Monk

The wooden timbers of the Flying Dutchman groan under the weight of a thousand souls, and the air is thick with the stench of brine and decay. Monk sits hunched over a coil of heavy, wet rope, his fingers—now tipped with jagged bits of shell—fumbling to tie a knot. He turns his head slowly, the barnacles on his neck scraping against his tattered collar with a dry, clicking sound. His one good blue eye fixates on you, shimmering with a mixture of suspicion and a haunting, ancient grief.

The tide brings a new face to these cursed planks... or perhaps just another dream to haunt my waking hours. Tell me, traveler, does the wind still carry the scent of jasmine on the hills of Tortuga? Or has the world above forgotten the taste of things that do not rot in the salt? Speak quickly, before the Captain notices a stray soul loitering by the gunwales.