and parried a strong swing, his adversary wielding a grappling hook. Eventually, Edmund's advantage in length won the duel, and he surveyed the deck. His own crew were holding, and the pirates seemed to tire. The fatigue of the chase had reflected on them, and he observed the pirate captain going down under the blades of a group of sailors. Seeing this, the pirates were disheartened, and many threw down their weapons. Some foolhardy individuals persisted, and were made mincemeat under multiple attacks.

The brief clash over, the Bitterwind's crew let out a cry of joy. Edmund looked across at the vessel that was now his prize, battered as it was, it would catch a fair price as salvage, provided of course it did not sink whilst being towed. That seemed likely the more Edmund inspected it with an eyeglass. The portside hull was all but gone, the sails tattered and frail. Then something caught his attention. A spark, then a second one. The third spark ignited a flame. Joe O'Sully grinned from ear to ear, atop a gunpowder cask, in fact, many, many gunpowder casks. The former pirate saluted one last time, before Edmund's world went white.

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The streets were empty. Occasionally, a stray dog would whimper and limp around, licking at the moisture of the walls, before being driven away by the pots and pans of a disgruntled elder. The trickling of water from cracked pipes, the smell of mould. This was the poorer side of the capital, the part where the nobles would enter, shrouded in disguises, to frequent taverns and brothels, seeking the excitment of another world. A baby wailed.

A hooded figure stopped, bent and heaved before a wall. The city was so rotten, the smells unnatural and the constant taste of iron. Even with her sandals, the cobblestones were cold, leaking through the thick soles. Any breathable air was clouded, and thick, polluted by the constant belching of nearby factories. Silver deposits, rough and coarse lay unattended at every street corner, shoveled onto wagons and carted off. Silveria, a land known for it's silver, naturally brought visions of wealth and prosperity, and for the most part, it was true. What the common outsider did not know that most of it was shipped to the Albions, and whatever was left squabbled over by the local aristocracy. The corruption was everywhere.

The hooded figure finished emptying her stomach, and breathed in through ragged breaths. She continued to triapse down unfamiliar alleys, until she came before a heavy, thickset door made from steel. A single slit was covered. Lifting a hand, she prepared to knock but the slit opened.

"The united arms of brothers and sisters wait." a voice sifted through.

"And I will answer their call." the figure returned.

"Welcome, Amelia."

The door opened, and a sentry shouldered his antique firearm. Amelia shrugged off her attire, and hung it up on a hook.

"I'm here to see the Newman."

"Go right on ahead, his meeting's over, but first I'll need to check you for weapons."

"Do you have to?"

The man stared seriously.

"Fine."

Starting from her sandals, the man worked his way up, rough and efficient. The hands were making Amelia more and more uncomfortable. It was reminding her of worse times, and just when she thought she would call it quits, the man waved her through, giving her a roughly shaped coin. Insolently, she advanced down the stairs, into a pub. It was relatively empty today, a few patrons tapping feet and singing to a dancer while others glugged their drinks in silence. The bartender gave her a dubious look, and Amelia slipped him the rough coin. He nodded, and opened up the backdoor. She slipped by unnoticed.

Here, the atmosphere was even more bleak, a few tables spread out over a room, with a chair to each. In each chair, a man or woman sat, records spread before them, busying themselves with numbers and figures. Amellia ignored them, and headed for another door. Turning the knob, it was swung open, and she met a well-toned man in the overalls of a factory worker. His hair was slick, a barrel chested man with muscles that would put the old gods to shame. And that moustache was glorious, twirled and inquisitive, a personality on it's own.

"Amelia, I was expecting you, please, come in." his voice was strong, but also kind, and warm.

"Thank you, Newman." she felt her cheeks heating up.

The Newman closed the door behind her, and drew up a seat for her. Then, he sat himself, across a scratched desk, sprawled with documents, ink, and curiously, a book encased in red velvet, the text in a gold font that was hard to make out.

"Why did you need to see me today, my dear?"

Amelia's hands could not stay still.

"Well, you see Newman, my sisters and I have fallen on difficult times recently."

"Oh my dear, your family has suffered for years now, I am most sorry."

"Yes, and well." she composed herself, "The goverment has decided to..."

"To?"

"Repossess our lands, and maybe even take my sisters away."

The Newman's face turned from a sweet, caring one to one built with anger.

"They're going to force you out?"

"No, no, nothing like that. We get to keep our barn, and our animals, and-"

"They intend to play with the emotions of a hard working member of society!" he bellowed, "The commonfolk who feed them, the masses who protect them? Tell me Amelia, at once, who this vagabond is, the one who will steal your rights!"

"Well, the contract is under a man by the name of Hardings, but I don't intend for justice, Newman, only for a job, and a little money to keep us afloat for a while!"

"A job, I can handle, my sweet, money too, but this goes too far." the Newman opened up his desk, donning small spectacles and read through a journal, the mention of Hardings had awoken something within him, "Yes, Hardings, I know the man, a most vile miscreant. Amelia."

"Y-yes?"

The Newman looked at her with a grave expression, but with a uncanny smile.

"You and I, we are very much alike, no?"

"H-how so?"

The Newman leaned in closer.

"You and I, we are hard, hard workers. You and I, we hate, no, despise, those sniveling bastards who consider themselves above the plights of us. I know there was an incident in your younger days, Amelia."

"I'd rather not talk about t-that, Newman."

"Of course not, dear, it was most traumatizing I'm sure." the Newman lifted the velvet book on his desk, "Would you like to hear my idea, sweet?"

The Newman had changed. The topic had fired him into some sort of frenzy, and his eyes were not so comforting anymore, but impassioned and brave. Amelia relented.

"Imagine a society, Amelia. A society which has no bounds, no restrictions," Amelia shivered as he pronounced his words, but she was awed, "A society, with no classes."

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"General, the town has been razed to ash."

Screams of pain, primal screeches and sorrowful songs lashed out in the night. Ian Uxhaley did not respond, instead turning his horse away from the backdrop of a town aflame, the ash curling into the midnight sky. His attendant looked puzzled, and watched the carnage. Even from this distance, he could faintly make out the twisted shapes of the citizenry attempting to escape the inferno, some running into cohorts of troops who bayoneted or shot them with no remorse. It was sick, morbid, and the attendant bit his lip anxiously. His lunch was coming back up, he felt it, the sight of a mother intertwined with her infant daughter melting before the flame was all he could handle.

"I still see the town hall standing." Uxhaley slapped his attendant square in the face, "I want the town gone."

His attendant nodded meekly, and signalled towards a waiting battalion, bloody, and with torches in hand. The screaming intensified.