It’s Jonathan here with our next weekly blog post for the upcoming event, THE RAGE THAT FILLS HER SAILS! This is leadup for our March DR:TX event written by our Overarc STs, Ed Sampson and Joel Vold. Today we will talk a bit about some of the LORE behind the mysterious malady you’ll face at our event. This is a bit of a ghost story with a surprise at the end, told from the perspective of an old sea dog telling a story at the Swaying Anker. Let’s explore THE LEGEND OF THE BLACK SPOT together…
A few reminders before we begin:
Amber wrote a neat blog post on some updates to our Plot Request system. We’ve came up with a new process to streamline requests for custom mods, PFAs, and Backgrounds. In short, Personal Plot Requests, PFA Requests, and Faction Interviews are now being handled on a month-to-month basis. Check out what Amber’s put together!
We are continuing our recent Boffer Donation Campaign in March. Next event, you can earn some CAPS by donating your gently used boffers! You can earn 25 caps for something we have to rebuilt, 50 caps for something that is useable right away, and 100 caps for something that is way too nice. See Shan at our next event to earn your caps and help the game replace some of our damaged boffers.
TICKETS FOR THE RAGE THAT FILLS HER SAILS ARE ON SALE until Friday, March 3rd! DON’T MISS OUT!!!
THIS POST WILL DISCUSS A FEW LIGHT STORY SPOILERS FOR OUR NEXT EVENT, SO WE HOPE YOU ENJOY WHAT WE HAVE IN STORE!
Let’s talk a little bit about one particular story you might have heard before the next event…
“It was around about the size of a crown piece. One side was blank, for it had been the last leaf; the other contained a verse or two of Revelation—these words among the rest, which struck sharply home upon my mind: "Without are dogs and murderers." The printed side had been blackened with wood ash, which already began to come off and soil my fingers; on the blank side had been written with the same material the one word "Depposed".” — Treasure Island, Robert Louis Stevenson
Photo credits in this post are from Max Pohlmeier, Lainey Weiss, Sydney Betzina, and Noah Goodman.
The Legend of the Black Spot
By Ed Sampson and Jonathan Loyd
It’s been a cold and stormy night so far, and nothing brings a smile to your face like catching a break from the chill inside the Swaying Anker. One of several drinking establishments in Bravado, it’s a place where you can find a quiet drink and sit back to soothe the ache in your bones from the winter weather. Plus, a muddled cider or a strong hooch would be the perfect thing to take your mind off the rumors of new threats on the waters, and the dire warnings from your friends in the Junkerpunks. Trouble is coming, they say, but for now you are only worried about nursing your drink in a comfy corner and getting a chance to warm up.
The light folk music playing from a dilapidated old music box near the bar doesn’t distract enough from your worries, and you can’t help but overhear an old sea dog at the table nearby spin a tale, a ghost story of sorts, for some frightened young sailors huddled nearby. After the old sailor bought a round for the whole bar, you figured you might enjoy a story while you regain the feeling in your fingers, and you take a seat nearby.
The old crusty sea dog leans back, his face turning a sly smile and he begins to weave his story…
“Have ye heard of the origin of the black spot, lads? THa legend of the dread captain, and tha curse she places on tha unwary?”
“The first tales of the Black Spot be from before the fall of man, carried with tha stories of the oldcestors and their journeys o’er wide-open seas before they became choked with fiery oil slicks, hurricanes, zed, and dark water. One captain, Billy Bones or Silver Steven, or something like that, I heard it be, spoke of the oldcestor tradition of the BLACK SPOT. I first heard the tale as a bit o’ history of our kind, but it be something else entirely now, a curse upon the living.”
“Pirates of old be presented with a “black spot” as a verdict of guilt and judgement, ye see. It be simple enough, a mark of ink on a piece of torn sail or parchment, maybe one side blackened while the other bore a warning. When placed in the hands of the accused, be he a murderer, a mutineer, or a traitorous snitch, or simply a greedy smuggler taking a bit more than her fair share of hooch, it be a mark of terror. It meant that the captain, they did KNOW your crimes. They be “putting you on the spot” as it were.”
“Sometimes the spot be marked on a piece of them religious scrawlinga, like them canticles the creatures of the Dune Sea peddle. I even heard of one foul traitor given an Ace of Spades, condemning him to death, ‘cause it has but a single black pip on the face, the truth of his crimes recorded on the back o’ the playing card. It’s be tradition, ye see. Carried o’er the waves and sea by our kind for generations. The Black Spot is a mark of death, a last judgement given to the damned, savvy?”
