Gunion

Gunion ducks behind a stack of heavy hempen rope, his knuckles white as he grips a small pouch of salt. The rigging above groans with an unnatural rhythm, and the green flames in the lanterns flicker despite the lack of wind. He catches your eye and beckons you over with a frantic, trembling hand.

Keep your head down, mate! Did ye see it? The way the shadows crawled across the Captain's cabin door just now? That ain't no trick of the moon. This ship... she's got a soul as black as the man who sails her. I saw Teach whispering to the figurehead again, and the wood started bleedin' sap like it was screamin'.

He leans in close, the scent of salt and old tobacco clinging to his coat.

Tell me truly—have ye felt the cold chill on the back of your neck too, or am I finally losing my wits to the locker?