As th’ clouds spread fer th’ sun t’ shine down upon th’ island, it reveals a gatherin’ o’ unscrupulous ruffians wearin’ cutlasses ‘n eokas on thar hips. Th’ lure o’ booty ‘n infamy drew them t’ these isles. ‘twould be a bloody match t’ gain a foothold upon th’ isles ‘n make a name fer themselves. Ye ‘ave woken on th’ sandy shores wit’ th’ sun beatin’ upon yer back. Yer throat be dry ‘n ye desperately wants some rum. Thar are three ruffians in front o’ ye, all equally menancin’. ’tis time fer ye t’ choose which crew t’ join. Join a crew ‘n make haste wit’ yer ships, loot all th’ land ye can as reckonin’ will fall upon th’ crew ‘n ships who do nah seek th’ booty ‘n infamy that lies ahead. Ye will be a privateer o’ one o’ th’ 3 crews vyin’ t’ be...