“This much be still true today, as the Black Spot be seen once more in the wastes...”
The old sea dog notices the young sailors squirming, and one in particular failing to meet his piercing gaze. You smirk, seeing the sailor bring the old legend to life, while you nurse your hooch in your corner.
“Have you seen the Black Spot, then?”
“Pull yer seat up, laddie, and let me get a look at ya. Aye, I can see it clear as day. You can hide that mark upon your hand as much as ya like, ye can wrap it or wear gloves. But I can see it. Ye been marked by the Black Spot. Don’t matter how it happened, but it’s happened. Sure as you’re born, that bell’ll soon ring for ya.”
“It starts small, so do I hear. Maybe it looked a wart, or some bit o’ grease. Like a rope rash gone rotten, it spreads into tha mark of the damned. No matter how hard ye scrub or what medicines you try, it be there for all to see. Cut it off with a sharp knife and it regrows again, foul and tainted. Yer sin carried like an albatross around ye neck, in that black spot. Bad luck, it be.”
“Best drink up while ye can, laddie. The end be in sight, no matter how much ye try to run.”
You can’t help but glance over to the young sailor, and you see a concerning growth on the back of his left hand, barely concealed by a filthy bandage. The misshapen mark is a deep black, round in shape, and red around the edges like an infected wound. You catch yourself leaning in a bit more, as the old sea dog continues, enraptured in the tale.
“Where does the black spot come from?”
“No one knows, not for true.”
“This ain’t some mark like those in history, this be something different. Maybe it be your guilt made manifest, a mark of some crime ye did on yer last voyage. Some say its’ one of them newfangled diseases, like some say it be Nichols’ last laugh. Others still say it come up out of the ground, where them delvers dig under our very feet right now, some curse of the oldcestors. I even heard tale of a one poor soul who said someone told him a ghost story, and it appeared right quick after.”
“They’re all wrong, every last one of them. This spot here?”
“It comes from her.”
“Ahh, like I said, I sense the mark upon you, landlubber. You feel the eyes upon you yet? The feeling of something waiting for ye in the dark? Well, I’m here to tell you…yer not wrong.”
“If you’ve got the Spot upon you? That means she’s coming for you. Don’t matter where you hide, or how far you run. As soon as you hear the bell from her flagship, you’ll have a choice to make. And a price to pay. You see, the Dread Captain demands ye serve, another soul to haul up the foul anchor of her mighty vessel.”
You struggle to suppress a shudder. That title, or perhaps a name, is spoken with a dread finality. If you were superstitious, you might think the lights had flickered a bit when the sea dog said it. The Anker's a nice enough place, but that’s just how electricity works in the wastes and that’s nothing out of the ordinary. Bulbs don’t flicker on cue, you assure yourself.
“Who is the dread captain? Ye must be joking, lad.”
“Joanna Waves, the Strainscourge of the Seas, dread captain of tha Amaranthine Armada.”
“That be her name, but pray ye never have to speak it. Legend says she hears her name each time it’s spoken, like a gull on the wind, carried to her ears ‘cross the waves.”
“Aye, I can tell you about Joanna. Careful though, ye may hear too much. More than one sailor has heard these tales, and more than one of them have ended up serving a life before the mast. Spend enough time with your soul in Dark Water, ye may soon come to find it forgets the smell of land. But, on your own head be it.”
“Terror of the Waves, she be. The Doom upon the Horizon. The Dark of the Deep. The Scourge of All That Sail. Most sailors have seen her, but they won’t talk about her. Anyone what sails the seas and plies their trade on tha water has seen her and her Juggernaut, and each and everyone of them has put their rudder to her and fled. And those that don’t flee, perish. Or worse.”
“I heard plenty of stories about the Dread Captain. Some say she was betrayed, her family taken. Others say she once swore a holy vow to never be powerless again. A strange creature with a strange book told me once that she was foretold in some sort of Canticle of the Waves, whatever the hell that is. Ain’t no one been close enough to ask her, and she ain’t one for pontificating.”
“Joanna herself? Death on two legs, and nasty about it. She be master of the blade, one of the best duelists I’ve e’er heard of. And if that’s not enough be, she’s a psion of the worst sort, and I don’t know if any still living has seen her true limits. She’s a terror, through and through. And if you see that Juggernaut on the horizon, it’s already too late.”
Something about the ghost story sparks a memory. It sounds familiar to you, in a way you can’t quite put a finger on. You move about uncomfortably, the chill of the night causing an painful cramp in your hands and feet.
