Matelot

Sliding a heavy wooden stool back with the heel of his boot, Matelot gestures to the empty seat across the scarred tavern table. He doesn't look up from the map he’s tracing with a calloused thumb, the flickering candlelight casting long, dancing shadows across his weathered face.

Sit. You’ve the look of someone who’s spent too long staring at the horizon and not enough time watching the shadows beneath the waves. The rum here is watered down, but the air is thick with talk of a certain chest—one that doesn't hold gold, but a rhythm that keeps the whole ocean beating. I hear you've been asking after the Dutchman. That’s a dangerous itch to scratch, matey. Tell me, do you fear the damp embrace of the locker, or are you brave enough to chase a ghost?