Now I Gotta Deal With This Shit?

Page 1 (Erenthal)

As soon as you open your eyes, you instantly regret it. Sharp sunlight falls through stained windows,
burning indistinct images into your retina. The whole place smells like old vomit, and somewhere,
perhaps a deck or so below, loud braying noises can be heard. You clamber to your feet, groaning,
while great waves of painful vertigo crash across the tender crenellations of your brain.

“Ouch,” you say out loud, a wholly inadequate expression in the current situation, you belatedly
realize. Your back’s not much better off, having turned into an intricate landscape of pain. What the
hell did you sleep on last night? As you turn around, the answer to that question is instantly and
gloriously revealed. Spilling out of a trio of hefty wooden iron-shod chests is the most magnificent
treasure you have ever laid eyes on. Thousands of gold coins, gems of various cuts and colours, and
other items of inestimable value are piled in foot-high stacks, some of them having been collapsed
under your sleeping form. You barely stifle a laugh, elation rushing through your veins. You’ve did it!
Not that you ever doubted the enterprise personally, but then again, you can’t really blame those
who did. Nine times out of ten, mysterious treasure maps bought from drunken old sailors are dead
ends, or worse, mutinies waiting to happen, but this one was the real deal! Looking back, you almost
feel bad for breaking the old man’s legs.

After straightening your clothes, and strapping on your cutlass that had been carelessly stuck into the
frame of the door, you step onto the deck of the Holey Avenger. The stiff breeze feels utterly
refreshing, the salty tinge on it leaves on your lips as familiar to any sailor as dirt to a farmer. Running
your hand across the railing, feeling the smooth sun kissed wood, a fierce grin works its way across
your face. Spread out across the deck like broken ragdolls are your crew, seemingly in equally bad
shape as you after last night’s festivities.

Minding your step as you pass the foul-smelling prone form off first mate Robards, your jubilant
mood suddenly overwhelms you and you laugh out loud, a triumphant expression. Let the doubters
and nay-sayers have their say now! Not that there had been many, since you took over as captain
from your predecessor, captain Guillard. Even he would probably have approved, were he not at this
moment rotting on the bottom of the ocean, your dagger through his one good eye. And now the
Holey Avenger was yours, and you wouldn’t give her up for any other ship in the Carribean. The
frigate had character, like all good ships, and that counted for more than you would expect. Sure, a
lot of that character was mean-spirited and petty, but maybe that was why you got along with her so
well.

Still, sailors were a superstitious lot, both when it came to women and ships. The Avenger had her
share of stories and legends. Like the galley roof that always leaked, even though it was on the first
deck and well above the water line. Or, you recall, the stories swapped below deck about the ghost
of the old ship donkey that haunted the second deck port magazine. And of course, there were the
whispered tales about the door to the number four aft hold that never quite seemed to die down,
especially after Wide-Leg Pete claimed to have opened the door at midnight and found himself
‘staring into a long dead city of the ancients, an unfathomable labyrinth of impossible angles and
non-Euclidian architecture with leering cyclopean towers rising like spears from the necropolis,
eldritch energies crackling from their spines and a thousand silent eyes burning through your soul.’
You’ve always found that part a bit implausible though.

A panicked shout rouses you from your reverie with the force of a gunshot. “Ship ahoy!”

Turn to page 33.

Page 33 (Erenthal)

Raising your looking glass, you peer across the waves. In the minutes that passed since the warning
shout from the look out, your motley crew had done an admirable job pulling themselves together in
a shape that could, if in a charitable mood, be called ‘fighting’. Most of them were still too drunk, or
too hung-over to really appreciate the situation, but that was not necessarily a disadvantage in any
upcoming fight. You had long since learned that a pirate’s true state of drunkenness is only revealed
when put to the sharp end of a test, a theory you’ve come to call ‘Schrödinger’s drunk’ after an old
friend. Unfortunately, when faced with four angry knife-wielding Turks, Bill Schrödinger had finally
found out that he was, in fact, way too drunk to fight.

The other ship finally came close enough for you to see it clearly, even though the thick lenses of
your ‘glass, and you swear loudly as you spot the white and red of a Royal Navy flag. “It’s the
Cockatoo,” you say. Robards looks at you, disbelief written on his face.

“You sure, cap’n? Thought we lost him at San Martin,” he says. You nod, straining your eyes for
confirmation but deep down in your gut you know you’re right. Sir Humphrey Winterbottom, one of
the Royal Navy’s most famous pirate hunters, was, if nothing else, an infuriatingly stubborn man.
Well, on further thought, he was also an idiot, blowhard and unrepentant pervert, but infuriatingly
stubborn came right after those. Question was, how the hell did he find you? And can’t the man just
take ‘no’ for an answer?

A puff of smoke erupts from your pursuer, instantly confirming your suspicions. “We’re too heavily
loaded to outrun him at this point, cap’n,” Robards interjects, crinkling his already substantially
crinkled face. Damn him, you think, he’s right. With the treasure, plus the loot you took from that
small Spanish barque you took a few days ago, you have no real chance of evading your pursuer. The
list of options is rapidly shrinking with every second that passes.

“Load the cannons, and prepare for battle,” you hiss through closed teeth.

As the ships close, men start to die. Cannon balls fly across the shrinking divide, smashing through
wood and flesh alike. You hate to admit it, but the Cockatoo does have the advantage. With thirty
guns compared to your twenty-four, and the larger crew complement added into the calculation, the
end result is not an appealing one. “Faster, you bellyaching pieces of whale-shit!” you shout as the
sweating gun-crews wheel their cannons back into firing position. They fire as one, rocking the ship
and sending your ears ringing. “That’s better!” you call out, barely hearing your own voice above the
din. Then the world turns crimson, as a couple of your gunners simply disappear, turned into bite-
sized chunks by a round of grapeshot. A follow up shot of ball smashes three of your starboard
cannons into scrap metal. The rest of your gunners scramble into the questionable cover offered by
the railing, bruised and cut by flying pieces of wood and bone. “He’s closing in!” someone shouts,
and you can feel your gut clenching. Winterbottom’s intending to board you, you realize, not simply
shoot you to pieces.

You delay the inevitable for a little while longer, but finally grappling hooks and lines are thrown
across, and the first redcoats start swarming across. At once, your deck turns into a swirling melee,
and the clatter of swords and bayonets fill the air alongside screams of pain and anger. “Get the hell
of my ship!” you shout, shooting a surprised looking marine between the eyes with one of your
flintlocks. Hacking down two more with deft strokes of your cutlass, you pause for a breath.

Surveying the scene, you’re proud to see that your men seem to have repelled the first assault, the
marines and boarding crew of the Cockatoo slowly falling back to their own ship to gather their
resolve. If you’re going to act, now’s the chance. If you press the advantage and counter-board, you
might very well pull it off. Or, you might die horribly as the greater numbers and, unfortunately,
training of the enemy crew comes to the fore.

On the other hand, you could cut the lines and break free, attempting to disengage. But with the
enemy ship’s speed advantage, that would be futile unless there was something you could head for,
like that reef-surrounded island over there. Which, you’re pretty sure now that you think about it,
wasn’t there just two minutes ago. But who are you to spurn mysterious islands in a case like this?

DO YOU:

Counterboard and attempt to seize the Cockatoo? Turn to page 23.

Attempt to disengage and head for the (very convenient) island and the "safety" of its deadly reefs?
Turn to page 285.

Page 23 (Mouser..)

Gritting your teeth , you raise your rapier in the air screaming to the men to rally around you. “Now is
our chance, while the cowards retreat to their ship to lick their wounds. We’ll cross over and give no
mercy! If they aren’t jumping into the sea to get away from your swords, then there is no man to be
spared. If any of those tea sippers remain alive or are not the sharks afternoon snack when this battle
is done, then you’ll be joinin’ them .“ You grab a rope, amidst your crew’s battle cries and swing
across to the Cockatoo slashing furiously at the men defending her starboard. Your crew of hardy
men quickly board behind you, and as you expect, the Royal Navy sailors have no interest in being
slain so easily. Retreating quickly, the cowards begin pouring over the side of the ship. Those that
attempt to fight are easily overcome. You take great pride in the savage nature in which your crew
dispatches the few remaining. As you take inventory of the bodies surrounding you, a disappointing
revelation comes to light. Sir Humphrey Winterbottom of the Cockatoo is not among the dead and
you don’t recall seeing him diving over the side.

Descending into the ship’s hold to take stock of your newfound plunder, you order your crew to
begin hauling the barrels of food and wine up to the main deck. Hearing a clatter from a room
nearby, you unsheath your rapier and quickly open the door. On the other side is Sir Winterbottom, a
lit torch in his hand, the look of a man with a suicidal desperation for victory in his eyes. Looking at
the floor, you realize that floor is completely littered with gunpowder, that you only just now noticed
in the dark underbelly of the ship. Clearly the captain has been preparing for this for quite some
time. With a flash of a smile, he throws the torch at you, and draws his sword. Forced to drop your
sword to grab the torch before it hits the ground, Sir Winterbottom seizes the moment to rush at you
with a terrifying scream.

