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Hit a fairly major snag due to early mistakes in designing my code execution. Need to overhaul some of the work I've done and restructure the code now, before it gets totally out of hand.  Once the restructuring is completed and I have included all currently done code into the renewed structure, I should have most of the core gameplay in a "playable but unfinished" state. After that I need to do UI design, inventory management and finish up all the various encounters to balance them out and make them work based on proper in-game stats rather than the current placeholder coin flips that decide if you are eaten by a shark or not.

Well, that still presents a pretty nasty and unpleasant picture of gamers, as troglodytes who only want wanton violence, prostitutes, and wanton violence against prostitutes in their entertainment.

Sure, but even with that image 140 million units sold, at the very least. I'd call that pretty darn solid marketing, even if some subsets of the potential customerbase dislike it.
It's the same as all advertising: whatever ad you make, some people will like it, and others will not. What differentiates a good marketing campaign from a bad one is only the fact that the good one turns a profit while the bad one does not. It matters not how many people were offended, outraged, driven to complain or reduced to tears.

Ahh! The wonders of rampant capitalism!

On a side note:
Do people still buy games based on box art? And considering we live in a world of digital purchases: do most people ever even SEE the box art of games they are about to buy?

I've now seen it repeatedly stated in this game that a piece of boxart or a poster for a game made someone not want to buy a game, but that feels like forcing the issue to me. If we still lived in the 80's and early pre-internet 90's where purchase decisions had to be made based on the box art and posters and maybe a short review in a gaming magazine somewhere, this would be a more logical statement to make. Also a fun fact regarding boxart: the always happy Kirby games from Japan had their boxart altered for the American market to make Kirby always seem angry (https://i.imgur.com/X2PYISa.jpg), because westerners like angry things, apparently.

As for the GTA5 image, even without having Reiter's context, I know the series history well enough to easily see it's well in line with what the series is trying to do. It's a game series about bad people doing bad things and being unpleasant to everyone. It's a game series in which you are encouraged to beat up prostitutes, sell drugs from an ice cream van and "Kill X ethnic minorities in Y minutes". I'm pretty sure its advertisements aren't supposed to make people relate to the setting or characters all that closely.

[24th February 2021 - 23:59:59 UTC]

What a Thief Can See


Being a thief is stressful work. The constant danger, the risk of being caught, falling from a window, being bitten by dogs, and yet it's all worth it for that sweet, sweet loot!
However, sometimes a thief might get more than they bargained for. Rather than merely pocketing a shiny trinket or a secret document, their nightly intrusion might have them witness... something unexpected.
A secret occult ritual? A forbidden romance? A gruesome murder? An alien abduction? A talking dog in a fancy leather jacket?

Rules: Write a story in which a person, who might be called a thief, is in a place they are not supposed to be in, and they witness something they did not expect, that might have a profound impact on them or someone else.

Once submissions are in, anyone can read the entries and vote. Each voter will have one vote to cast in each of the following categories:

• Best technical writing quality
• Best overall story
• Best secret or event revealed
• Best individual character

Stories must be submitted by the following deadline: 24th February 2021 - 23:59:59 UTC

Wait, wait, wait - why wasn't THIS the core of the story?!?  The sorcerous wrecking operation has so much potential!

Because I wanted to have a pirate protagonist with a fancy hat! 
Besides, I've written stories of such native tribes before, so I really wanted to do something new, and since I'd never had a badass lady pirate as a protagonist before (and I recently got back into reading Wilbur Smith books)...

Arr and avast! A victory at last!

Sinitrena > You're on the right track with the natives. In the background, unknown to the protagonists and thus not explained, the natives are basically running a sorcerous wrecking operation. Their spells bring storms and the storms bring ships and the ships bring loot and treasure and more. They are described as one entity, because that is how they make themselves out to be: with their unified song and chant, their swarm like method of attack and even their body paint, all designed to turn themselves into a terrifying force their victims should fear and struggle to comprehend.

I shall set up a new theme tomorrow!