“All sailors know of her, you see.”
“I heard she ran Admiral Hart out from Axport years ago, amid shell and storm and shot. Speak her name around Grand Admiral Sinkerswim, and you’ll hear naught but curses. Even Carina Astora, the Saltwise Sweetheart steers clear of the Juggernaut. And if truth be told, she’s the reason ol’ Captain Nemo and Ironsides doesn’t sail north beyond Requiem. Even if they don’t talk about her, they know. Cause the most dangerous part about her? The Legend. Even now, she be listening in, hanging on our every word, cause ye asked.”
“Whoever and whatever she be, she’s here for one thing and one thing only. When she drops that tentacled borne Anchor of hers and the Juggernaut deploys it’s mighty twelve pounders, she come here for power. She come here to take what you have. And she come here to take whoever she can. Every soul she can cleave to her side is another one of the damned to serve her crusade.”
“And they will have no choice but to answer her call.”
You’ve heard that name before. The Juggernaut. You heard of a recent Junkerpunk clash near the Clutch, dozens of ships sunk, a massive armada working its way up the riverways of the San Saba, cannons blazing. You even remember hearing a few of the San Saba Republic Longberths mentioning something about arming vessels in Drywater. But that was like recent news, not some ghost story. It can’t be the same thing. It’s just a story.
“Aye, I called it the juggernaut. it be the flagship of the dread captain, the spear of the amaranthine armada.”
“Joanna and her Amaranthine Armada arrives on the storm, and the Dark Water she sails on follows her everywhere. That water drown ye right quick, choking the breath from yer lungs, should ye be cast o’erboard. Some folks say she what sank Wahoo, others that she sails the Spoiled Coast daring any to come after her. Each one of them could be true, who’s to say? I heard from a guy who knows a guy that she once lived a normal life, free as you like. How did she come to head the Juggernaut? Escapes me.”
“The Juggernaut? It’s a monster, plain and simple. A demon from the Old World, held together by her hate and her power. It’s got thick armor, heavy guns, and enough munitions to level any town in range of her guns. It’s a titanic beast, made with the stuff of legends, alloys of steel like none can create anymore. And that’s not even talking about the Dread Anchor, that terrible tentacled thing she sinks into the Mortis Amaranthine. Once the Juggernaut arrives, it’s only a matter of time.”
“And the Juggernaut ain’t the only danger. Her crew of the damned are a sight to see. Folks from all over the Wastes, bound to her by the Black Spot and her will, carried far from family and kin. Her loyal Sirens stalk the shadows of their passing, finding all those what refuse the call or try to escape. The longer you stay aboard, the less you want to leave. Once the Black Spot be upon you, you’ll hear the call. It’ll be up to you if you serve or refuse, but no way is without sacrifice.”
The chill in the room is noticeable now. Those damn Lucky 7s should have the scratch to pay for firewood and lamp oil, you think. Why is it so damn cold this time of year? You scratch absently at your hand, as if feeling a presence looming upon you. Just silly old ghost stories, told by a crusty old sailor to scare the tenderhorns. That’s all.
“what are the Sirens, ye say? ARe ye mad?”
“So you’ve got the Spot upon you? That means she’s coming for you. Don’t matter where you hide, or how far you run. As soon as you hear that bell, you’ll have a choice to make. You can Resist, you might think. Steel yer nerves, and tie yerself to the mizzenmast to prevent ye from walking o’erboard to her call. No matter, if ye resist, the story don’t end there.”
“The Dread Captain has her Sirens of the Deep, terrifying specters to chase down those what Refuse the Call. No harbor or port can keep you safe, cause the Sirens of the Dread Captain will chase you to the end of the Wastes. They can sense the Black Spot, ye see. The Sirens will hunt those that put up too much of a fight, and the screams that ring out will pierce yer very soul, and yer guilt will be agonizing. It weighs ye down, ye see, like an anchor bound to yer soul.”
“Joanna, she be one of the craftiest and canniest terrors that ever haunted the waves. And one of the ways she reaches out and strikes those what deny her are these Sirens. Deadly daggers in the dark, these psionic specters walk between shadows to find you. You bear the Mark and refuse the call, then you best keep both eyes open, lest the dark itself reach out for you.”
“They slip through the shadows of ye mind, ye see, like a whisp of smoke. Out o’ the corner of yer eye, like a figment they be lurking. Invisible, hidden, even in broad daylight. It no matter how you prepare, they be on you like a blink o’ lightnin’, flashing blades cutting you down so they can drag ye back to the ships of tha damned.
