It was a sad day not long ago that I, Captain Prospero Visconti, was ousted as Duke of Milan by my brother Antonio. Antonio had at the time harvested a growing urge to commit fratricide and went about it in the most cowardly way. Behind my back he came to contact with the English who, seeking greater influence and economic ties with the principalities and dukedoms of that ancient peninsula I so miss, organized a plot by which I would be sent away aboard a ship, to die beyond the Pillars of Hercules in the very womb of the Atlantic.
I must admit that his success in plotting and execution was partly my fault. It would disgrace me to say, gentlemen, that I was an active and conscious ruler. In fact I paid more attention to my personal self, the palace, the women, and the treasury more than I did my surroundings, trusting that blind allegiance to the Duke was enough to keep men in their places and mere boys from fooling their brothers.
During the winter of that most unholy year, my brother Antonio kidnapped me with the help of two men, no doubt English rascals, and sent me off to the coast where I was forced to board a ship that would lead me to the Atlantic.
I will spare you the details of the unhappy journey, but know that it was a painful and wretched voyage which stole me of much of my health and vigor. Once we found ourselves in the middle of the accursed ocean the captain of the ship, a sordid barbarian by the name of Horatio Hawke, ordered me onto a dinghy and left me with nothing but a pistol. Needless to say I was not only disgusted by his behavior towards nobility, but by his petty sense of theatrics.
I floated aimlessly for two full days praying, shouting, trying to wake up from that nightmare when in the horizon I saw what at the time seemed the most beautiful sight on Earth. A ship flying French colors was sailing past in the distance. Shouting did not help, silly gesticulation helped even less if that's possible. Luckily I had the pistol given to me by that pig in costume. I fired. The shot rang across the water to my French friends who noticing this sad bobbing Duke sailed towards me and lifted me to the main deck.
This was the day I met my savior, Captain MacBane. I still remember the first words we exchanged. Though I was no longer Duke and I knew very well that this ship was French I said what seemed most appropriate at the time. "Who are you? Where are you going? What shores of what nations do you call home?" Friends, I realize now that this naive questioning may sound silly, but keep in mind that at the time the sun had been torturing me for two days, I was thirsty and going mad with thoughts of suicide. Captain MacBane, who at the time was organizing the creation of a confederacy against the English with the help of the French, was cordial and realizing that I was in a state of great distress had the ship's medic take care of me. It was on this ship that I first obtained the name "the moor" from the crew. The sun had baked me so that I did not look like myself at all.
It was when we finally reached the Riviera and I received the personal help of the Savoy Viscontis and his Majesty, my protector, King Louis XV, that I decided to fight for my Dukedom. Sirs, I am not a pussy-footed coward. You are gravely mistaken if you think so. I have learned the art of war and politics from the greatest philosophers Europe has produced. I have studied theology, jurisprudence, and natural sciences. I am more than capable of manning a ship, I am more than capable of fighting with steel, and I am more than capable of defeating my brother and his wretched associate Horatio Hawke.
I eventually discovered that Horatio Hawke is currently an officer in the St. George Squadron of the White, a band of thieves destroying the Spanish Main. At this point I wrote Captain Hamish MacBane in Martinique asking to join in his fight against the English. I was accepted as a recruit and have since raised a crew and boarded The Duke of The Seas, a personal gift from His Majesty along with a Letter of Marque and Reprisal.
Friends, I tell you today that this will not be the end of this story.Together we can disband St. George! We can force England's filthy meat-hooks away from our lands! And I can send that man Horatio Hawke from here to Kingdom Come!
- Captain Prospero "The Moor" Visconti, Rightful Duke of Milan, Privateer in His Majesty's Marine Royale