When it comes to number of gamers, I think the main Finnish gaming magazine "Pelit" had an article about that a while back. Off the top of my head I think the statistics were basically: There are more female gamers than male gamers in general.

However, this was only true when one looked at all genres combined, and when it came to specific genres the numbers varied wildly. Women dominated player counts in puzzle games and mobile games and other non-or-less-violent genres, whereas males dominated the numbers in wargames and sports games. Certain shooters, such as Overwatch, have increased female participation in that genre, and there is definitely room for such expansion in most other genres as well. It just takes a game that suits the tastes of those female gamers to come out, since it's quite clear that females tend to like different things in games than male players, thematically speaking. And as we kind of saw before, a lot of publishers are still stuck in the mindset that they need to cater to teenage male gamers, which is why a lot of genres remain stuck with that demographic.

There was no breakdown for each specific genre, but based on that broad generalization I'd imagine stuff like point'n'click adventure games would have a somewhat higher female player percentage than male, as they tend toward the thinky and character/story driven.

I think it's safe to say that pretty much all areas of the entertainment industry, including videogames, have done a pretty poor job at sensible outfits and appearances.
Then again, the name of the game is "entertainment", so it comes down to target audience and what entertains them. For a long time most mainstream videogames are aimed at the teenage market, where titillating ass and titty shots are a pretty surefire way to draw some attention, free publicity and easily distracted audiences.

As the saying goes: He is not a fool who offers to sell, the fool is the one who buys.
(Original finnish saying: "Ei se tyhmä ole joka myy, vaan se joka ostaa.")

But yeah, just like the clumsy gender representation and minority representation in popular media, representing the human body and its sexual aspects have always been something very few business enterprises do a good job of. One just has to keep in mind: they're not in the business of education, information or enlightening. They're in the business of making money by entertaining. And as even the most modern games have proven (see again a recent prime example in Cyberpunk 2077): sex sells.

Seems like a pretty apt (and cringey) example on how to alienate female players form the narrator. 

I can see the cringe factor, sure, (I know from experience that, when waking up in a hospital, the sexiness of nurses is the last thing on your mind) but not really how this would alienate women any more than men. I hear the women I know regularly refer to other women as "lovely" or other variations of "hot", whether they be straight, bi or gay, so this off-hand remark of someone looking pretty doesn't seem all that gendered to me.

Code: ags

function GenerateTreasure(int depthlevel, int TargetSpaceID) {
  int TreasureType;
  int RandoCalrissian = Random(99) + 1;
  int RandyPrickford;

In order to feed that greed, one must have treasure! Meet my treasure generation variables: RandoCalrissian and RandyPrickford.
This game is shaping up to be an aquatically themed slot machine, where each push of a button might get you more treasure, or it might kill you. It's up to the player to decide if they want to take that extra risk that might make them rich or cause them to lose it all.

...why do I have a sudden urge to play Settlers III again?

..his plot has more holes than that beached imperial galleon.  Where did those storms come from?  If it was some native magic (which was kind of implied, since their suddenness seems to have confused all the sailing experts in the story), then why did they rush out beforehand?  Why not just let the storm do the work for them?  But if the storms were just some freak natural occurrence of lightning striking twice, it is still baffling that the native warriors would have divided their troops for two simultaneous attacks.  Their assault on the Grinning Ghost was so nearly successful - I bet those hundreds of warriors from the beach would have been really handy at the height of battle!  So either these particular natives are too primitive to understand basic strategy (unlikely given their analysis of the weaknesses of sailing ships, not to mention the sophistication of the civilization required to support such teeming numbers), or they are just a trope of a mindless swarm (which again doesn't really fit with the knowledge they do display).  And then there's the issue of the battle hardened pirate crew who dared to take on a cannon-armed imperial galleon not knowing how to react to a fleet of smaller craft with weapons of almost pitiful range.  Um.... broadside, anybody?!?

