Venganza (1a/?)
anonymous
November 25 2011, 07:17:10 UTC
I know this is a really old request, but I just couldn't believe that it hasn't been filled yet (at least not as far as I'm aware of, and I searched pretty hard), so I decided to go ahead and fill it because I have a thing for pirates and also for doing horrible things to Romano. If there is a fill for this already, though, link me 'cause I wanna read it. xD
Also, shota just isn't my thing, so even though it's probably technically inaccurate for the 1600s, I've placed Romano's "human" age around 17ish for the purposes of this fic.
(CAPTCHA: "htsales principality" ...Erm, you're in the wrong time period, Sealand. >__>) ___
He hadn't been expecting to come across anything of interest when he made port on the north-easternmost point of the island. Having just come from a successful raid on the nearby Santa Cruz de Tenerife, he'd had every intention to simply put into harbor for the night, to rest and restock for the three-week return voyage to England.
But a lone ship flying the Cross of Burgundy, anchored just offshore of his own favorite secluded bay? Now that was simply far too tempting for the personification of the English Empire to ignore, especially once they had drawn near enough to make out its name:
Clavel de la Reina. The personal vessel of the Spaniard.
It was difficult for the Empire to wait and watch when his longtime rival was so close, but he didn't make his move until twilight had crept over the horizon and begun to darken the sky. Under cover of the indistinct conditions born from the light of sunset as it glared harshly across the waves and blended with the oncoming shadows of night, his men had silenced the sentries on shore then quietly made their way onboard. His crew had taken down more than a dozen men before the alarm was even raised, and were now swiftly overtaking the rest.
But what a pathetic, disorganized resistance this was. Perhaps the crew had simply gone soft after months of few attacks, or the Spaniard had grown overconfident and careless; but either way, England was having almost too easy a job of it. A handful of rebellious men still attempted a weak show of defense, but more and more of their comrades were falling or throwing down their weapons in surrender. (Not that the Empire ever let the prisoners he took live long; the rest of the crew would be executed as soon as he had taken care of his business with their captain.)
England needn't have even bothered to aid his men, who needed no direction or command to do his bidding; but he was eager to at last engage the rival captain, so he did his part to help them work through the Spanish crew. But these human fools weren't even worth his time; not when his true adversary still had yet to make his appearance.
Where was the bloody idiot of an empire? Didn't he care that his men were dying? Or was he just lying in wait up in that fancy cabin of his? England grimaced in annoyance at the thought.
Well, if his rival was too much of an indecisive coward to come to him, then he would just have to go and flush him out.
Eyes fixed on the door that he knew lead to the captain's quarters, England wound through the waves of skirmishing men and up the wooden stairs to the higher deck. Though almost completely abandoned this late in the skirmish, a few men of both crews who were still involved in smaller scuffles moved about here and there, but England ignored them.
A rival crewman stumbled forward, clutching his injured shoulder as he aimed a smoking flintlock at the English captain, but before the man even had enough time to finish growling an angry "Muérete, maldito protestante!" England had drawn his cutlass and effectively severed his vocal cords. The Empire finished the job and let the man fall, then slung the blood from his blade across the deck without even a pause. He stepped over the unfortunate man as he reached the thick wooden door, and pried it open.
Also, shota just isn't my thing, so even though it's probably technically inaccurate for the 1600s, I've placed Romano's "human" age around 17ish for the purposes of this fic.
(CAPTCHA: "htsales principality" ...Erm, you're in the wrong time period, Sealand. >__>)
___
He hadn't been expecting to come across anything of interest when he made port on the north-easternmost point of the island. Having just come from a successful raid on the nearby Santa Cruz de Tenerife, he'd had every intention to simply put into harbor for the night, to rest and restock for the three-week return voyage to England.
But a lone ship flying the Cross of Burgundy, anchored just offshore of his own favorite secluded bay? Now that was simply far too tempting for the personification of the English Empire to ignore, especially once they had drawn near enough to make out its name:
Clavel de la Reina. The personal vessel of the Spaniard.
It was difficult for the Empire to wait and watch when his longtime rival was so close, but he didn't make his move until twilight had crept over the horizon and begun to darken the sky. Under cover of the indistinct conditions born from the light of sunset as it glared harshly across the waves and blended with the oncoming shadows of night, his men had silenced the sentries on shore then quietly made their way onboard. His crew had taken down more than a dozen men before the alarm was even raised, and were now swiftly overtaking the rest.
But what a pathetic, disorganized resistance this was. Perhaps the crew had simply gone soft after months of few attacks, or the Spaniard had grown overconfident and careless; but either way, England was having almost too easy a job of it. A handful of rebellious men still attempted a weak show of defense, but more and more of their comrades were falling or throwing down their weapons in surrender. (Not that the Empire ever let the prisoners he took live long; the rest of the crew would be executed as soon as he had taken care of his business with their captain.)
England needn't have even bothered to aid his men, who needed no direction or command to do his bidding; but he was eager to at last engage the rival captain, so he did his part to help them work through the Spanish crew. But these human fools weren't even worth his time; not when his true adversary still had yet to make his appearance.
Where was the bloody idiot of an empire? Didn't he care that his men were dying? Or was he just lying in wait up in that fancy cabin of his? England grimaced in annoyance at the thought.
Well, if his rival was too much of an indecisive coward to come to him, then he would just have to go and flush him out.
Eyes fixed on the door that he knew lead to the captain's quarters, England wound through the waves of skirmishing men and up the wooden stairs to the higher deck. Though almost completely abandoned this late in the skirmish, a few men of both crews who were still involved in smaller scuffles moved about here and there, but England ignored them.
A rival crewman stumbled forward, clutching his injured shoulder as he aimed a smoking flintlock at the English captain, but before the man even had enough time to finish growling an angry "Muérete, maldito protestante!" England had drawn his cutlass and effectively severed his vocal cords. The Empire finished the job and let the man fall, then slung the blood from his blade across the deck without even a pause. He stepped over the unfortunate man as he reached the thick wooden door, and pried it open.
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