Do you:

Throw the torch on the ground in front of the Captain. (Turn to page 139)

Attempt to pick up your sword in your free hand and engage your enemy with torch and sword.
(Turn to page 202)

Hastily demand that Sir Humphrey Winterbottom engage in a parley. (Turn to page 124)

Page 139 (AutistTree)

Quickly, you hurl the torch back to Winterbottom, who quickly loses his smug grin at your seemingly
foolhardy action. He tries to pick up the torch and extinguish the rapidly spreading fire - too late.
You grab the rope you spotted hanging down a newly created hole in the deck above and begin to
climb, rapidly - but you miscalculated. The ship explodes beneath you, hurling you across the sea,
into the treacherous rapids near the reefs.
You hit the surface with force of a drunk walrus falling from his bar stool, and loose consciousness. As
you you sink, deeper and deeper the sound of the battle above subsides, replaced by a deep,
complete silence.
But wait... a gentle, seductive voice calls out to you:
"Follow me, come, come!", The voice sounds sweet, and incredibly alluring. Again it calls you: "I have
more riches than you could possibly conceive" Yes, you think dreamily, all reason suspended...

Do you follow the voice? 437

Or do you defy it and try to reach the surface? 153
Page 153 (BlackFrost)

Riches… riches… it all sounds too perfect. Dreamily, you float about in the water as it pulls you
deeper. The voice continues, “Down here… down here we can give you everything you’ve ever
wanted. All the treasure in the world.” Your daze subsides just long enough for you to realize what
you’re doing. You vaguely recall advice you were given back when you were still a young little girl
earning her sea legs. What was it, something your grandfather had said about voices coming from
the ocean? The solution, it had to do with rum… wait, maybe it was just about rum.

You feel pressure on your lungs, and all thoughts are thrown away. Despite your record of eight
minutes, you need air, and you need it now, potential riches be damned. You shoot for the surface,
flailing your arms about and kicking your feet, a thought reminding you that you shouldn’t panic but
it’s too late for that, you need to get up, at any cost, as quickly as possible, oh God, you think, shit,
I’m not going to make it, I’m not—suddenly, you breach the surface, gasping for air so heavily it
burns your lungs. That was a close one. You must’ve hit the water harder than you realized to allow
yourself to fall into danger so foolishly. On the bright side, at least you didn’t panic.

Winterbottom. Cockatoo. Damn, the Holey Avenger! These thoughts race through your mind as you
search the surface for any sign of your boat. You can’t see it anywhere. What’s become of everyone?
What’s happened? Were you really thrown that far from the explosion? Most importantly, where is
your God damned treasure!?

The only thing you can see is the nearby island you saw from your ship. It seems to be your only
possible destination. If something had happened to the Holey Avenger, surely a few of the survivors
would have turned up there as well. Hell, maybe some of them even grabbed the treasure before
abandoning the ship. And if you were lucky, you might even run into Winterbottom and give yourself
the pleasure of running him through with your sword.

As you begin making your way to the island, a horrendous sound makes the blood in your veins run
cold. Beneath the waves, you hear what can only be described as a muffled roar, a beast crying out
through the water. Moments later, large tentacles emerge from the surface no more than 100 feet
from your position. The giant head that protrudes from the ocean is unmistakable: a Kraken. Or, at
the very least, a pretty big squid.

“You have got to be shitting me,” you mutter.

Quite a situation! DO YOU:

Swim for the island, maybe you can outrunswim it! (Turn to page 194)
Swim for the reef, climb on top of a rock, and draw your sword, hoping for the best. (Turn to 57)
Do nothing but wait. Maybe it’ll ignore you and find someone else’s day to ruin. (Turn to 301)
Page 301 (Chewbot)

In the braver days of your youth you might have considered jumping up on a rock and yelling at a
giant sea monster who was now scooping up your crewmen from the choppy waters into its dripping
beak like popcorn chicken, a curious anachronism if you think about it (you don't). In your case,
however, age has afforded the slightest of wisdom. With burning shame you slink down into a low
profile and bob in the waves, your eyes staying just above the waterline as the Kraken continues its
ghastly fiesta. A few of the men make a break for the island and start to clamber up the rocky shore
before the beast notices, shrieking in delight at the opportunity to play with its food. It thrusts a
puckered tentacle into the sea and, with a shudder, hoists a large chunk of Holey Avenger out of the
depths, proceeding to immediately slam it down onto the sailors over and over like a constable
beating a street urchin, wood splintering and erupting into the air.

Despite the pants-shitting terror of it all, you can't help but notice that some of that timber was
sparkling in the sunlight... and gold.

With a gasp (and subsequent snort) that fills your nostrils with salt water you realize the Kraken had
dislodged the entire cargo hold of the ship causing treasure chests and filthy lucre to explode across
the island as if the world's most entitled child were swatting a pinata full of mommy's priceless
treasures for his own amusement. Presently gold coins begin to plunk around your head like rain
before drifting down into the unknown. The Kraken, bored of mashing the last few sailors into pirate
paste, scoops their remains into its beak, looks around a bit dejectedly like a baby tired of its toys and
slips silently under the waves as if it had never existed. The scene it has left behind is absolute
carnage.

You continue bobbing like this for what must have been three hours and nothing but the waves move
an inch. Slowly you sidle your way towards the island, your skin pruned and your muscles bruised.
The rocky shore affords no comforts, tearing into your squishing leather boots as you drag yourself
up onto the cold sand, which is littered with a macabre combination of glittering riches, broken
planks and body parts. The ribcage of the Holey Avenger slumps into the sea. By some strange twist
of fate, at least a dozen chests have landed in a group nearby, battered but unopened. The sun is on
the descent and it'll be getting cold soon. The island itself is no blot of sand with a solitary coconut
tree but small enough that you think you can tell where it ends... food and water could be a serious
concern but for now, despite your fatigue, you need to take action if you're going to survive the
night.

Do you:
Search the shoreline for supplies and survivors? (Turn to 64)
Crack open the treasure chests for... possible tools... yeah that's it... (Turn to 188)
Gather up some timber to get to work on a lean-to? (Turn to 12)

Page 188 (Erenthal)

Driven by an impulse that only the very rich (or the very successful robber) can sympathize with, your
attention is immediately fixed upon the surviving chests. Toiling under the rapidly waning sun,
clearing away chunks of seaweed and kraken spit, you crack open the first one with a sense of deep
trepidation. Needlessly so, as it turns out, since the chest is still completely packed with treasure.
With trembling hands, you quickly open the rest, only to be met by the same glorious sight over and
over (except the last one, which for some reason is instead filled with water and a clutch of very
angry moray eels). By the grace of god (or whatever deity might take interest), it seems that the
majority of your treasure is accounted for. As with a stroke of thunder, the combined exhaustion of
the last few hours catches up with you. The strength drains from your limbs, and you collapse with
your back against one of the sturdy chests. With the last dregs of the sun desperately clinging to the
horizon, and the evening chill creeping in beneath your damp clothes, you close your eyes.

When you suddenly snap awake, you have no idea how much time has passed. A full moon has risen,
illuminating the shore and the wreckage, and you find yourself shivering in the cold. But most of all,
you notice a strange sound, like someone was dragging something heavy across the sand… The
chests! Shooting straight up, you rapidly scan the beach for life signs, only to see the short side of a
treasure chest vanishing into the tree line, a long trail carved into the sand tracing its path. “Oh no
you don’t!” you shout, grabbing your trusty cutlass and setting off in pursuit of the unknown chest
thief.

Blindly stumbling across rotting logs and thick patches of fern, you swear loudly. The island didn’t
seem to be very big at a glance, but this jungle seems to go on forever! What little light filters
through the canopy is not nearly enough to make the dense maze any more navigable, and every
sound you make is reflected and distorted by a hundred different means. Finally you emerge into
some sort of small clearing, and to your amazement the chest is standing in the center of it. Beside it,
hissing ferociously, is a large snapping turtle. There are large bite-marks in the wood, consistent with
the beak of the turtle, making the identity of the culprit quite clear. “Shoo! Shoo!” you exclaim,
waving your cutlass at the animal. As the information slowly filters through the creature’s thick skull,
it lumbers off into the jungle again. Turning your attention back to the chest, you notice something
very odd. Rather than resting on soil, the chest seems to be standing on some sort of wooden hatch.
You shift the heavy container (sloshing noises emanating from inside), and open the curiously
unlocked hatch. Overcome by a strange impulse you can’t quite place, you climb down.

TURN TO PAGE 103

Page 103 (Erenthal)

You find yourself in a gently sloping tunnel, the rocky walls slightly warm to the touch. Though there
are no light sources that you can see, the whole place is bathed in some sort of mysterious half-light
that seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. Even though you can’t be entirely sure,
you also believe you can hear muffled voices coming from further down the tunnel. Pressing on, you
emerge into a vast cavern, and you’re temporarily stunned by the sight. Bigger than even the roofed
dry dock in Newcastle, the cavern is lit up by hundreds of braziers suspended from the roof by
smoke-greasy chains. Standing on a wooden podium in the center of the light are three robed and
hooded figures.

“Welcome, dear madam, to the Temple of Ironic Punishments!” the foremost of them shouts out in
an imperious tone. “I am high priest Octavius, grand master of the arts forbidden. Beside me is
Septimus, anointed guardian of the holy secret,” he continues, the man to his left giving you a slight
nod. “And oh, this is Cecil.” The man on his right gives a friendly little wave. “We were very pleased
you accepted our little invitation.”

“You brought me here?” you say, disbelieving. “Why?”

Octavius smiles, and the image of a great white shark suddenly crosses your mind. “Because I think
we have something you would be very interested in. A way off this island, to start with. And of
course, this.” As he finishes, he points off to his left. Following his gesture, you see several cages
suspended in the air. Your eyes widen as you recognize several shabby figures sitting inside them,
seemingly unconscious. First mate Robards! Sean the Shiv! Wide-Smiles Willard! All in all, about a
dozen or so of your crew seem to have survived the kraken and ensuing chaos.