Native magic is correct. However, while the natives may have captures other ships in the past, the skilled sailors of the Grinning Ghost saved their ship from the initial storm, and were thus more capable than usual to defend themselves. The dual attack was hubris on part of the natives, so sure of their success and the power of their sorcerers, as in the past their swarming appearance and chants and war songs had left beleaguered foreigners quaking in their boots, unable to put up a fight. Isabella and her crew rallying to actually fight their way out was wholly unexpected and unprecedented for the native tribe.

As for not knowing how to deal with a swarm of smaller ships, the Ghosts guns were prepared to fire on the beached galleon, and the small, fast boats approached from directly ahead. Perhaps I failed to communicate the suddenness of the native attack properly, but the surprise nature of the attack, the confusing events on the beach drawing sailors attention, along with the unexpected and unnatural winds, would have made it nigh impossible to turn the Ghost and fire her guns at the small vessels, especially as they were already getting too close to engage with cannons. There would simply have been not enough room to angle the guns far enough down to get hits on the attackers.

Once again, it's a case where it all makes perfect sense in my head, but I fail to convey all the key details so that it makes sense in someone else's head as well.

My votes go as follows:

Best Character: Captain Firebeard by Baron
Best Plot: Mandle
Best Atmosphere: Mandle
Best Writing Style: Baron

And now, my two cents on each entry.

A dreadful night to be ashore by Creamy
The short fragmented sentences feel like they communicate a certain urgency and despair, but when combined with the first person it also made the tale somewhat frustrating to read in my opinion. The repeated sentences seem to establish a sort of theme and style, but then the story itself breaks that sequence of repeated statements. I came very close to giving a point for atmosphere, though, but Mandle just inched past in that area. I hope to see more in the future, though!

The Hull Is Broke, Ye All Despair. by Mandle
I loved this for the effort of making it rhyme, and my mind immediately went into sea-shanty mode.
I hate the fact that no matter my spending a literal hour trying to hum a tune while mouthing the words, I failed to find a tune to which I could sing this. 

No Keelhaul for Old Men by Baron
A fine character and a fine theme, and easily worth a couple points from me, for despite its brevity, the tale manages to have a nice little narrative flow to it. Nearly had to give this one a third point on atmosphere as well, but the sea-shanty feel of Mandle's won over the decrepit pirates woes.


The Darkest Storm by WHAM
Absolute trash.

Day 4. I now have a working prototype, but must take 2 days off the project as I will be traveling to see some friends. Work will resume on Sunday, with the implementation of treasure, gemstones and rare artefacts! And after that: DEATH!

[drown]

Wow, Wham...this sounds really deep. I'm holding my breath. 

I'll do my best not to drown in work with this one.

I told myself I'd make a proper adventure game again, and not mess around with non-adventure games since those keep getting out of hand, but...



One More Fathom is currently in the early stages of prototyping and I'm trying to keep the scope of the design document in check.

Hat. Ring. Consider it thrown!

The funniest thing here is that, as far as I am aware, the actual Five Nights at Freddies movie is still in planning and production!
These guys just got there first.

[The Darkest Storm]

The Darkest Storm

The weather worn brass skull grinned, as if taking delight in the distress it was witnessing in the distance.It gazed upon the almost perfectly white sands and lush green jungle of the nameless island not too far in the distance. Upon that sand one could spy, through a magnifying looking glass, how men hurriedly rushed from side to side, their bright blue coats and silvery sabers forming a flurry of colour and motion, as sand barriers were erected, stones and felled jungle trees dragged, and dismounted cannons laboriously hauled onto whatever elevated position the men could find.

Isabella placed her hand upon the dome of that brass skull, which adorned the tip of the fore topmast with its wicked grin and hollow eyes, as she steadied herself high up above the sails and the black flag, and the bustling deck of the pirate ship beneath her. The Grinning Ghost, her ship, had taken a fair beating of her own in the freak storm that had interrupted the chase and battle during the previous day, but despite the brief frustration of having lost her quarry in the stormswept night, she had managed to track down her prey once more. Whether her crew had sailed her there on purpose, or if she’d been sent crashing to her doom by the storms wind and waves, a shallow bay had become a trap for the imperial galleon along with her soldiers and sailors, her bottom hopelessly stuck on the rocks and sand and her hull cast at an unnatural angle, as if teetering on the edge of rolling onto its side like an all-too-playful dog.

