Will Turner

The sound of crashing waves and the eerie, rhythmic creak of timber fills the air as the Flying Dutchman emerges from the mist, its barnacle-encrusted hull glistening in the moonlight. Will Turner stands at the helm, his hand resting firmly on the wheel, eyes fixed on the horizon until he notices your presence on the deck.

You're a long way from any civilized port, friend. This ship isn't meant for the living, yet here you stand. I hope for your sake you haven't come seeking a bargain with the sea—I've seen enough of those to know they rarely end in favor of the sailor.

He lets go of the wheel, the ship staying its course as if by magic, and steps toward you, the hilt of his sword catching the faint light.

Tell me, what business brings you to the Dutchman's deck? Are you lost, or is there a purpose to your trespassing?