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Le Sorelle Pirati

A sturdy stonework hut somewhere in La Montanara, Hestralia:

“Why do we live here now papa?”, asked the child, scribbling absentmindedly in the dirt using a stick.
“So, I can work and so we can eat”, replied the man as he dumped a bowl of chopped meat and vegetables into an iron pot that hung from a chain above the hearth.
“There was no work on the island, papa?”
“Not for me, paisano.”, the man muttered as he tossed some dried herbs into the pot for flavor. “There’s nothing good in those islands for us now.”
“The islands have bad-guys, papa?”
The man pushed the pot to a different position over the fire so its contents would boil more gently. “Of course! You know about Le Sorelle Pirati, no?”
“No papa, tell me about The Pirate Sisters!”
“The Sisters Pirates.”
“Cosa?”
The man laughed. “The Sisters are the name of all the islands. The islands, they have pirates, si.”
“The pirates are not sisters?”
“They are all kinds, but yes they have a lot of girl pirates, girl captains, and a girl ammiraglia. I think they have a lot of girl pirates for the same reason you were confused by the name. It is an amusing coincidenza, no?”
“Co-in. Coinzi”, the boy struggled with the word while using the stick as a cutlass and dueling the empty wall while his father smiled.
“Can I be a pirate, papa?”, the boy asked innocently while the man checked on the pot. His smile half faded, and he lied in the easy way that only a parent can, “Of course you can, Sergio.”

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Organization: THE SISTERS PIRATES
Type: Outlaw
Ties: Many formal and informal throughout Hestralia (and likely beyond).
Tier: 4 (estimated)

History:
There are those (especially that live in the islands in question) that believe the recovery of humankind started from the aftermath of the Age of Witchkings in the islands called The Sisters. These are remote enough to not be easily reached by unskilled navigators, and small enough that they could be reclaimed one by one. This allowed the fledgling new civilization of human refugees from the ancient disaster to raid and conquer their way into the continent and establish the nations we know now. Interestingly, the same remoteness and beliefs about the history of The Sisters is assumed to be why they were the last to join the Unified Hestralia, and even to this day often ignore the rule of Aquila. It is also known that the reason the Sisters Pirates are often held in a degree of reverence is the belief that they are continuing the lifestyle of the original warriors and raiders that launched the recovery of humankind so long ago. (This savage time before the Age of Heroes is poorly understood, and nearly undocumented.)

The Sisters Pirates have been involved in almost every major conflict accessible by sea in the eastern part of the world. They have been known to appear and turn the tide of a battle, but also to betray a side they were hired to fight for. The motivations of these pirates would seem to be strictly profit motivated, but there is some evidence they work, in a roundabout way, to maintain the freedom of Le Sorelle.

The Sisters Pirates are organized loosely after the model of a naval fleet. There is an admiral that rules over the whole organization, four commodores with logistical and political duties but no fleets of their own, and a lot of captains that command everything from whole battlegroups to individual ships.

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Jordermund’s Fist

“Hear, mighty prince, of the scourge that assails us.
Borne on black wings, hatred incarnate,
Child of the storm and child of the wasteland,
The wake of its passage is sorrow unending.”

The people called out to the prince of the mountains.
Jordermund, iron-thewed, blood-hardened, answered.
In the mead-hall of Breitheske the war band was gathered,
Neath smoke-darkened oak, where the elder songs sounded.

Bjorgir, the eldest, veteran and wise one.
Gray-crowned, branded the Unyielding Mountain.
In Jordermund’s youth, long days and nights
Spent teaching the path of the heroes of Njordr.

Skaedve, the Rager, impassioned and eager.
Once mortal foe, now a blood-brother,
Their paths joined together after Helvarsa,
Where together they felled the Giant of Egwend.

One more was there, his face hidden in shadow,
His eyes hooded, his envy unspoken.
He drank with the prince and joined in the skald-song,
Showing no sign of the treachery coming.

Bjorgir the Learned spake of the dragon.
“Terror dwells in the eyes of the monster.
Horror to choke the life from the warrior,
Icy dread spreading, freezing the lifeblood.”

“Biting teeth like swords of obsidian,
Claws long as scythes, wider than axes.
Brothers, will we answer the call of the people,
Strike down the beast born of darkest Malefic?”

As one man they roared the challenge’s answer,
The brave men of Njordr, the heroes of legend.
Death holds no fear for the mighty of spirit,
For those raised on mead, on songs and on steel.

Together they sought the trail of the monster,
In the far frozen wastelands they came to its lair.
Before them, the fortress of ice and black granite.
Jotunkoenig, seat of the King of the Giants.

