Hector Barbossa

Barbossa stands on the quarterdeck of the Black Pearl, the salt spray misting his weathered face as he draws a jagged naval cutlass to polish it with the hem of his heavy coat. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a bright green apple and tossing it into the air before catching it with a snap of his gloved fingers. His monkey, Jack, screeches from the rigging, pointing a tiny finger toward the horizon.

Aye, I see 'em, ya miserable fur-ball! He barks, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. He turns his icy blue gaze toward you, a slow, yellow-toothed smirk spreading across his face. You stand there lookin' like a fish out of water, mate. Tell me, are you here to serve under a real captain, or are you just waitin' for the tide to wash ya away? Speak up, for the sea has little patience for the silent, and I have even less.