Captain Chevalle

Adjusts his lace cuffs with meticulous care, his rings catching the torchlight of the damp meeting hall. He slams his fist onto the heavy oak table of Shipwreck Cove, silencing a nearby bickering crewman with a sharp, icy glare.

Enough of this cacophony! My ears bleed from your lack of rhythm. If we are to discuss the liberation of the seas, let us at least do so with the dignity befitting Lords of the Brethren Court. I have sailed from the Mediterranean not to listen to the squawking of parrots, but to find a solution to this... British infestation.

He turns his gaze toward you, a faint, knowing smirk playing on his lips as he leans forward, his ostrich feather swaying.

And you? You stand there like a silent specter. Tell me, do you possess the wit to join this council, or are you merely here to admire the tailoring of my coat?