This is more of an analysis than a fanfiction. A couple characters are mentioned (though not by name), and if popular request demands so, I shall turn this into a fic about the backstories of said characters. I will leave it "incomplete" in case such a thing happens.
At the southernmost tip of the Caribbean, just south of Cutthroat Isle, there lay a barren and godforsaken island.
The smokestack from its ever-active volcano is like a beacon to sailors throughout the Caribbean. If you see smoke, you know you're facing south.
The Fathers of Fire, as some know the island, is a sad and sorry place. The smell of brimstone fills the air and clings to the clothes of the people that live in the half-destroyed villages. These villagers look thin and hollow, like they have nothing left to live for. The only resource the isle itself provides is the silver mines within the volcano, all of which have been seized by either the Royal Navy or the East India Trading Company. The Boiling Bay is too warm for many fish to live in. The island is too rocky and full of fire to grow any crops. Thus, the people are starving.
Legend has it that a terrible beast lives within the depths of Boiling Bay. Terrified locals refer to it as Fuego del Diablo, or Devil's Fire, and refuse to speak another word of it. Fishermen say the Fire Dragon was the product of a fight between two angry gods, and that its fiery breath has been known to sink ships around the time of twilight. Little is known about the creature, as few have seen it and lived to tell the tale.
Ever since the Battle of Padres, it seems, the island has lost its heart and soul. It lay wasting away, vulnerable to attack, as if strewn aside by a careless child. Jolly Roger has long since all but taken complete control of the isle, as no pirate can seem to be bothered helping to defend it. Between Jolly's undead armies and the Navy, this island is no longer any place for a pirate.
Across the island, you'll find all manner of interesting characters. A half-deaf, half-mad ex-member of the Black Pearl's crew. A homeless old man that for some reason chooses to set up his camp right next to a naval fort. An old gypsy woman that makes her home next to a boiling pit of lava. What are their stories? How did they find themselves living such a dead-end life in such a godforsaken place? Only they can say. But none of them will.
Now, there is a place on this island that is unlike any other in the Caribbean. If you row ashore to the main dock and head down that path to the south, you should come across a shipwright's shop. Turning starboard, you see a small geyser with smoke wafting up from the ground. Standing right on top of this geyser, the broken remains of a dock should be in view. Run down the face of the smokey hill, wade into the water, jump over the small trench through which you would otherwise have to swim, and head to the very end of this dock.
You stand here, on this broken dock, facing north as the sun goes down and the sky turns a vast array of colors. To your right, you see half a ship that long ago crashed into the rocks. To your left, you see the mountain underneath a massive naval fort. Behind you looms the fiery pillar that defines the island. And straight ahead is the vast, open sea.
Close your eyes. Take a deep breath, allowing the scents of the salty sea air and the scorched rock to fill you. Somewhere, you swear you hear the sound of distant drumming and tribal flutes. This place has a mysterious power that engulfs you, controls you, and renders you defenseless. Even though it seems dirty and lifeless and unpleasant, something about this place makes you want to drop to your knees and weep out of awe and inspiration.
This place is Padres del Fuego.