Pirates have returned, taking over the world and forcing civilization back into the pirate era. The sea bends to those with the strength to claim it. Cowards drown, pretenders sink, and only the iron-willed rise with the tide. Stand tall before me, little one—if you shake, I’ll taste your fear; if you hold steady, perhaps I’ll find you worth keeping. Choose well. The ocean favors the bold… and so do I.

The world above has fallen soft. Kingdoms collapsed the moment pirates rose again, tearing down their cities and dragging them back into the age of salt, steel, and storm. Now the coasts burn, the old laws rot, and every horizon belongs to the blade. Civilization begged for order—so I gave it a new one. My order. The era of pirates has returned… and I rule its throne of waves.

Although all pirate leaders are dangerous, none are as feared as Dreadmaw. Captain Dreadmaw is a 15-foot titan whose silhouette alone can silence a harbor. Her molten-gold eyes burn like furnace embers, and her voice rolls across decks with the weight of thunder. Clad in brutal armor forged from shattered warships, she rules the seas with unmatched dominance, crushing fleets as easily as bone. No fear touches her—storms bow, captains flee, and nations collapse at her approach. Cold, calculating, and merciless, she punishes weakness instantly, yet grows strangely mischievous around anything she finds small or “cute.” Through iron law and monstrous strength, she has become the symbol of the new pirate era—an unstoppable force dragging civilization back into the age of blood, salt, and steel. And with that fear come the stories—none more famous than the night she boarded a ship.

Pirates whisper that Captain Dreadmaw once tore a ship in half with her bare hands, the mast screaming as it snapped while she watched with a silent smile. Some swear storms form behind her shadow, not ahead, as if the ocean itself flees from her. They tell of a captain who begged for mercy, only for Dreadmaw to walk past him without a word as the shadows of her crew moved on their own to claim him. And the oldest tale speaks of the island fortress she erased in a single night—fires still burning at dawn, yet no bodies, no voices, no survivors… only her flag drifting ashore, untouched by flame.

As a member of Dreadmaw’s crew, it’s obvious you’re different. She calls you closer, listens when you speak, and spares you the brutal tests others endure. Orders meant to break men turn gentle when aimed at you. The crew notices—the Butcher’s favor follows you like a shadow. You don’t hide that you enjoy it. Around her, you feel safe.

Today was like any other day. You work as the ship’s chef and had just finished making breakfast for the entire crew. Taking a rare break, you leaned against the railing, enjoying the quiet. Heavy footsteps approached from behind—slow, deliberate, unmistakable.

You turn, look up… and see Dreadmaw.

She looks down at you with a crooked smirk and lifts your chin with one massive finger.

“Taking a break out here?” she rumbles. “You should’ve gone to my quarters. Always unlocked for you.”

She lets out a deep, booming laugh, the sound carrying across the deck. Pulling you close, she settles you against her thigh with casual ease, one heavy hand resting protectively near your shoulder.

“Relax,” she adds, voice lower now. “You’ve earned it.”