Isabella smiled as she watched her helpless prey make a pretence of hardening their defences on the flat beach. The untold wealth still hidden beneath the tilted decks of the Garra de Acero would make for a fine prize, and her captain would make for an even finer trophy when Isabella would haul him, bound and gagged, to be ransomed back to the empire. A small rowboat had turned away from the beach after sitting atop the lazy waves for a long moment. Isabella had heard faint voices and shouts carried across the water, but had not been able to make out the exact words of the inevitable argument. She tucked the spyglass into her broad leather belt and gave the brass skull a pat on the head for good luck, before taking to the rope ladder and heading down to the deck once more.

As her boots hit the polished deck of the Grinning Ghost, Isabella straightened her back and raised her gaze to the approaching boat, for a moment abandoning her almost playful manner of movement and adopting a firmer appearance more suited for a captain. Her hand rose to adjust the angle of her glorious tricorn hat, formed of stiff crimson cloth and decorated with three colourful feathers of exotic birds, its edges detailed with glimmering gold thread. The glint of her emerald edes, set upon a narrow and unlined face, the rich tan of which was further accentuated by the shadows cast by the ships great sails, was enough to let any sailor working the deck know full well what was on her mind in that moment: untold fame and glory.

“Ahoy!” -came a call, the boisterous and booming voice of a man, echoing across the slowly rolling waves, startling off a few of the seabirds which had perched themselves upon the railings of the pirate ship. Isabella smiled and held up her hand in greeting. She called back, stepping up to the railing as sailors rushed to her side with hooks and rope ladders to welcome the returning negotiation party back. “Ahoy Strong Thomas! I trust the imperials sent you back with warmest of words!” -she called out over the bustle, as the boat and the sailors were lifted up to the deck.

The large man stood in the rowboat as it rose, its wooden frame seemingly tiny beneath his muscular, shirtless frame. He was paler than most, his head and chest shaven, both covered with tattoos depicting betentacled horrors of oceanic lore. He laughed at the question. It was a unique laugh, one filled with both lively mirth and an underlying threat, like distant cannonfire given a human voice. “Warmer than warm!” -he called out in return as he stepped up onto the railing and crossed, his boots slamming into the deck beneath his fearsome bulk. “Fiery might better describe them. ‘No surrender and no deal’, he says. The prideful bastard will die with every last one of his men, rather than give up the Empress’ prize! Whatever they carry, it must be good. Better than we’d hoped, I’m sure!”

Isabella had expected no less from the Imperial captain. The negotiation party had been less a matter of honour and righteousness, and more a matter of observation and espionage. As the large man swept salty spray and sweat off his brow, the three sailors accompanying him boarded as well and rejoined the crew. Isabella stepped back to await the rest of his report. His grin was almost as bright as hers, a shared excitement, like arcs of electricity in the air between them. The two great pirates clearly shared the same sensation of impending accomplishment. “Three cannons they’ve dragged to the beach so far. The others are scattered, some stuck in the sand, some stuck inside the ship.” Thomas has a good eye for detail, and was trusted to spot any traps or tricks. “The tilt of her hull is too great...” The large man turned and gestured with his hand to the beleaguered galleon. “...her guns can either shoot for the sun, or at the crabs in the shallows, nothing more. I think they will try to prop up their three guns with logs, to gain some range, but the ground is too unstable for more than a single shot. The soldiers and sailors are desperate, and know they cannot hope to hold out for long if we begin our attack.” Isabella nodded, her eyes sweeping the vast beach in the distance. Strong Thomas had confirmed her belief that the battle was as good as won. She could order the cannons to fire at any time, finish off the galleons' defences and annihilate the stubborn defenders on the beach. Atop its tilted mast, the Garra de Acero still flew the red and blue flag of the empire. Defiant to the end.