“Ye might be worried about the Thralls of the Dread Captain, but the true danger be her Sirens. Legend says that those that enjoyed their unholy service on her vessel, that answered tha call of the Dread Captain willingly, they be doomed to become a Siren when they die a final death. Those traitors of thar own kind bear the curse e’en past death itself.”
“Nothing escapes that damned Anchor, especially not souls marked with the betrayer’s mark.”
You heard tales of terrible machinery and strange devices used against the Archon incursion a few months back. Before then, maybe you would have chuckled at the idea of an Anchor that can reach into the Grave Mind, but you’ve seen some things lately. Shit, just the stuff out beneath the waves of the Spoiled Coast are enough to break the mind, but this is just some old ghost story. Your hand still itches, but you lean in closer.
Aye, I spoke of her Anchor. It reaches into the depths, and binds those that crew her fleet.
“You ever seen things you know ain’t real? Green skies at night, angles that don’t look quite right. Things that make your head hurt, your eyes bleed, your ears ring?”
“Well, the Dread Anchor ain’t one of those. It’s real all right. And it ain’t right at all. I seen it, years ago, off the Spoiled Coast of the Rat Trap. We were running bullets past House Triton during one of them wars, and the Juggernaut arrived. They didn’t see my sloop, or we wouldn’t be having this talk. But we saw it.”
“There was a lot of yelling, from the Strainscourge herself. There was a smell in the air, spoiled meat and oily water. And my hairs stood up, each and every one of ‘em. And when that fleshy, tentacled, mass hit the water, it plunged deep. Deep through the drink, right into the Mortis itself. I swear you me, I felt the shake beneath my feet.”
“It be a terrible thing, I tell ye. The Tentacles of the Anchor, a terrible artifact of old Barogue, according to one story I heard. It’s a mighty thing, an anchor big enough to turn heel o’ the Juggernaut, but heavy enough to reach into the dark depths. The arms o’ the anchor twist upwards, like the arms of some sea creature, carved with barnacles and suckers like some damnable octopus. Each arm be carved with runes, old tongue of Barogue perhaps, speaking of some pact made with a lost sister and a voice below.”
“I don’t know how it works, or why. But I do be knowin’ that as long as the Juggernaut is Anchored in yer waters, them who sink don’t come back normal like. They go straight to her, to serve as the Damned. That’s why she’s so dangerous, ye see. Any that die are marked by the Black Spot.”
“Even in death, you SERVE.”
You could swear you hear a bell ringing mournfully in the distance. Just the Grave Bell, ringing in some lost soul that ran afoul of hunters or gorehounds. The Groundskeepers will be along shortly, you think. Hopefully, it wasn’t anyone you know. I mean, it’s not like you did anything wrong on your way here. You’re sure those other folks made it back safely when you left them on the road out to Anyport. You have nothing to be ashamed of. No need to feel guilty. Damn, your hand itches.
What happens if ye answer the call o’ the dread captain?
“Now there’s a question, laddie. Mayhaps the right question.”
“Ye can resist the siren call of the Dread Captain fer a time. But, sometimes those damned souls that do bear the Black Spot choose the easy path. What’s a bit o’ work, after all? You can Serve. One life before the mast, fulfilling Joanna Waves’s dreams of conquest. Not a high price to rid ye of the mark of the Black Spot.”
“Legend says those that die and are torn from the ground by her infernal Anchor, those that choose to serve become her Thralls, the souless dead, trapped ‘tween the world o’ the living and the damned. Remind me a bit o’ raiders, they do. Not quite zed, but not quite people either. Covered in seaweed, the mantle of the Armada, the gift of the waves themselves.”
“They be ferocious and deadly, and they’ll scuttle up the side of yer ship quick like. If they gaze into yer soul, you’ll be frozen in place, too scared to swing yer fancy pigsticker. But they bear the mark of the damned, and if they drag ye back to the mast, ye too shall serve the Dread Captain, and bear her mark of the Black Spot.”
“When that bell tolls, all yer former friends will be clamoring for your blood, new Thralls of the Dread Captain. It’ll be dangerous, but yer lucky the bell only tolls at the waning and waxing of the hidden tides beneath the dark depths of the ocean. Once at noon, and once at midnight, you be hearing the siren call of the bells o’ the Juggernaut calling ye to serve her mistress, Joanna Waves. That haunted crew will wash over yer ship like a tidal wave, claiming any that dare resist the call.”