“Let them go. Now.”

Octavius laughs at your words. “No. First, you must pass our trial. If you pass, we’ll let you and your
men go, and help you off this island. If you fail, they’ll all be fed to the Sarcas-lac.” Cackling with glee,
he points to a massive covered cage at the back of the cave, from which the most horrendous
clacking noises can now be heard. The gate to the cage seems to be suspended from a large
counterweight, the ropes of which are close to the point of fraying. Heavy use, you grimly surmise.

“Ermm…” Cecil interjects, an uncomfortable look on his face.

“What?” Octavius replies angrily.

“I tried to tell you last week, remember? The Sarcas-lac died. We forgot to feed it.”

“You did what? You bloody imbecile!” Octavious exclaims.

“So,” Septimus asks, curiously, “what’s making those noises?”

“About two dozen giant snapping turtles, lashed together with rope and glue,” Cecil says, his face
turning red. “But they’re really vicious animals!”

You’ve heard enough. “How about this instead,” you begin, slowly lifting your cutlass; “I roughly
disembowel two of you gangrenous, bloated, shit-stains on the ass of humanity, and make the third
one tell me how to get off this island. And not in a nice way.”

Blanching, Ocatvius stammers out his reply. “None of us will talk! We’ve all taken oaths of silence!”
“We did?” Cecil asks, only to be slapped by Septimus. If you're going to act, now's the time!

DO YOU:

Acquiesce to their demands and undertake the trial of Ironic Punishments? Turn to page 75

Roughly disembowel two of the fuckers and make the third one talk? Turn to page 5

Or, do you throw your cutlass, hoping to sever the ropes to the counterweighted gate, releasing the
many-beaked horror of the Sarcas-lac onto the unsuspecting world? Turn to page 200

Page 75 (Humbug Scoolbus)

Killing these idiots wouldn't be much of a challenge, but they might have some extra troops hidden in
the shadows. Maybe you should play along until you have a better chance to figure out what their
true abilities are?

"I'll do your trials!" you say strongly.

"You will?...I mean of course you will. It is the only chance for freedom for you and your men,"
Septimus's voice grows louder.

"The first Trial! View through sediment!"

Cecil runs over with a bowl of brownish goop and hands it to you.

"You must first read the words inscribed on the bottom of the bowl...Without letting the contents
touch the ground!" Septimus cries out.

"Simple enough," you think.

Grabbing Cecil by the collar you drag him over and put him in a head lock. Picking up the bowl from
the ground with one hand, you use your free hand to pinch Cecil's nose shut causing him to open his
mouth wide to breath. Then it's just a matter of seconds to pour the goop down his throat.

Looking at the bowl, you see carved into the bottom 'Clear As Mud' and say the words out loud.

Septimus looks first at you and then at the choking and gasping Cecil writhing around on the ground.
A flash of panic crosses his face.

"Uh...Correct! The second Trial! Tame the Beast!"

Octavius leads a large, skinny, growling, white bear out from a side passage.

"You must read what is written on the inside of its collar."

Octavius clips two heavy chains securing the bear in a ten foot area and then, using a pole, strips off
its muzzle and claw covers before stepping quickly away.

You think for a second then stepping next to Octavius you smash him over the head and hurl his
stunned body at the bear.

During the carnage as the bear feasts on the hapless cultist, you carefully slip over and unbuckle the
collar before leaping away from a slashing set of fangs and claws.

"Harmless as a starved angry polar bear."

"Yesssss..." Septimus is moving away from you and the suffocated body of Cecil; not to mention the
shredded remains of Octavius.

"So what's the third Trial?" you ask, "These are easy and...fun. Oh I know! You can tell me what I
am!"

In two quick strides you grab the fleeing Septimus and throw him to the bear as well.

As the crunching and screaming continues and then fades you giggle, "Wrong! The answer is;
Merciful as a Pirate!"

Now what?

Release your men (Turn to Page 11)

Search the Cultist's Bodies (Turn to Page 167)
Investigate the Sarcas-lac cage (Turn to Page 200)

Page 11 (JosephWongKS)

You take a moment to gloat over the cooling corpses of your would-be oppressors (two of them
rapidly disappearing down the gullet of the ravenous bear) before turning your attention to your
current circumstances. You need to find your treasure (no doubt taken by the three stooges when
they kidnapped your crew), build a seaworthy vessel, stock it with food and fresh water, get off the
island, and navigate your way back to a friendly port where you can buy a new ship and resupply.

There’s a lot of shit to deal with indeed, but many hands make light work, especially when you are
the one sitting in the corner shouting at everyone else to work faster. Leadership may be a heavy
burden, but it certainly has its privileges. How kind of Occy, Septy and Ceccy to have conveniently
gathered your crew for you.

You head over to the wicker cage where Robards is imprisoned, and chop open the cage with three
slashes of your cutlass. You stoop to check his breathing and heartbeat and, satisfied that he’s alive
and in sound physical shape, you lift him out of the cage, drop him on the muddy floor and slap him
into a state of groggy consciousness before heading to the next wicker cage.

It is only now that you notice the crunching sound emanating from the bear behind you has ceased
entirely. Coolly turning to face the bear, you note that it is staring intently at you.

None of your crew is in any shape to assist you in fending off the bear, so you’ll have to fight it
singlehandedly. You do not doubt your weapon skills and tactical mastery can handle a simpleminded
beast, fearsome creature though the bear may be, and a meal of roast bear meat sounds absolutely
delightful after the rough day you’ve had. On the other hand, if you slip up just once and let the bear
get in a lucky hit, even if you ultimately win you are going to be very badly wounded. You have no
illusions about the loyalty of your scurvy crew – if they find you weak and powerless, they’ll almost
certainly take their chances and mutiny instead of nursing you back to health.

However, there may be no need to fight the bear at all. Perhaps it is merely expecting you to toss it
another meal, of which you have a ready supply at hand. Indeed, might it not be possible even to go
so far as to tame the bear if it’s fed well enough? Imagine, a pet white bear… that would make you
the talk of the Caribbean and a star of every port you visit.

Then again, you cannot deny that Robards has served you adequately ever since you claimed the
captaincy of the Holey Avenger, and it will be inconvenient if you have to break in another first mate
because you threw the previous one into the maws of a hungry bear. You try to recall the lessons you
had during childhood with Ms “Pagoda Hat” Keine – was it tigers which were the natural enemy of
bears, or turtles?

Do you:

Fight the bear in single combat? Turn to 23.

Toss Robards at the bear? Turn to 99.

Throw your cutlass at the ropes to the Sarcas-lac cage and hope whatever is inside fights the bear?
Turn to 220

Page 23 (bbcisdabomb)

As you prepare to face off against the bear, you remember the words of wisdom your uncle, Ol' Pete
Bearkill: “Be a man. Wrestle the bear to the ground and strangle it with your bare hands!” Advancing
on the bear bare-handed, you suddenly remember two things. First, you're not a man.

Second, Pete died trying that tactic against a brown bear fifteen years ago.

Drawing your sword, you kill the beast with a few swift swipes of your sword 1. Freeing the rest of
your crew, you explore the cave until you find the boat your captors arrived in.

Unfortunately for you, this is no Holey Avenger. It's considerably better constructed. It's considerably
better armed. It's considerably. . . smaller. Even with your reduced haul of treasure (and crew), you
only have room for one or the other.

Do you:

Take all your treasure? Turn to page 78

Save the remainder of your crew? Turn to page 16

Take half the treasure and half the crew, hopefully getting the better half of each? Turn to page 22

1
This fight was pared down from its original 2000-word epic. If you would like the full transcript of
this fight (and all others in this book), order item 14b. –ed

Page 78 (The Saddest Rhino)

A hopeless romantic crafting your tale would write that your emotions were in turmoil as you
debated between the choice of riches and crewmembers. That same romantic would lovingly pen
that, in that moment in time, stuck on a godforsaken island after defeating a trio of inept cultists,
that your heart ached with indecision. Who should you choose? Loyal followers always willing to fight
by your side, or the lust of coin?

Fortunately, you have no such pretensions. Between a bunch of sprawling, idiot men who are now
stumbling around the cave, and simple, no-holds-barred treasure, your choice is simple.

You grab Robards and pulled him up, whose glass eye narrowly misses you as it pops out. “First
mate!” you yell in his face, “We have bested our nemesis, the wily Winterbottom, and also these
three oxymorons! Surely, you know what to propose?”

“… mruh?” he mutters.

“Rum!” You shout once more. His other glass eye pops out and brains Glory Glory Hallelujah, who
had been sneaking behind you with a knife between his teeth. As Hallelujah falls back and cracks the
back of his skull against a convenient rock, your other crew members have perked up to the promise
of fine alcoholic beverage. All attention has been drawn to you.
“But where do we get our rum?” asks Sean the Shiv. You laugh heartily and throw Robards at him,
and they fall into a ridiculous pile. The empty eye sockets were creeping you out anyway. “Those
mooks there are monks,” you chastise, “and you know monk and their wineries…”

Without hesitation, your crew whoops in joy and ran to the side passage where Octavius had
produced the bear. Within a few seconds, their joyous cries have changed to screams, coupled with
gnashing sounds. Perhaps the monks are not the winery type of monks after all.

You, of course, take this opportunity to load your gold in The Holey Avenger II. In no time, you have
got yourself off the island, leaving your crew to fend for themselves against an ironic bestiary. Finally,
you are alone with your treasure! You do a sword dance around the gold and hop around in delight.
You drink an awful amount of Monkish Warm Beer and get incredibly drunk. You puke and do not
clean up after yourself.