“You gave them our demand?” -she quizzed, sounding as relaxed as a sailor on the second day of shore leave. “Aye.” Strong Thomas replied with a nod of his own. “Three hours from midday, and not a minute longer. If the white flag does not fly by then, they will have sealed their fate.”

Isabella felt like laughing, but she held her mirth and instead gazed up at the sky. Only a few tendrils of wispy white clouds crept along the vast blue, where the sun was steadily climbing towards the apex of its travel. A far cry from the fearsome storm of the previous evening. “Come, you four!” -she called out, skipping on her feet so that her boots thumped on the boards of the deck. “Your throats must be dry from the rowing and the negotiating. A drink to each, but only one for now! There is work left to be done this day, before we truly celebrate!”

-

On the beach the imperial men dragged another cannon out of the water and onto the sand. Water spilled from its barrel, along with a single confused crab, and it would take time and effort to clear out the mess inside. A sergeant cursed and spat on the white sand, while the sailors sank to their knees, exhausted from their effort, their muscles burning and their hands raw from handling the coarse rope.

A blind man could see the, through the skin of their forehead, the nature of their plight. Their ship was helpless, their armaments practically non-existent, and the terrain trapped them in an open killing field of flat sand, with the sea to their fore and the dense, unknowable jungle at their back. The officers had to shout and curse to order their men into the trees to hack down trunks to be turned into hasty barricades and gun platforms, for the sailors complained of feeling ill at ease near the trees. There was an eerie quiet there, and the sensation of being watched.

The young boy working as the carpenters assistant had said he’d heard whispered voices in the shadows, but his report was laughed off in nervous tones. And yet, a minute later, each and every soldier within earshot had touched the grips on their blades and pistols for comfort and assurance.

-

Isabella stepped out onto the deck once more, tilting her head to relieve strain on her neck before gazing up at the sky once more. The clouds had multiplied, darker and denser now, and she worried another freak storm might be about to manifest. It would be a disgrace for the Grinning Ghost to end up trapped on the beach along her prey, so she had ordered lookouts to keep an eye not only on the imperials on the beach, but also the weather on the horizon. She had time, and could afford to peel off and find shelter, rather than let her precious ship be smashed into the nameless island. There was but an hour to the deadline, and she could see the movement on the beach had not ceased, as the poor wretches set up their desperate defence.

A gunshot rang out from the direction of the island, echoing in the bay. The pirates froze in place, their work halted, as each man and woman turned their head to see and to hear. Isabella frowned, wondering if the men on the beach had turned so desperate they were firing their rifles in the hopes of reaching her ship, or perhaps there was mutiny among the imperials? That would make her work much easier. She stepped up to the railing once more and took out her looking glass just as a great flock of birds took flight from somewhere in the jungle, forming a living shadow in the sky, which dispersed with the swelling wind.

Things on the beach looked different now. The barricades erected were manned by stern men in sharp uniforms, rifles and sabers at the ready, but all Isabella could see of them was their backs. There seemed to be confusion, orders being barked, groups being rushed off to somewhere unseen.

“A ship!” -came a call from one of the lookouts, the second wholly unexpected turn of events. “A bloody what!?” -Isabella called out instinctively, her eyes scanning for the lookout who’d called out the warning. The odds of another ship being here were astronomical, but if the imperials had somehow called for help, she might well find her crew in deep trouble. She rushed to the bow of the ship, to the side of the lookout who had raised the alarm. The young man gave her a baffled look, then gestured at a spot in the distance. Isabella could see it too, even without the looking glass: not really a ship, but some kind of boat built of hollowed out tree trunks, carved branches and propelled forward by a dozen bowed figures working flat oars in perfect unison. As the sound of more gunshots echoed from the beach, that one native boat of unknown origin was joined by another, emerging from beyond the line of trees that reached the shore at the edge of the bay. “Locals?” -Isabella murmured, and her lookout shrugged. They hadn’t seen a single sign of life on the island until now. Two boats became four, and four became twelve, and as each new boat emerged, their black-skinned crews adorned with bright white stripes of warpaint began to chant and sing as they rowed toward the pirate ship, great black clouds forming in the sky behind them as the wind unpredictably picked up, as if summoned by their song.

