How Jollier Roger Begins

Ahoy, maties! Being that ye’re here on Jollier Roger Cove, and ye always visit us at the Jollier Roger Facebook page, we fig’re some o’ ye might be wondering how Jollier Roger starts. We mean REALLY starts; the first words, even! Well, here they are.


Atlantic Ocean, 1724…

A small boat, just a dinghy and little more, having only one man aboard and dressed richly so that none could deny he was a captain. The thunder of the cloudy gray sky made the fish jump for fright, and the lightning was enough to scare a spirit.

But wasn’t that just why he’d come? Was he any man to fear his death, having lived a life longer and more fulfilling than ever he may have? Having waved his fist with a triumphant laugh, when all other men thought him dead?

The storm, the terror, the myth of the Atlantic Tristorm… Now wasn’t that exactly for what he’d come?

With the lightning came his low voice in a familiar song. “Of all the world’s colors I take me the blue. Yo, ho… yo, ho… yo, ho. Be free as the waves, that is what I do. Yo, ho… yo, ho… yo, ho. Steal from the crowns, no, I don’t fear no crew. Yo, ho… yo, ho… yo, ho. Give me the liars, for I can’t trust the true. Yo ho, yo ho, yo ho!”

As his oars dipped into the choppy waters, the spray of the waves filling the air so that a heavy haze clung to that place, he knew he was near. No man could have denied it, even before the lightning struck the sea before him. The green blast was like the shine of an emerald, coursing through the waters all around him.

Then a voice, “Avast, man of the sea.” He didn’t look away. He sat up all the taller with his hat tipped proudly, bold as the echoing voice went on. “Who do you claim to be, and what do you desire?”

A grin crossed his face, “… Captain Roberts, that is my name, and that you shall call me. As for what I’m wanting…”

Coast of Port Royal, 1762…

“The light filled him and all he had on him. From his ship to his brass buttons he was enchanted, but what became of him none can say. That’s the legend of Captain Roberts, the Atlantic Tristorm, and the Magic Treasures.”

The great vessel of three masts dipped then rose up, the boom of the waves echoing across the deck. All hands were busy on the main deck, besides the man listening to the story. He was about fifty years old, with a great brown beard down to his chest and a dull eye. “That really how it goes, cap’n?” he asked with his thick Norwegian accent.

The storyteller looked out to the bright blue sea, letting the spray soak his young face and long raven’s hair. He was a dark man of twenty so he seemed, his eyes alight with quiet excitement and adventure. He was dressed like a sailor, not so much a pirate; open black shirt, tight black trousers, and thin boots almost to his knees. “Are you questioning me story? It is! … Maybe.”

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