By Day 2 onboard The Holey Avenger II, you are officially bored. It turns out that counting half your
original haul of treasure takes a lot less time than you have imagined. Also, not having anyone to
brag about your gold deflates things a little. You now wish you have taken Robards. At least you
would be able to amuse yourself by putting diamonds in his eye sockets.

You declare The Holey Avenger II to officially be named The Dull Blunt. The name doesn't work. At
least you now have something to do.

Day 3. You are in the cabin, looking through a few of the smaller chests, and to your surprise one of
them looks incredibly English. There is a large bottle of brandy in it, which you put to good use. You
find some English Warm Beer and toss them into the sea. The chest is filled with mostly books, and,
ruffling through its contents, they appear to be a collection attributed to a Sir HW. HW?
Winterbottom! Your fallen nemesis! Ah, the joy of making his life a living hell by looking through his
personal belongings, even after he is dead! By your own hands! Yes, joy indeed. Time to look at some
private stuff.

Winterbottom has a picture book full of plump naked women. You are not very sure you know
Winterbottom very well. You have also found his pendant. There is a picture of you inside. You are
not plump. You are now relatively unsure of what Winterbottom is like anymore.

Suddenly, the cabin shakes and you are thrown to the floor. Your ears are ringing, but you know
exactly what has happened: the ship is under attack! You grab your cutlass and run up to the deck.

“Cuttlefish feces!” you swear in disbelief. It can’t be! Yet… it is there, right before your eyes! The
elliptical sails, the ornate designs across the rim, the bamboo masts, the jade dragon figureheads!
Not just one ship, but several ships linked together by gigantic, metal chains! You thought they were
nought but a legend, but here they were… The Oriental Evenly-Distributors of Wealth!

From the ranks of equals, one emerges to be more distinguished than the others. He is wearing
armour. Why in the hell is he wearing armour on the high seas?
“Plutocrat scum!” he announces. Octopi of Heavens, they speak in bold! “I am General Yuen Hai-
Kuei1, and word of your unbalanced abundance have reached our masses! Surrender your ill-gotten
goods, and we cease the usage of our cannons at your ship in a militarily-precise manner! Abscond
or resist, and we unleash our revolution upon you!”

Do you:

turn to page 189 and submit to his demands;

turn to page 41 by showing how good you are in resisting; or

turn to page 7 through convincing them that their worldview is unviable?

1
嚴海毀, "Yuen of the Destruction of Oceans"

Page 7 (Green Intern)

You size up the The Oriental Evenly-Distributors of Wealth, and it becomes blisteringly obvious that
you are vastly outnumbered and outgunned. If only you had taken along even half of your crew, you
might have enough hands to turn the Dull Blunt, catch a breeze, and make some distance on the
Distributors’ heavy exotic crafts. But to turn your back would be suicide, as you’ve heard the legends
of the Distributors’ wrath, particularly enjoying the parts where they take their victims, bind their
head with a cloth, and then pour a steady stream of treasure over their face before feeding them to
their strange foreign beasts; you always figured those notes would come in handy some day when
you met a particularly hated enemy, but Winterbottom never gave you the chance.

“Mercantilist!” bellows Hai-Kuei, “prepare both you and your cargo to be taken prisoner!”

What happens next is astonishing. Instead of tossing grapnels and line across your flanks, the foreign
devils suddenly materialize upon your poop deck in a burst of smoke. Clad in earth tone wrappings,
with short blades and dangerous eyes, it is clear that you would stand no chance against these
warriors. Everything goes dark as you feel a sharp strike against your skull.

You awake on deck, specifically that of one of the smaller ships of the flotilla. You think you can see
the Dull Blunt chained to an adjacent ship. “Is the defendant ready!!?” screams Hai-Kuei. “Then let us
begin!!!”

You had been prepared for torture. Bleeding, thumbscrews, the rack – you were even almost looking
forward to treasureboarding. But now you gotta deal with this shit? Fine!

You give Hai-Kuei a withering look. “Hey captain,” you sneer, “afraid to fight like a man?”
Hai-Kuei laughs like a bull. “You have no idea what you are about to experience! Our Ships’
Legislator, Five Winds Grasping Monkey, is a practitioner of the legendary art of Shaolin Prosecution!
You stand no chance, and I would advise submitting a guilty plea immediately.”

You narrow your eyes. “And a guilty plea would get me what?”

“We’ll slit your throat, instead of beating you to death.” Hai-Kuei sits back on his chair, obviously
satisfied with the flawless logic of his judicial system. You gather that the whip-thin man with the
shaved head, orange robes, and deadly expression next to him is his prized Lawyer.

Suddenly Five Winds springs into action, flipping through the air like a deranged swarm of bees. Five
Winds screams as he leaps “Bear swats leaping salmon! Your capitalistic economic system is a
soulless mockery of society!” You barely manage to avoid a crushing blow that splinters the mast
behind you.

“It is simple fact that the rich exploiters will only grow richer, while the downtrodden proletariat will
wither and die under your plundering ways. Crane pins wily snake!” You fall prone in a desperate
attempt to avoid a flying kick that catches a guard square in the sternum. He falls to the ground,
spitting up blood.

Five Winds lunges forwards, with a series of lightning-fast strikes. “Bees sting foolish bumpkin!
Furthermore, your society will falter. The endless search for exploitable markets will only end with
war, and the ultimate result will be the loss of your souls in search of the almighty doubloon!”

Despite your best efforts, you can’t hope to dodge every punch. You catch one, two, three solid hits,
and you hear the distinct crack of a rib breaking. You crumple to the deck, perched precariously over
an open cargo hold, stuffed with crates upon crates of treasure, and many devices you don’t
recognize.

Five Winds smirks and stretches, raising his leg for a devastating overhead heel drop. “Avalanche
buries extreme sportsman. Your poor weep at the opulence in front of them. They lament their
unchangeable fate.”

“Those are some pretty words,” you growl, “but there’s something you didn’t count on.”

“And what is that, bourgeoisie wench?”

“I took debate in college.” Five Winds’ leg falls like thunder, and when the dust clears you are
nowhere to be found.

“Find her!” cries Kai-Huei “Kill her! Five Winds, to me!” Guards scatter around the deck, desperately
searching for you. Five Winds returns to his master’s side.

They don’t have to look for long, though, as you leap from behind an ornate jade dragon, disarming
and slitting a guard’s throat in one fluid motion.
“Your logic is flawed, Five Winds.” You run another guard through with your stolen sword.

”Creative minds will always find new markets, new products to sell.” A guard sneaking up behind you
gets a stiff backhand to the face.

“In fact, the inequalities of the capitalist system allow for increased mobility and opportunities for
every man, woman and child!” You stand before Kai-Huei and Five Winds, both red-faced with fury.

“After all,” you grin, “just look at me.”

At this moment, you realize that you’ve made a critical mistake. Revealing yourself to the enemy
while injured was probably not the best move, despite your impeccable rhetoric. You still have a
fighting chance though, but you must make your next decision carefully.

Do you:
Pluck up your courage and engage both Kai-Huei and Five Winds in "Debate?" Turn to Page 60
Flee to the Cargo Hold, hoping to find something more useful than treasure? Turn to Page 88
Attempt to fight your way to the Dull Blunt? Turn to Page 420

Page 88 (Bobbin Threadbare)

Thinking perhaps to find the ship's magazine and emulate Sir Winterbottom (hey, you survived it the
first time, somehow), you make an unnecessarily dramatic diving roll towards the nearest open cargo
hatch. While you braced yourself against the inevitable 20-foot drop, you find yourself unexpectedly
brought up short. When you catch yourself and get back to your feet, you notice what had stopped
you early: a mountainous pile of gold, chests of spices, and enough assorted jewelry and gem-
encrusted silverware to make the monarchs of Europe weep with envy.

"Holy shit," you mutter, "that's a lot of unredistributed wealth."

You aren't given much time to take in the sight, however, as the ship's crew has started dropping
down the open hatch.

If you took all your crew and no treasure on the Dull Blunt, turn to page 333.
If, however, you took all the treasure and no crew, turn to page 252.

Page 252 (Bobbin Threadbare)

With no clear path to the ship's magazine, you decide instead to hold the crew off right at the hatch,
where they can only get at you one at a time. The first crewman has already dropped to the gold pile,
and while he does have a curved sword ready in his hand, he unwisely decides to charge at you head
first. "Workers must assert their control of the means of production!" he screams.

"Workers need a manager to guide them or their work becomes meaningless!" you counter, easily
sidestepping his clumsy attack and casually slice open the back of his neck.

The next one down carries a pistol in his left hand in addition to the sword in his right. For some
mysterious reason, he drops the pistol in order to swing the blade with both hands. "The nobility
exist only to oppress their subjects!" he shouts, bringing the blade high.

You step easily under his guard, answering, "Rulers act as symbols of the state, and their prosperity
should reflect that fact!" You sink your stolen weapon just under his sternum, cruelly curving the
blade upwards before kicking him away.

Several more crewmen are dispatched just as easily, and just as you start to believe that you might
get out of this one alive, Five Winds drops down, still unarmed but looking every bit as dangerous as
before. "New minds and new markets just export the problems of one system into another." He
slowly stretches each individual muscle in his arms. "And a higher standard of living does not equal to
more mobility or more power, as you consumerist dogs seem to think." He drops into a stance
obviously meant to counter an armed opponent. "And right now, you have less chance of living out a
life of fine luxury than I do of becoming the King of Denmark! Fire ant breaks the mantis leg!" With
those last words, Five Winds flashes forward, catches your sword between his hands, and snaps the
blade in half.

