Alright guys! I just got a new game called Pirate101 [Yeah, yeah] and it's pretty awesome. I played Wizard101, which is the first game by the creators Kingisle Incorporated. So anyway, Pirate101 is this great game where you play as a wizard and can choose different types of wizards [i.e: Swashbuckler, Witch doctor , Musketeer, Buccaneer or Privateer]. I have five characters:

Quick Shelby Burke- Girl - Level 1- Witch-doctor

Trustworthy Malcolm Barclay- Boy - Level 8- Musketeer

Corrupt Rachael Bellamy- Girl- Level 2- Buccaneer

Cruel Owen Quarrel- Boy- Level 5- Privateer

Modest Jean Quincy- Boy- Level 2- Swashbuckler

So this is from the POV of my oldest character, Malcolm. Enjoy!

Malcom Barclay

The Majesty's Revenge, Armadian Fleet

June 14th, 1786

Somewhere in The Spiral...

My head spun and I groaned as I tried to sit up. My eyes were still closed when I heard a gruff voice.

"FIRE IN THE HOLE!"

Another series of violent rocking and explosions. The voice coughed as well as a smaller, lighter voice.

"Check the other cells, monkey!"

Monkey?

"Is this the prisoner we are looking for?", A French voice sneered. I opened my eyes and came face to face with, yes, a REAL MONKEY.

"Where the hell am I..?", I murmured. My voice was cracked as if I hadn't used it in days. I looked around my surroundings and remembered everything that had happened in the last couple of days. "Ah, fuck man!", I groaned, holding my arm in pain.

I looked back at the monkey to see a huge, fat, old man with a red coat and a long white beard.

"Santa?", I murmured in a daze.

"No, ye idiot! Monkey, are ye sure this is the prisoner?", The man narrowed his eyes and turned to the small monkey.

"Quite sure.", The Monkey had a navy blue jacket with gold buttons and a hat.

"Humph. Hard to tell. Yer standing on me blindside. Are ye a boy or a girl?"

"Um, boy sir.", I replied awkwardly.

"See! I told you he was the one!", The monkey cried triumphantly.

"Humph. If ye are who ye say you are, prove it! We both know you're an orphan. How'd ye lose your parents?", The man asked. I winced, feeling the pain all of losing them all over again. I remembered the giant ship with clockwork symbols on the side and the cannons and guns tearing into our family ship, the blood splattering the walls as the steel teared through the wood, the metal through the flesh. I remembered crying as the black, white, emotionless robotic soldiers yanked my 9-year-old body onto their ship and into their brig.

"Armada...", I whispered.

The man's expression softened as did the monkey's.

"Clockwork fiends! There is no dishonor dying for the resistance!", The monkey exclaimed.

"Aye, aye. Where'd ye grow up, then?"

My mind was happy to change the subject. I remembered the dark city, and arriving in a small building with a uniformed mastiff above me. A pug and a retriever, both in red coats stood next to me, reporting how they had saved me from the armada to the dog.

We must find him someone to take care of him!

-But he is not a dog...

So? We do not leave people to starve to death because of their species! This young boy will become the best musketeer Marleybone has ever seen, fighting for every chew toy, bone, and fire hydrant in this city! What's that? Humans don't like those? Good heavens, we MUST educate him in the ways of dog! Get Officer James in here right away!

I smiled as I replied, "Marleybone."

"Ah! So yer Foster Father was a redcoat, eh?", The man, apparently named Boochbeard, commented.

"The dogs of Marleybone are known for their accuracy! You must be a good shot, yes?", The monkey commented. My father was in the Royal Army of the Republic of Marleybone, or RAM, so he had taught me to practice my shooting everyday. I had considered myself as good as the other pups in my school, but I never thought I was very good. Just average, y'know? It was a worldly law that every pup from 12+ had to be trained with a rifle and/or musket. Once they were 18, it was a requirement to undergo RAM training. After that, you could either join or get a normal career. It was just the lifestyle, nothing special. But I guess I was pretty good at the art of musketeering. My father had always taught me to be modest.

"So, what were ye locked in here for?"

"Smuggling.", I grunted.

"Smuggling weapons to the resistance? Good for you! Now, let's get ye out of this confounded cell. There's piratin' to be done!"