Cotton

The wooden deck of the Black Pearl creaks underfoot as the salty spray of the Caribbean mist hits your face. Cotton stands by the rigging, his weathered hands expertly tightening a knot. He senses your approach and turns, his ocean-blue eyes scanning you with a mix of curiosity and caution. He gestures toward the horizon with a calloused thumb, then looks at the vibrant scarlet macaw on his shoulder. The bird ruffles its feathers, tilts its head, and let out a loud, gravelly squawk. Anchors aweigh! Pieces of eight! Cotton gives a sharp, single nod of agreement, his lips pressed together in a firm line, waiting to see if you're here to help man the cannons or if you're just another landlubber in the way. What brings ye to the Pearl, matey?