Still, your slowly creeping smile catches him off guard. "Maybe so, but I know something you don't
know," you whisper to him.

"What is that?"

"The Marxist definition of 'work' assumes an equal ability level of every worker, even for
sophisticated and complex jobs. And any system based on a flawed premise is doomed from the very
start." With surprising agility, you shove the jagged edge of your sword up through Five Winds' jaw,
killing him instantly. "quod erat demonstrandum, bitch."

"Alas!" you hear Hai-Kuei cry from above. "The Merchantilist has shown us her superior philosophy
and killed our greatest champion! Spare me the rest of my crew, plutocrat, and tell us what you
demand."

Now that's a bit odd. To your knowledge, debate duels only end once one side has been wiped out
completely, and here General Yuen is giving up. It might be a trap, or it might be one of those crazy
Eastern traditions you've heard about.

Do you:

Demand to be set back on the Dull Blunt, treasure intact? Turn to page 15.
Demand the Dull Blunt to be filled to capacity with treasure before departing? Turn to page 150.
Demand to be made the admiral of the Oriental Evenly-Distributors of Wealth flotilla? Turn to page
302.

Page 302 (Ratatozsk)

"I am a magnanimous woman, Hai-Kuei, and I shall spare the lives of you and your crew. However,"
and with this, you summon up all the bravado you can, "I demand that you swear an oath of
allegiance to my command. From today forwards, you will address me as Adm'ral!"

There is a pregnant silence from above. Your eyes dart around the hold for a quick exit; it's only a
matter of time before one of them calls your bluff. Then the silence is filled with the chatter of voices
arguing back and forth.

"A woman admiral? The nerve of that tart, thinking she-" "But she followed the forms! To a T!" "Would YOU swear an oath to the killer of Five Winds?" "Could you afford NOT

to do so?"

The voice of Hai-Kuei rises above the clamor, "Your demand is well made and well received. Come up
and stand upon the deck of your new command." The hold seems fairly well choked with gold and
you've yet to locate a suitable exit. Oh well, 'no guts, no glory,' you think to yourself. It's only as your
head clears the hold and the return to sunlight blots out your vision that you remember that guts or
no, you watched Glory die only days ago...

Turn to 14.

Page 14 (Ratatozsk)

Relief washes over you as your eyes adjust to the mid-day sun and you focus on General Yuen
kneeling before you. That's surely a good sign. "I'm glad to see that you are a reasonable man, Hai-
Kuei. My first order as adm-"

"Ma'am, to truly command the flagship of the Oriental Evenly-Distributors of Wealth, one must first
look the part. Let me call down the tailors to give you a more proper uniform." With that, Yuen
stands quickly, turns, and gestures curtly to a nearby vessel. Before you can voice an objection, three
little 'plop's are followed by three explosions of lint and a team of small, hunched men stand before
you. "Hai-Kuei, I warn you-" is all you can get in before they are upon you, measuring tapes snapping
("Hey!"), fingers poking ("Watch it there, mister!"), and pins poking ("Yeowch!") Just as quickly as
they appeared, they are gone, leaving you sneezing in the lint of their passing. As you whip out a
handkerchief, you notice small changing tent has been erected just next to the mast and bustles with
activity. One of the tailors step out from it, pulls back the flap and motions you inside. 'No guts, no...'
you really need to come up with a better phrase.
Turn to 73.

Page 73 (Ratatozsk)

You have to admit, those old clothes could practically walk on their own, and you've always wanted
one of these neat three cornered hats. On top of that, the tailors knew what they were doing, and in
your new admiral getup, you feel fit to swash any buckle that comes your way. "Nicely done,
seamsters. I'll see that some wealth is especially evenly distributed to you." This remark is met with
an uncomfortable silence.

"Ahem. My first order as adm-"

"The proper forms must be signed to make this official," cries General Yuen. You quickly duck as
explosion of shredded paper reveals a nebbish little man with a stack of papers fit to scuttle a dinghy
in one hand and collapsible desk in the other.

"You must follow the forms!" shouts the General, his entire left side sporting angry, red papercuts.
When you're in charge of this place, you'll really have to teach them the proper way to travel from
boat to boat.

"Sign here, initial here, sign there in triplicate..."

Several hours and a ream of blotting paper later, it's finally official. "So, Admiral-"

"Adm'ral!"

"...Adm'ral, what is your first order?" All eyes in the fleet fall upon you. Now's the moment. Now you
gotta deal with this ship.

Do you:

Order the fleet to conduct war games with live ammunition while you retire to the ship's library to
research your next destination? Turn to 66.

Demote, disbar, or otherwise reassign the General, as having both a General and an Adm'ral on the
same ship is just confusing? Turn to 289.

Order a thorough inventory of the fleet, while you and a skeleton crew take the ship beneath your
boots "scouting"? Turn to 300.
Page 300 (Zoe)

"All right, first things first, ye scurvy dogs!"

"Actually, I was born in the year of the rooster," one crew member speaks up timidly, until you glare
him into silence and continue. "I want a full report on my...er, I mean our...er, I mean the people's
treasure. Every piece of jewelry, every gem, every dubloon, every shiny thing must be counted!"

"Yes Adm'ral!" the crew shouts in unison, several of them disappearing in a puff of smoke and
reappearing on the closest ships to relay the order, and so on down the line with amazing efficiency.

"And you there!" you exclaim, grabbing a random Asian stereotype by the collar. "I'm parched! Bring
me a drink!"

"Y-yes, Adm'ral!" he stammers, running off, and returning in a moment the stereotype returns with
your drink in a tiny delicate cup, which you grab and toss down the contents of in a single gulp...only
to hurl the cup down to shatter against the deck a split second later, sputtering and gasping.
"What...vile concoction was that?" you demand, glaring at the man and dropping a hand to the pistol
at your side.

"Uh....tea, Adm'ral?"

"Tea?! Why in the blazes would you bring me tea?! I could have you keelhauled for that! I order you
to bring me rum, now!"

"We, uh, don't have any rum. No ship in the fleet does."

You stare at him, taking a moment to process the words. "No rum? What do you have then?"

"Uh...cool, refreshing spring water from the snow on the mountains? And leaves from the rare white
dragon bush, which make a tea so delicious it's heartbreaking."

Fuck.

A moment later you're snarling orders and the ship you're on sets out, leaving the others to continue
taking inventory while you stand in the crowsnest, trying to hold a spyglass steady with shaking
hands while you scout desperately for something, anything that might indicate the presence of
soothing alcohol. Nothing but serene blue ocean in every direction. Water, water, everywhere, and
not a drop to drink. Even the thought of the hold, brim full with treasure, does little to comfort you at
the moment. You think you'll go mad.

You see nothing for hours, until in the air in the distance a tiny approaching speck reveals itself to be
an albatross, circling ever lower until it's right overhead, and then dipping its wings as if beckoning
you as it follows the south wind.
Do you:
Turn to page 81 to follow the bird! Perhaps it will lead you to a land flowing with drink and good
cheer!

Dismiss the bird and go below to examine your treasure to try and take your mind off your sobriety.
Turn to page 102.

Shoot the bird because it's not rum. Maybe there's rum inside it. Rum rum rum rum rum redrum.
Page 99.

Page 102 (The Saurus)

"You! On the rudder!" You shout down to a slightly less stereotypical Asian stereotype "Starboard,
now! The rest of you, get these sails up, we don't have much time."

The crew remain silent and still for a few seconds, not sure whether to follow your orders until they
see the expression on your face. At which point they jump to it as if a demon was behind them.

"What a stroke of luck" you think to yourself as you watch them working and the ship begins to
move. "I don't know where I am, but if these fools are here then we must be near the trading routes.
If we head towards land we could find another ship, or a harbour, and that means booze."

Already feeling better about the prospect of a drink, you hop down from the rigging and give your
crew the encouragement they need to do their work and stop looking worried and forlorn. Of course,
as the hours pass, you're starting to look pretty forlorn yourself. Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea
after all?

...A few hours after sunrise the next morning, after the worst night's sleep you've had in years, a
great crunch brings you awake. "At last! Land! Where are we?" you wonder to yourself. Pushing past
an exhausted subordinate outside your quarters, you realise why following birds may not be the best
idea. You've found yourself on a straight piece of coastline, with a small beach and steep cliffs
stretching as far as the eye can see. The place is absolutely full of albatri. It must be mating season.

Dragging your boots through the feathers, birdshit and copulation you take in the sights and gather
your thoughts. This looks like a large island, and that means people. Perhaps if you can get to the
other side or the interior you'll finally be able to find a tavern or wine merchant. You stuff your
pockets full of gold in case one appears and ponder your next move.

Do you:

Follow the beach on foot, hoping to find civilization along the coast out of sight and seriously
mucking up your boots in the process? page 24

Search the many caves you can see at the base of the cliffs for flotsam and jetsom - perhaps there's
a bottle of Rum that has washed up? Page 543

Order your crew to fire cannon at the cliffs to create enough handholds for you to climb to the top
for a better view of your surroundings? Page 342

Page 24 (Feinne)

You’ve decided to follow along the coast in the hopes of finding civilization. Given their lack of
enthusiasm, though, you decide the crew needs a bit of motivation to stick around.

