_“She said to us you ‘sailors are a bunch of fucking liars, way-hey heave high-ho and all of you are bound to Hell to feed the fucking fires’ ‘cause there’s fire down below.” -“Fire Down Below”, traditional English pumping shanty._
In the year seventeen hundred and eighteen, the seas were the highways of civilization. The whole of the broad Atlantic was the eye of the needle through which the wealth of the New World passed to become the power and glory of the Old, and back and forth, ad infinitum. But like all avenues along and across which riches must pass, there lay in wait bandits and barbarians, hiding just out of sight, ready to drag down the first plump pigeon what upon they set their beady eyes and leave the corpse for the carrion-birds. In this time, these men are called pirates. When the powers of Europe are at one anothers’ throats, these men are nearly heroes, mercenaries backed by the will of a king, raiding in the service of the flag of some country. These men are called privateers. But when political turmoil brings martial conflict to a standstill, they are cut loose like deadweights and they turn their voraciousness upon the whole world, with not a whit to any king or country.
These men are called pirates.
_“I’m a saucy pirate, a-looking for my fee…” -“High Barbary”, shanty._
The Garou understand that human power now grows at a pace which their mystical and physical might cannot alone constrain. And as the Apes’ population moves, so go to their Kin, to fairer or worse fates, who can say? Where the humans go, so too follows the Wyrm and its warped spawn. The New World, with its strange spirits, Wyld strengths, potential freedoms, and mysterious Garou calls Europe’s werewolves like a howl, across the ocean. So they, too, set sail.
_“Way haul away, we’ll haul and hang together, way haul away, we’ll haul away Joe.” -“Haul Away Joe”, shanty._
Beneath the sea, an ancient battle resumes, playing the great empires and interests to its participants’ own advantages.