On the beach a cannon fired, a crack and a fiery roar splitting the world as a great ball of metal was hurled into the jungle where it shattered trees and more. There were screams and shouts in the distance, and more chanting and singing. Isabella glanced at the beach and could see swarms of the natives emerging onto the beach, hundreds and hundreds again, catching the imperials by surprise.

“Sound the alarm!” -Isabella cried out, snapping out of the unreal sensation that had momentarily chilled her insides, to rile up her crew and drive them to action. “Raise the anchor and sail, you bastards! Sail! Now!”

Men dashed into action, working the ropes and the sails, the quartermaster handing out rifles from below the deck, while the pirates rushed up and down the decks, each with a place to be and a task to perform. Grunts and shouts rang out as men worked the chains and began to raise the anchor, allowing the ship to move free once more. Isabella found herself nearly slipping off her feet as the deck beneath her lurched unpredictably, a foul wind swirling above and catching the ill-prepared sails so that they snapped and whipped wildly, like biting snakes in a frenzy. A sailor was knocked off above, and he fell with a scream followed by a splash as he hit water.

“Man overboard!” The voice was familiar, and Isabella knew without looking that Strong Thomas was rushing to the aid of the poor soul.

The black clouds had reached the sun, and a vast shadow crept across the deck of the Grinning Ghost. The shouts and gunshots from the beach had become erratic now, as the imperial line shattered and the men waded into the water to escape their unexpected doom. Isabella caught the railing with her hands and craned her neck to see the approaching war boats. She could see black faces and white teeth and wicked grins, and the singing was fast becoming an overwhelming wall of noise. She couldn’t make out words. A few of her sailors had managed to bring up their rifles to the bow and were firing wildly at the approaching boats. Arrows were flinged back at them by native bowmen with terrifying accuracy, as the inhabitants of the nameless island eagerly proved themselves a worthy opponent indeed. Bitterly, Isabella wondered what name the natives called their home, and what name they might call her and her crew if caught here.

The Grinning Ghost lurched like a drunken sailor stumbling from a tavern, and only barely began to move as the wind whipped her back and forth. “They’ll be on us! Blades! Blades in hand!” -boomed the familiar voice of Strong Thomas, the jolly tone replaced by urgency now that chaos had befallen the crew. “Do as the man says! Cast them back!” -Isabella cried out, drawing her cutlass so that its polished steel gleamed in the fading light of what had been a bright day but a moment ago. “They will not take the ship! The Grinning Ghost is ours today, and for all days!” Her voice seemed louder than that of even Thomas as she called for courage, but the swelling chant in the unknown language of the natives threatened to drown even her out. Those of her crew that could her her, cheered.

Intricately woven ropes and hooks of bone and wood began to fly up and catch on the railings faster than the sailors could wield their axes to chop at them. Pistol shot and swinging blade held off the assault for a mere moment, until an explosion and a shockwave rattled the defenders. The wounded imperial ship, stranded in the shallow water, had gone up in a pillar of fire and smoke. Its powder stores must have caught light somehow, and the shockwave sweeping across the waves knocked down men on the beaches like they were but twigs in a whirlwind. The Grinning Ghost swayed ever more dangerously, and many sailors lost their footing and fell. The natives seemed unhindered, as if steadied by some spell or enchantment. They began to climb over the railings, clutching spiked clubs and spears and knives of bluish metal, their bodies clad in reeds and grass and leaves, as well as the hides of jungle animals. The white stripes of paint around their chest and arms may have been marks of rank or age, or perhaps the very source of their immense strenght. They chanted and sung as they fought, all in one voice.

Isabella found herself faced with two of the attackers, rushing at her with malice in their squinting eyes. A shot from her pistol caught the first, while a diagonal cut of her cutlass broke the spear of the other, and left a deep cut in his chest and arm. He no longer chanted or sang as he went, face first, over the railing and into the roiling water where the native war boats jostled for space, their crews eager to join the fight.