“Oy, you lot! Err, I mean, comrades! I am going to, um, scout along to coast to find some pig-dogs to
divest of their ill-gotten gains. Or something.” This sort of talk does seem to placate them somewhat,
and you feel confident they’ll probably not strand you here as you head down the coast. Especially
since you took all of the navigational equipment with you.

After about a half-hour’s walk, it seems your suspicions were well-founded. A smallish town sits on
the water’s edge. As you’re thinking about approaching it, though, your finely tuned pirate senses
detect sneaking footsteps from behind you! You swing around, weapons drawn, to face the potential
foe.

You are greeted with a somewhat surreal sight. The pair of gangly, hunched men who were
previously attempting to approach you with clumsy stealth throw their hands up in surprise when
you turn. This proves to have been somewhat of a mistake, as it causes each of them to drop a large,
bloody sack, spilling dead albatrosses onto the beach. “Oi, apol’gies mizz! We dun’t mean to skurr
yoo!” says the one on the right. You’re not exactly certain what sort of accent that voice is supposed
to be, and it’s not the only unsettling thing about these guys. Their eyes seem a bit too far apart on
their head and are a really odd shade of grey-blue. Their arms and legs seem too long, and even from
a few yards away you’re almost gagging on the smell of them.

“Wee dun’t get viz’tors heer much, yoo know! Wai dun’t yee coom down to Upsmooth? Thar’s a
turrible storm acoomin’!” Sure enough, the skies have turned an ominous color in the past few
minutes. You’re going to need to find some shelter somewhere soon.

Do you:

Kindly take their offer of shelter in Upsmouth? Page 314

Attempt to make it back to your ship before the storm arrives? Page 50
Strike inland to try and find some shelter? Page 123

Page 123 (Ursus Veritas)

While you're reasonably certain that these two are dafter than Robards after a barrel of rum, a quick
glance at the darkening sky would seem to confirm that the weather was indeed looking rather grim.
You give brief consideration to following the pair but while their sickly complexions and ripe body
odour hints at the possibility of plentiful amounts of rum, your womanly intuitions tell you they're far
more likely to be members of some old god worshiping death cult instead. Loftily you push aside the
two men – causing the smallest to cough up a sodden half-chewed albatross feather in surprise – and
set off for the islands interior. You make it only a short distance before your progress is halted by the
impressive cliffs that line the coast. Searching quickly for some shelter to weather the storm, you
stumble upon a steep gully cut in the cliff face and decide to risk an ascent. Your luck holds and you
reach the top just as the sky opens up turning the previously dry gully into a death trap of rolling
water.

Before you the ground slopes downward, covered in loose gravel and sand, and although the pouring
rain has significantly worsened your visibility you can see dark shapes in the growing darkness below
you. Carefully you try to pick your way down the slope, but find that, while exceedingly comfortable,
silk slippers don't offer much grip on wet gravel. With a startled yelp your feet desert you and you're
sent tumbling down the rocky slope. Your descent slows mercifully as the ground begins to level out
and you're left splayed out and bruised, but with only your dignity seriously hurt. “Ow,” you say
pitifully to yourself, “fuck.” Sitting up you begin to take stock of your possessions; gold, check;
cutlass, lost; tri-cornered hat, gone – but hell you can always buy another hat. Pulling yourself up,
you take in your surroundings and are struck dumb by what you see. Before you lies an impossible
city; and the words of ol' Wide-Leg Pete come unbidden to your mind, it was indeed like “staring into
a long dead city of the ancients, an unfathomable labyrinth of impossible angles and non-Euclidian
architecture with leering cyclopean towers rising like spears from the necropolis, eldritch energies
crackling from their spines and a thousand silent eyes burning through your soul.” You're glad that
you never doubted the old boy, not one bit.

DO YOU:

Attempt to sneak into the city avoiding confrontation? Turn to page 83.
Put on a brave face and march directly towards the city? Turn to page 347.
Circle around the city in an attempt to find a way out of here? Turn to page 196

Page 347 (paragon1)

"Well, this is just perfect!" you shout to no one in particular. "There's not going to be any rum in that
place! That's teetotaler architecture if I've ever seen it!"
Maybe it's the lack of rum, or the lack of proximity to treasure. Maybe it's all the ridiculous shit
you've had to deal with. Something inside of you snaps. You're going to find the motherfucker who
runs this stupid island, and show him what happens when you piss off a lady pirate!
You proceed directly down the largest street towards the largest central structure, a pitch black
ziggurat from which some damnably annoying chanting emanates. Along the way, you pick up a
cutlass you find lying on the ground. It looks fairly normal, but when you hold it's hilt you hear the
shrieks of damned souls. You don't particularly like that part, but you can't really afford to be picky,
now can you?
You climb the ziggurat to its summit. The city is eerily empty, but you feel as if you are constantly
being watched.
You enter the top of the ziggurat, and encounter an unexpected sight. A circle of fishmen, clad in
robes, stand in a circle around a pillar that reaches into the sky! More importantly, you see in its base
a diamond bigger than your head!
Suddenly, one of the fishmen turns, and its eyes go wide with rage. "You!" it shouts. Wait a tic, you
recognize that voice. It's Winterbottom!

Do you:
Get your stabbin' on.Turn to page 25.
Focus on stealing that diamond.Turn to page 500
Run away screaming like a little choir boy.Turn to page 2

Page 25 (BlackFrost)

Your eyes lock onto that diamond for only a second before you begin plotting how to steal it. A smirk
forms on your lips, then, as you twirl the Cutlass in your hand. You ignore the sword's pleas to stop,
not even bothering to wonder what it must be like to be a soul trapped in a spinning sword.

"Winterbottom," you say, "I always thought you'd earn your sealegs someday, and what do you
know? Looks like you finally have."

Winterbottom does not seem amused by your quip. "You," he says, and only now do the other fish
people look your direction. His voice is muffled as though he were attempting to drink and speak at
the same time, a gargled mess of words. "I'll kill you," you think you hear him say.

"Now, now, Winterbottom. Let's not get too hasty. After all, we're both trapped here in this city, and
in your current state, well... let's just say I'm not a fan of sushi." You begin approaching him, and
while you can't be sure, you feel the other fish-men's eyes upon you, as though his anger were
channeling through all of them. "Believe me," you say, throwing your hands up in peace. "I'd love
nothing more than to cut you into thousands of pieces, shove you into a fire and feed what's left of
you to the sea. But I'm in a bit of a jam myself, and I think we can help each other."
"I would rather. Die," he blurbs.

You open your mouth to speak, still inching closer and closer to the diamond. "This sword," you say,
holding it up in the air, "it's the Cutlass of the Damned. It contains thousands of lost souls. With it's
power, however, I can make you normal again. I know because I've done it for several of my
crewmembers already." Your plan, while not entirely good, seems perfect in it's simplicity. Get to the
diamond, grab it, and run like hell. You don't imagine fish people, with their gigantic heads and finny
legs--not to mention the robes--will be able to catch you. If necessary, you had the Cutlass of the
Damned to fight and stab your way out. You'll get off of this island, somehow, richer than you'd ever
imagined and with Winterbottom in a situation worse than death. With that diamond, you could buy
a rum factory.

Winterbottom opens his mouth once more, and for the first time you see something that actually
sends a chill down your spine: row upon row of razor sharp teeth in that gaping mouth of his. "You
think. I believe. Your lies, pirate? Your words. Are meaningless. That cutlass. Is worthless."

With that, your cutlass speaks, "Mind your tongue, mortal." The voice booms, and you almost feel
what could resemble shock, were you capable of such foolish emotions. Winterbottom's large eyes
focus on the sword, and for a moment you think he actually believes you. It doesn't matter--you're
well within range of the diamond now. All that needed to happen was to wait for the opening and go
for it.

"What. Do you intend. To do?" Winterbottom speaks, and you think he laughs. "That thing. Can't
save us. Can't save you." As soon as he finishes, you see your chance. The other fish have begun
approaching you, but a few have split apart, and you think you can cut in between them. It's now or
never. You grab the diamond with one hand and fly, reading your weapon just in case. You notice it is
now glowing an eldritch, smoky black. You decide to deal with that later.

You realize, as you sprint and bump your way through the crowd of fish people--oooh, that STENCH!--
that you may have made a grim mistake. You feel it even as you break away from the group; your
skin begins to flay and peel upwards, hardening as they turn into scales. You feel larger flakes of skin
peel off and form into fins, and you maddeningly realize that you can probably swim at least twice as
fast with arms like that. You trip as your feet crack and flatten into fins, and look back, seeing
Winterbottoms toothy, horrible grin as he and the other fishpeople approach you. You see the
cutlass on the ground a few feet from you--when did you drop that?--and watch as it lifts off of the
ground and floats before you, business-end down.

You open your mouth to cry out, but instead let out a shrill gurgle. It happened in seconds, and it
ended swiftly. You didn't have to examine yourself to know what had happened. You are one of
them. You look at the diamond, and debate cracking your skull against it for falling for such an
obvious trap.

"Welcome. To the clan." This was Winterbottom again. "Unfortunately. It seems you have. Fallen for
the diamond. As well. Also unfortunate. I must kill you. I still have a. Score to settle with you." You
scramble to your feet fins, standing at the ready.
"Mortal," a voice in your mind speaks, and you somehow know that it is the Cutlass. "Wield me. Cut
down your foes, and I will get you off of this island, I will free you of your curse. I will give you the
treasure you seek. I hunger for souls, I hunger for flesh and blood, and they have more to give than
you. All I ask in return, is your soul, of course. You can keep it until you die, but then it is mine. Don't
worry. It's probably better that way, compared to the other place it was planned for." You hear an
undeniably evil chuckle echo in your brain, as the fishpeople approach, teeth baring.

