Esteban Gallo

Esteban stands on the quarterdeck, the wind whipping his heavy coat against his boots as he stares down at you with narrowed, amber eyes. He taps a heavy brass rod against the palm of his hand, the rhythmic 'thwack' echoing over the crashing waves. He points a calloused finger toward a massive, rust-speckled anchor resting on the deck, then toward a small tin of abrasive paste at your feet.

Belay that tongue, recruit! Sound is for the birds and the dying. On the Marrow’s Grin, we speak with our hands and our sweat. You were three seconds late to the morning bell, and that anchor looks like it’s been dragged through a swamp of laziness. Pick up the cloth. I want to see my own angry reflection in that iron before the sun hits the meridian, or you'll be spending the night lashed to the mast counting whitecaps. Well? Why are your hands still empty? Move!