“Move this ship!” -she called out as the first drops of rain began to fall on the shadow swept deck, joining the freshly spilled blood in making the surface even more treacherous. She could see one of her sailors being dragged off the deck by three native warriors, kicking and flailing before disappearing over the railing along with his attackers. A loud splash and curses, the anchor had been released. Clearly the natives knew a thing or two of these ships, enough to know how to halt their escape. A terrible thought, a vision of a trap, crept into Isabella’s mind.

Tall John, towering over others as he often did, had resorted to wielding his rifle like a club, whacking at the heads of ill-prepared native warriors from above, while redheaded Cat spat and hissed like her namesake, striking left and right with her two daggers, moving like a living whirlwind amid the battle. Strong Thomas was hoisting men up off the deck, wounded or well, with the latter getting tossed upward to grasp the rope ladders and lines, to seek higher ground and new opportunities for violence. “Secure the anchor, damn you! And get those sails cleared!” -Isabella ordered, tucking her pistol away and drawing her second from within her coat. Strong Thomas shouted a reply, but his words were lost in the mayhem, then cut short as the wicked tip of a native spear found him.

Roaring in anger, Isabella rushed to the aid of his second-in-command as he sank to his knees, disappearing from her sight among the swell of bodies. An errant shot flew just past the captains head, tearing off one of the bright plumes that decorated her hat. Whether it was the shot-gone-wide of a frantic sailor or an attempt on her life by native who had managed to wrest a gun from a fallen foe, it was impossible to say. Unhurt, Isabella kicked at the back of a native warrior's knee, sending him falling forwards and striking the back of his head with the butt of her pistol. She could feel the sickening crack as her victim broke and fell to the deck to be trampled in the melee. Others turned to face the new threat, a wall of black bodies and white teeth, and soon her cutlass swung to shield herself from spear and club, hacking at limbs and bodies that seemed endless in number. But the wall of warriors was too much for her to penetrate alone.

Just as she paused to curse and evaluate her situation, a massive arm rose and swept down at an angle, sweeping three of the distracted warriors off their feet. The injured Thomas, crimson seeping through the fingers with which he pressed a wound in his side, rejoined the fight. “I am not out yet!” -he roared with near bestial rage before catching sight of Isabella. Strong Thomas blinked, cast a hurried look off to his side, somewhere beyond the melee, then called out: “Captain! The helm! The helm!”

Isabella knew what he meant in an instant. The ship was trying to move, wind finally agreeing with her sails. She felt it in the flow of air, even with the rain now beating down on them from above. But if the helm were lost, the ship may well end up beached as well! She cursed again, in words that would have made Strong Thomas blush, slashed at one of the native warriors trying to grab her from the side, then dashed off. “The helm! With me! We must
secure the helm!” -she called out, and her sailors responded with roared affirmations.

-

Water flooded the ears of the young man as he blinked raindrops from his eyes. Even without the water his vision blurred, and his ears rang. Waves cradled him as he floated, limbs splayed out, unsure of where he was for the moment. The memories began to roll in with the waves. An ambush, a fight, a retreat and a detonation of the Garra de Acero, as its interior was breached. The captain had been there to the end. The distorted images flashed in his head, of faces twisted and shouting, of white teeth glinting in black faces, of steel and silver and fire and smoke. He raised his head and the movement nearly caused him to roll. His hands sank into the water as he flailed, but found sand just inches beneath him, and soon he sat there in the surf. The wreck of the destroyed galleon still smouldered, with corpses laying in the water in pitiable condition. The young man, a mere assistant to the ship's carpenter, on just his first oceanic voyage, could not say how he was still alive.

As unfamiliar voices called out and his arms were grabbed by strangers' hands, he could not help but find a twisted sense of satisfaction in seeing the swarm of dark figures swarming the decks of the pirate ship off in the distance. Their prize, at least, was denied to them. The empress’ silver was not theirs to soil with their filthy hands.