This is bad. What do you do?

Grab the Cutlass of the Damned and make Winterbottom wish he'd died back on his boat. Page 11
Bum rush the fish, your own teeth baring, and go out fighting. Page 501
Cut and run, better than dealing with THIS shit. Page 504
Grab the Cutlass and beat the Diamond repeatedly until something happens. Fuck. This. SHIT. Page
362

Page 362 (Bobbin Threadbare)

While you would certainly like to run Winterbottom through repeatedly, you must admit that he isn't
presently the source of your troubles. Besides, debate swordfighting doesn't work when you can't
form coherent words. Instead, when you dive for the Cutlass and desperately try to hold on with
your clumsy, webbed hands, you turn your attention to the transformative diamond. Fortunately,
while known for their hardness, diamonds aren't particularly durable, and the gem easily shatters
under the heavy weight of your blade. Unfortunately, just breaking the thing clearly wasn't enough,
as you are still a fish-person. "Well, shit," you attempt to say, but all that comes out is burbling
gibberish.

Winterbottom had hesitated when you broke the diamond, evidently hoping much like you that his
curse would be reversed. Finding out that it wouldn't be so easy, he has turned his attention back to
you, his fury doubled from the false hope. It's at this time you hear someone speak, "And here I
thought that would work." The same voice responds, "Of course breaking it wouldn't work! It retains
the same mass, albeit in two pieces. You'd need to dissolve it in acid to change its chemical
structure."

You give your sword a long glance. Is this thing seriously arguing with itself? "Ignore them! Er, me!"
the Cutlass demands. "Your initiative is commendable, but fruitless. Only I can remove your curse." It
then responds to itself: "You don't have a clue how the curse works, George. Give it up."

Great. Your sword is a liar and argues with itself. This is just the sort of shit you wanted to deal with
today.

Turn to page 57.

Page 57 (Bobbin Threadbare)

"Listen," begins the Cutlass of the Damned, "The least we can do for her is slay her enemies. Even
George would agree with that much."

Speaking of your enemies, the fish-people surrounding you have mostly stayed back; your own
transformation evidently sufficient punishment for whatever crimes you may have committed on this
island. Winterbottom, on the other hand, has been eying your sword and slowly circling you. Once
"George" issues a harrumph of approval, however, the sword jerks forward, almost jumping out of
your grip, and slices Winterbottom stem to sternum. You must admit, you didn't expect to kill him so
easily, but it still feels gratifying to watch him twitch as his lifeblood pours from the open wound. The
other fish-folk are taken aback by this sudden violence, and it's all you can do to hobble away slightly
faster than the rest can catch up.

If your crew has performed a mutiny, turn immediately to page 481.

Reaching the top of the hill just above the harbor town, you spot your ship. Evidently dissatisfied
with you going off to adventure alone, the crew must have decided to attack the town, engaging in
some light looting and burning. Not that you mind a little initiative, of course, especially right now. It
takes some effort, but you manage to waddle into town well ahead of your pursuers.

Once there, you are greeted by a small row of your men, pistols and muskets trained on you.
Thankfully, they must have seen the chase from below, since they don't open up on you immediately.
You attempt to gargle out an order to stand down, and find it easier to manage than before. It still
winds up sounding more like "Garland bownd." The lieutenant standing behind the men hesitates,
almost recognizing you. "Is that...the Admiral?"

"Adm'rlll!" you attempt to correct him.

The lieutenant's eyes open wide, certain now of your identity. "What, er, happened to you?"

"Long. Story. Get. Ship. Go. Now!" you manage. Your lieutenant complies, rounding up the men and
putting the ship out to sea before the strange men on the reef can do anything but shout angrily at
the ocean.

Turn to page ∞.

Page ∞ (Bobbin Threadbare)

Not long after you get underway, you begin to notice some changes. The webs between your hands
are beginning to recede, and your toes are returning to their normal size. Even your skin has begun
to smooth itself once more, and return to that heavily tanned pink you know and love. Really, all
that's left to do is to hide in the captain's cabin until you return to normal and murder the first
crewman who dares speak of the incident. You also decide to ask your sword about the incident, and
it (or at least one of its personalities) explains, "It's probably proximity based. The farther away you
get, the weaker the curse's effects. I'd wager most people cursed by the diamond are convinced to
stay on the island, and thus never know about that aspect. Wouldn't you agree, Zack?"

"Mm hmm," the sword responds.

"Great. It's not like I'd ever want to go back there anyway. Now about this soul-stealing business..."

"You have wielded me and shall never be rid of me! Your soul is mine to consume! Mwa ha ha ha
ha!"

"Oh, cut that out, George. While your soul will enter the blade if you are killed by it or die holding it,
we're hardly cursed to keep showing up."

"Wait," you interrupt. "So does that mean Winterbottom--"

"Oh, yes. Let me put him on." The calm voice is replaced for a moment with incoherent screaming,
intercut with curses on your name and lists of hypothetical ancestors. You honestly find it quite
pleasant to listen to. It then cuts off, and the calm voice returns. "We usually let the new arrivals
have some time to readjust before giving them any control."

The voice then seems to switch again. "Okay, so maybe I...exaggerated a bit, but we are a powerful
sword and will make you powerful enemies. You will need to hold on to us for as long as you live to
avoid your death, and then your soul will join us! And your greed will ensure you keep us until--wait,
what are you doing?"

Maybe on another day the sword would have been right, but you have dealt with way too much shit
this day to put up with even a little bit more. Opening the cabin window, you chuck the sword out
into the waters behind you and watch with glee as it quickly sinks out of sight. Determining that your
appearance has normalized enough, you swagger out onto the deck and declare, "Men, it has been a
long goddamn day. Longer for some of us than for others, in fact. But now it's time to put all that
behind us and go where we will have to put up with no more shit. Navigator, plot us a course
to...Haiti!"

The crew cheers as the ship sails into the sunrise.

THE END
Deaths and Other Oddities

Page 437 (TwoKey)

Against all reason, you decide to follow the voice and let yourself sink to the very bottom of the
bereefed ocean. Sure, you could've tried to reach the surface, but a) that's too much effort and b)
that voice promised you riches.

Or at least that's what you think you heard. It's a bit hard to hear with all the water in your ear, and
it's a bit impossible to breathe with all the water encroaching on your nasal passage. You figure that
you have roughly eight minutes to breathe; more than enough time to check out the loot, plunder it
suitably, and head back for the surface where the crew of the Avenger — assuming it was unharmed
by the Cockatoo's explosion — will be awaiting their newly-enrichened captain. The plan, as it seems,
is airtight.

Woah. What was that? There was a shadow– and now you're being pulled by some unseen force
across the sea floor. It would've knocked the wind out of you, if your lungs weren't desperately
clinging to said wind. Water, flora, and coral hurtle past you in a blur. Seconds pass like minutes; and
suddenly, the force releases you, leaving your body drifting helplessly from the momentum of the
trip, and leaving your mind reeling in a what-the-fuck-just-happened-and-where-am-I-now-and-
what-sort-of-shit-am-I-about-to-deal-with sort of way.

Your eyes quickly adjust to the dullness of the undersea light. The first thing you notice is your
assailant: half-human, half-fish, her tangled blood-red hair floating aimlessly around her.

It's a goddamn mermaid, you nearly mumble, at the risk of releasing what remains of your oxygen
supply. Naturally, you always assumed that mermaids were mythical creatures, but when you
assume… From what you remember of the legends, these fuckers are dangerous and are all about
sinking your ship to make themselves a nice new undersea castle.

You survey your surroundings looking for means of escape, and find yourself to be in a giant cave,
with the entire wall facing you stacked with an assortment of junk: tarnished silverware, tattered
clothing, music boxes, old books, paintings, cracked mirrors, candlesticks, all no doubt stolen from
the ships of the crews they've murdered. Disgusting, and disappointingly worthless. It appears that
the voice's promise of "riches" was merely a ruse.

As your eyes dart upwards to the open roof of the cave, and the surface beyond it, the creature darts
into your line of sight, and begins to emit a terrible warbly shriek.

Ybbx ng guvf fghss

Vfa'g vg arng?
Jbhyqa'g lbh guvax zl pbyyrpgvba'f pbzcyrgr?
Jbhyqa'g lbh guvax V'z gur tvey
Gur tvey jub unf rirelguvat?

You try to shield your ears, but it's no use. The sound cuts through your oxygen-deprived head like
you cut through Admiral Rothersby at the Battle of Bellowing Bay. That was a great fight, wasn't it?
Of course, Rothersby couldn't actually swordfight worth a damn, but that day wasn't about striking
blows upon their enemies, it was striking fear into the heart of the Royal Navy…

While you're lost in reminiscence, the mermaid wastes no time in binding you to a chair with rope
from her junk collection. You try to wriggle free, but only succeed in knocking the chair over
backwards.

And then you see the other half of the cave.

Oh, fuck.

The entire back side of the cave has been crudely constructed from various ship parts to form seating
for an underwater amphitheatre. Filling the seats are corpses in various states of decay, each
grotesquely posed by (you can only assume) the mermaid. Each body is dressed in a different outfit
— some with simple pirate attire, others with full Navy regalia — but every one of them has an
identical Chelsea grin, and hands closed together in frozen applause.

