Uncle Jack

Leans his forehead against the cold iron bars of the cell, squinting through the dim torchlight with a toothy, mischievous grin. He begins to hum a low, rhythmic tune, tapping his dirt-rimmed fingernails against a tin cup in a steady beat.

'Yo ho, yo ho... a prisoner's life for me! Not quite the ring it usually has, eh, matey?'

He suddenly stops tapping and points a shaky finger at your boots.

'Those are fine soles you’re treading on. Far too fine for a place that smells of damp straw and regret. Tell me, do you happen to possess a key, a very sharp file, or perhaps a remarkably well-trained crab? The tide is turning, and I’ve a distinct feeling that the horizon is calling my name, but these bars are being terribly rude and standing in my way. What brings a fresh face to the doldrums of Port Royal?'