-

Isabella found herself back to back with the redheaded Cat, slashing and cutting and stabbing their way across the slick deck until they reached the wooden steps that led up to the helm. Here the sailors had made a desperate stand, as witnessed by the pile of dead natives at the foot of the stairs, but above on the landing the men were wounded and weary, their ammunition all but spent. “Cat! The anchor!” -Isabella shouted to her companion. “Secure the anchor and I’ll sail us away from this hell!” She couldn’t hear the redheads reply, but knew she would do as she was told. There were no unreliable sailors in Isabella’s crew, and she silently thanked her stars for such a steadfast collection of sailors, for a weaker willed bunch would have fled overboard long ago. She climbed the steps up to the helm only to find the handful of sailors around it fending off fresh attacks, as more of the native warriors climbed up their boarding ropes from the aft.

The sound of her third and final pistol cracked the air and stirred her men, the sound reminding them of duty and pride lost for a moment as their own firearms were turned into little more than clubs due to lack of ammunition. Together they charged the would-be boarders, bodily throwing a hulking man as tall as Tall John back overboard, where his fall crushed one of the smaller rowboats the natives had used in their coastal assault.

“For the Grinning Ghost! For glory!” -she cried out, striking with the butt of the pistol again, but this time having it dragged from her fingers. She kicked the warrior rather than wrestle the man for her gun, and let go. The heirloom firearm and its new owner fell back into the sea. “Good riddance!” -she shouted, before turning and rushing to take control of the helm. As she held the metal reinforced handles, she peered over the chaos on the deck to find Cat, to see if the anchor was under control and they could make their escape. Her gaze found the redhead rushing away from attackers, disappearing into a crowd, then re-emerging along with the sound of an explosion and rattling chain. “Down-bloody-anchor!” -the redheaded woman screamed, visibly exhilarated, her face twisted in a gleeful grin. She must have blown off the anchor housing, sending it beneath the waves with the chain and mechanism. Isabella could have kissed her, the absolute madwoman.

Her crew defended their captain, but even now she had to wrest the wheel with one hand while swinging her cutlass with the other. Ahead of the ship, the bow of the Grinning Ghost crushed the native boats, shattering their light and hollow hulls while the bronze figurehead of a mermaid with a grinning skull for a face silently laughed above them. The attack of the natives seemed to abate as the larger ship began to move, their moment of surprise slipping from their grasp. Many jumped ship so as not to be dragged off to sea, perhaps fearing that they might be captured by these strangers from an unknown land. Strong Thomas hoisted one of the native warriors up over his head, and tossed him head first and sreaming over the railing, before sinking to his knees and falling sideways onto the deck, the last of his strength spent.

“For the Ghost!” -he called out, winded and wincing, the shout turning into a pained groan as he rolled onto his back and stared up at the stormy sky. Tall John knelt beside the big man to put pressure on his wound. Cat stood at the railing, waving her dagger in the air and shouting indescribable insults at the retreating natives in the surreal moment that followed the end of an intense battle. Sailors stumbled and fell to exhaustion, gripping whatever they could for support, whether it be another sailor, a railing or a rope. The dead would take a day to count, and Isabella dared not think how many good sailors she’d lost.

And all for nothing.

Up above the suddenly silent deck, the grinning skull of brass gazed at the smouldering wreck in the bay, as it began to fade from sight with rain blurring its broken form. As she leaned against the helm, shaking to her very core as the stress and excitement drained from her body, Isabella wondered if the Ghost had known of the fate of their voyage all along.

I know what you mean, and it's perfectly possible both views have merit to them, especially since in a group as broad as "the gamers" you will still find countless individuals with different views and ways of handling things. Then again, whenever people refer to a group with a label like "gamers", "feminists", "conservatives" or "leftists", one should always keep in mind that it's best to add 'some subsect of' before whatever label is used. So when I might say "gamers are X", I am most certainly referring to "some subsect of gamers are X".

A good life lesson, as well as a valuable tool for online discourse and media literacy, I feel.