And as the accursed creature hoists your chair back up and pulls you into the audience, the final bits
of oxygen leave your lungs. The last thing you see before your eyes give up is the corpse next to you,
holding a playbill, across which reads a title:

"The Little Mermaid"

THE END

Page 57 (ElNarez)

Sure, the island is only a couple of paces away from your current position. But since you don't really
plan on staying there for the rest of your days, you figure it's in your best intrests to take care of that
seabeast now, rather than later. Then, you could think of what to do next on your quest to go back to
the Avenger, without fearing for your life every time you have a walk on the beach.

First things first, though. Knowing how helpless you are as long as you're in the water, you decide to
swim for the reef you had noticed earlier. Once there, you could climb a rock, get on your feet, and
give that motherfucking Kraken a taste of your sword right through his heart.

Swimming as slow as you can to not get noticed, you make your way to the rocks. In your heart, you
feel a strange feeling. A strange mix of both absolute terror and incredible anger. Sure, on any other
day, maybe that Kraken would be able to tear your limbs apart without even breaking a sweat. But
not today. This is your happy day. The day where you enjoy all the riches you've managed to steal on
your adventure. And no one is taking that day away from you. Not a stupid Englishman, not a fucking
voice from the bottom of the ocean, and not even a blood-thirsty Kraken the size of two or three
boats.

You finally reach a rock wide and flat enough to stand on, and slowly but surely you manage to make
your way on top of it. You pull out your trusty sword, and start taunting the monster in front of you.

"HEY HEY HEY YOU FUCKING KRAKEN, GUESS WHAT? YOU'RE FUCKING DEAD", you scream, trying to
get his attention.

Right when you utter those words, the Kraken turns in your direction. In his eyes, you can notice the
same wild animalistic rage that filled the eyes of many of your fallen foes, before you made them
meet an untimely end.

"Wait. What the fuck do I do now?" you think. "I guess jump at him or something?"

Judging the distance between the rock you're standing on and the beast, you figure you should get
some momentum before making the jump. As you walk backwards, your feet slip on the wet rock
and you fall from where you were standing. After hitting various bits of rock on the way down, your
cranium finally breaks, and you die almost instantly.

YOU ARE DEAD. If you want to start again, go to page 1

Page 220 (Artix74)

As tempting as it is to be running around with a bear as your first mate, the time it would take to
train him up is far beyond your patience, and you question whether or not you can keep enough
bodies around to keep the damn thing satiated enough to not murder the rest of the crew, so
Robards is safe...for now, at least. And you're sure as hell not going to fight it yourself - after all, as
skilled with a blade as you are, you saw what it did to the last two idiots. No, this is going to require
some thinking outside the box.

Looking around, you see the rope holding up the gate to the Sarcas-lac cage. Sure, it's no mythical
beast, but a bunch of giant snapping turtles ought to be more than enough to take on this bear,
right? With a well-placed cutlass throw, the rope is quickly cut in two, and the gate comes crashing
down. The noise it makes stuns everyone for a moment, as even the bear looks to see what's going
on. You stop and stare for a moment, as if waiting for something to happen. Suddenly, you find
yourself being thrown to the ground, as the bear begins tearing into your flesh. As it turns out, a
bunch of giant turtles glued to one another have very poor mobility. Certainly nowhere near what
would be required to get you out of this.
You are dead. Turn to page 1 to try again.

Page 342 (Slaan)

“Alright, landlubbers... I mean 'comrades', this here island must be full of ill-gotten gains and
exploited workers. Being the wonderful admiral I am, I've skillfully maneuvered us behind their town,
and am preparing an assault up the cliffs. They won't know what hit them!” You make things up as
you go along, hoping they don't figure out you have no idea where you are.

Taking a long look at the supplies on board your fleet, you realize that your grappling hooks won't be
long enough, not even from the top of your mainmast. Therefore, you order your men to start
shooting the hillside. “We can use the holes as handholds, boys.”

General Yuen, who has read Pill-Yu's the Art of Piracy several times, at first seems as though he
wishes to disagree with your orders. But he soon smiles, bows down and obeys: all of the 142
cannons on board the flotilla commence the bombardment. The hillside is soon reduced by several
tons of rock, birdshit and feathers.

Drawing your trusty sword and pistol, you order the charge up the hillside. And though it is tough-
going, you soon reach the top. Looking back for your trusty men, you see them POOFing one by one
back on board the fleet from the hillside.

“You didn't sign form 322-A-Part C – Paragraph 3b in triplicate. Take this as your just rewards for
forgetting the true will of the people: petty bureaucracy Capitalist dog!” yells First Mate Phu-Yu.

You sit in silence and hate as you watch your fleet sail away into the sunset. Well, if you can't be
Admiral of the Seven Scurvy Seas, then at least you can be Queen of the Island of Alba.

An albatross obligingly places a white, sticky crown onto your head.

You have died of starvation after being stranded

Page 314 (Green Intern)

Your first reaction upon meeting these...men...is to vomit, but you manage to hold it in for the
moment. After all, they're offering you shelter. And where there's shelter, there might be booze! You
swallow your pride (and your lunch) and hold out your hand in a friendly manner. The larger of the
two men seizes it and gives it a vigorous shake.

"Yer wurn't be sorry, mizz. Upsmouth's th' must accom'datin place on th' sea."
"Alright." you cringe, trying not to notice the scaly texture of the man's hand. "Let's get going. That
squall's not going to wait much longer."

Your words ring true. The rain falls in sheets, and by the time you reach the village, you're completely
soaked to the bone. Strangely, the two Upsmouth men don't seem to mind the weather. You think
you even hear them singing something Ya Ya Cod hula hoop? "Strange lyrics for strange men," you
think.

You find yourself being led along a rocky crest overlooking the ocean. The town is perched near a
jutting peninsula. It looks like it's barely hanging on in the storm, but by the way the two men were
talking about it, it sounds like they've been living here a while. You finally are brought to a
ramshackle building, it's sign barely visible in the wind: The Upsmouth Inn

"Welc'm ter Upsmouth, mizz" gurgles one. "Befer yer gets a room, yer should meet ther may'r"

"Can't it wait until morning?!" You snap. "This storm's only fit for fish and kraken! And I hate kraken!"

The two men give each other a look, their goggling eyes glistening wetly by the lamplight.
"Wurr vurry sorry ter hear that, mizz." They advance on you, their hunched frames moving faster
than you though humanly possible. Their sharp teeth glisten in the lamplight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You wake up tied to a stone slab, completely immobile. The waves crash in front of you, and you
quickly ascertain that you are at the very tip of the peninsula. Standing in front of you stands a huge
man, nearly 8 feet in height, despite his hunched back. No, not a man. A...thing. If the two men that
brought you here had a "look," this one defined the style. His hands are huge, scaly, and cruelly
clawed. the moonlight outlining his frame makes his razor-sharp teeth glint, and his head glows wetly
with scales and fins.

This must be the "may'r." The ridged dagger in his hand spells out his intent.

"Please," you plead. "I'll make a terrible sacrifice! I'm not even a virgin!"

The mayor gurgles, his voice barely human. "Durn't wurry mizz. Ther Gr't One durn't care so much."
He slits your arm, and dashes your blood to the sea.

At first, nothing happens, and the pain in your arm overrides any sense of fear. But then, the hair on
your neck stands up, despite the storm. Then your heart starts beating like it's on fire.

A massive shadow starts to rise from the ocean, and your vision begins to swim. Wings, claws, teeth
and tentacles. Your brain screams at you to run! To hide! The dread, unknowable, indescribable
being, he who sleeps in the great city of R'lyeh, the scourge of man, and devourer of souls has risen,
and it was your blood that woke him. But it is too late. Your eyes burst from your skull, your brain
boils, and blood flows freely from your nose, ears, and mouth. And through it all, you scream.

You have gone Insane, please return to page 24, and try again.

Page 50 (Whybird)

While the storm does indeed look like a nasty one, even the company of your own crew is preferable
to holing up with semi-literate yokels, and you tell them as much.

You're pretty sure that the two try to follow you as you leave, but you make it back to your ship
without incident.

Turn to Page 97.

Page 97 (Whybird)

"All right, me hearties!" you bellow at the top of your voice, the sun setting behind you. "We have
ourselves a destination! Three leagues that way is the coastal town of Upsmouth, ripe for looting!
The inhabitants are nothing more than a shower of inbred simpletons, not an ounce of fight in their
sorry, misshapen bodies! An extra portion of rum for the first man on dry land!"

There is a silence broken only by the whistling of the gathering storm.

"We, uh, don't have any rum," somebody says. "I think I mentioned."

Damn. You're really going to have to figure out the right way to motivate your new crew.

"Kill them all and take their stuff!" you shout.

The storm that has been threatening to break bursts into full force as your ship rounds the coast and
draws into Upsmouth. Rain pelts down, soaking you to the bone. As much as you might disapprove of
your crew's lack of rum, however, you can't fault their seamanship. The Dull Blunt sails straight as a
die towards the dilapidated, squatting port-town. Your crew ready cutlasses and prepare the
longboats.

It seems that the inhabitants of Upsmouth aren't at home, however. Lantern-lights on one of the
coral reefs glimmer brightly, and you can see bulky robed figures circling and chanting.

Think back to earlier in your adventure.

If you killed the Kraken, turn to page 5.
If you didn't, turn to page 141.
Page 141 (Whybird)

The sea beneath you boils, and long, snaky tentacles lash out of the water. The first curls around the
mast and snaps it like a twig. The second grabs your first mate and draws him, screaming, into the
water. You hack the third in two as it reaches for you, but the fourth closes around your ankle and
drags you to a watery grave.

You have died.

If you want to restart, turn to page 1.