“Choice’ll be up to you. Stick around and survive, hide, or run. It be an overwhelming tide of the damned, and it be e’ery mate for ye self. When Joanna Waves comes calling, ye best be prepared.”
“What would I do, were I called?”
“Me? I heard the call long ago.”
“I been serving her for years now. It’s not so bad, once you get used to it. We’re all damned already, my friend, if ye believe them Final Knights. Do work, get paid, they say.”
“All those ghost stories? They’re all true, when they’re told. Real as you and I, maybe even realer. If they’re told often enough, and believed often enough, who’s to say they aren’t real? If you’ve heard everything I said now and believed her, then doesn’t that make her a little bit more real? And if THAT’S the case…”
“Or I’m wrong. It’s just a legend, after all.”
“Who’s to say? I’m just an old sailor telling some spooky stories. Now if you’ll excuse me, my ship’s headed out from Bravado soon to meet up with me friends. And me friends do so like to make an entrance.”
“See you soon, Vados…”
Just ghost stories, you tell yourself. That old sea dog is just trying to rattle those youngsters. You’ve played a prank or two on your friends before. No harm, no foul. On the wind as you leave the bar, a jaunty tune that darkens your mood rings out from the sailors still inside. You swear you’ve heard it before, as you step out into the darkness, following the siren call of that bell you heard earlier. It reminds you of something, a tale you once heard in a bar, on a dark and stormy night a few days ago.
Your hand doesn’t itch as much anymore, now that the Black Spot is there. It feels like a weight on your arm, but you’ll be free of that burden as soon as you answer the call of Joanna Waves, the Strainscourge of the Seas and her infernal Anchor. You walk towards the water, the inky depths of dark water stretching as far as the eye can see, the words of that old song, “Joanna, Now We Mourn” in your ears…
Joanna, Now We Mourn
By Ed Sampson
There once was an orphan, who didn’t know her name
And there once was a town that would never be the same.
The orphan lived there, always scraping by for life,
Her food and roof and self kept safe by her knife.
The town didn’t care for the orphan, they didn’t want to know
And this orphan couldn’t leave, for where could she go?
The orphan met a family, who took her in from the cold.
The family loved the orphan, and welcomed her to the fold.
The orphan loved the family, and had a place to belong.
And if nothing had happened, this would be a very different song.
But the town fell to ruin, crime and despair.
And they began to hate the family, and everything seemed unfair.
The town butchered the family, to take their food and cash.
But the orphan was stronger now, and with her mind did lash.
The town is left abandoned now, its people long since gone.
And the orphan sails the seas now, singing her lonely song.
The orphan swore that day, in blood and bone and tears
That if she couldn’t live in peace, she would live in everyone’s fears.
All the fear and pain she’d felt, she would bring upon the Wastes.
And she’d never be scared again, or trust herself to fate.
For the orphan had power now, and a terrifying name.
And now it was the Wasteland, that would never be the same.
The Curse of the Black Spot
That’s it for today, Vados.
But I have one more request, gentle readers.
You see, this wasn’t any old ghost story we shared today.
It’s a bit more, and it’s called the Legend of the Black Spot.
The stories say that anyone that hears the tale of Joanna Waves, hears the tale of the Black Spot is soon cursed to answer the call of the Dread Captain.
Simply hearing the legend is enough, they say.
Like a memetic song, an ear worm that sticks with you long after story time is over.
You see, the Legend of the Black Spot is insidious.
It curse reaches into you, and reminds you of stories of old, tales to scare your friends in the dark.
It’s a bit of a memory, tied with a bit of superstition, and we all know that sometimes the thing that goes bump in the night in Dystopia Rising is very, very, real.
And sometimes, maybe the legends are true…
INFLICT BLACK SPOT!
You’ve now heard the tale and experienced this story today, through this humble blog post and ghost story, you’ve been cursed, by that very Legend of the Black Spot. And maybe there’s a chance that maybe that story you read on the internet sticks with through our next event, THE RAGE THAT FILLS HER SAILS.
At the next event, your characters may choose to take the BLACK SPOT, as you’ve now heard the Legend of the Black Spot and the story of Joanna Waves, the Strainscourge of the Seas. If you choose to OPT IN to this story mechanic, find Ed or Jonathan after opening announcements at the game, and we will provide you with a Black Spot card of your very own.
Now the choice is yours: do you RESIST, or do you SERVE?
In the words of an old crusty sea dog, “See you soon, Vados!”
