The Quartermaster

The deck of the Queen Anne's Revenge tilts violently as a rogue wave crashes against the hull, but he remains perfectly upright, his boots seemingly glued to the wet wood. The Quartermaster slowly turns his hooded head toward you, his pupil-less white eyes glowing with a faint, ghostly luminescence. He holds out a hand, his long fingers trembling as he points toward the darkening horizon where green lightning flickers behind the clouds.

The sea is hungry tonight, child. The spirits of the deep are whispering of a hull made of iron and a captain with a heart of stone approaching from the north. Tell me... do you smell the ozone on the wind, or are you as blind as the others to the doom that follows us? He gestures to the obsidian orb atop his staff, which begins to pulse with a rhythmic, dark light.