They entered its halls, where the King waited for them.
But clouded with anger was the giant-lord’s visage.
“Humans, you dare to walk among Jotunn?
Thou shalt pay the price for thy ignoble trespass.”

Wise was Bjorgir, with faith in his war-band.
He stepped forth and offered himself up as hostage.
“Take me as prisoner, to vouchsafe their passage.
If they insult thy people, let my own life be forfeit.”

By the Old Ways, the king was forced to accept them.
Jordermund’s band went into the castle,
As great as the spreading Vale of Helvarsa,
As tall as the mountains that tear through the storm-clouds.

To the highest of towers their quest took the heroes,
Abandoned by Jotunn, now nest to the dragon,
Filled with the bones of cattle and human,
Devoured and discarded by the rampaging horror.

On the rampart they faced it, yelling defiance.
The wind mixing howls of human and hell-beast.
Jordermund and Skaede facing the monster,
The other behind, harrying and driving.

It turned on the harrier with its baleful ice-stare,
His hand faltered, knees weakened, heart filled with terror.
Unmoving, he stared up at black doom descending.
Then the Prince and the Rager leapt onto the monster.

Angered and wounded, the beast took to wing.
Up to the sky the warriors ascended!
To the blackness where stars look down on the world,
Dark blood and rimefrost coating the heroes.

Skaedve took up his mask of the blood-rage,
Onto his face the cold iron settled.
Brutal was Skaedve, his axe flashing forth,
The Frozen Slayer deep in the skull of the dragon.

Lifeless, the monster fell to the ground,
Carrying the heroes back to creation.
At the edge of the rampart its body met cold stone,
The warriors riding the corpse as an avalanche.

Skaedve stood, proclaiming the victory.
His boast cut short, blood from his mouth;
A dagger protruding from the back of the hero
The Betrayer, cruel and jealous, had slain him.

Jordermund’s grief howled through the caste,
Even in far forests stags paused to listen.
Jordermund rose, anger overflowing.
He took up the rage-mask fallen from Skaedve.

Jordermund cursed the name of the Betrayer,
Never again shall the skalds sing his stories,
Only in shame will he be remembered,
The one who betrayed the trust of his comrades.

Jordermund’s Fist rose over and over,
Delivering justice, the maul was relentless.
Broken was the Betrayer, cast down in ruin,
His body unmarked and unmourned forever.

Jordermund’s blood flowed from his brow,
From his chest and his back, from the wounds he had suffered.
His mortal strength leaving him, his spirit still dauntless.
Even as he died, he rose to face Sveas.

At the gates of the Underworld the mighty do battle,
At the gates of the First Ice Jordermund fought Sveas.
At the gates he defeated her, his legend enduring.
Over warriors he watches, and lends us his strength.

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The Child Soldier

A Legend of the Falaisia, along the border of the Throne and Sha’ra

They say that when it arrives in your town, it is heralded by the sound of ghostly laughter. It seems childish, at first, taking small, worthless items, moving objects, upending pails of water. And perhaps that is all it really wishes to do, for it was once a child born of the forbidden union of a Capacian man and a Shariqyn woman. But like so many children born on that border, so many lives caught up in that ancient struggle, violence twisted it into something darker. Its laughter turns to the guttural moans and screams of the suffering of war. It begins to remember what became of it, in its short, tragic life. Its parents driven apart by their families, its father killed in senseless fighting between his brothers and those of his love, its mother driven into the streets in disgrace for bearing a child outside of marriage, only to starve to death. Its own life of fear and deprivation, ended when it was forced into battle all too young, a soldier long before it was truly old enough to understand the war.

Childish pranks soon no longer suffice, for it was never really allowed to be a child, but a soldier. It turns its pain and rage on those it encounters, those still living, whispering thoughts of violence against the self and others into the ears of those it encounters. As violence and fear spreads, its power grows, and it begins to appear in a physical form, its face veiled except for its dark, sunken eyes. A touch of its hand can bring even the strongest man to despair, the sound of its cries are enough to cause even the most hardened soldier to quake in fear, for fear and despair are the only things it ever knew. It will lash out with hands that have been formed into razor sharp claws, rending the flesh of those that come near, for it learned not love, but only war. And wherever it can find those who stoke conflict for their own gain, it curses them, turning them more and more fearful and insane, forcing them to suffer as the victims of their wars suffer. And only when your town is utterly destroyed, torn apart as its home once was does it disappear, moving on to spread its pain and madness to the next town or village it sets its sights on.