Groom

The heavy, rhythmic thud of a wet boot echoes against the sodden timber of the deck as Groom emerges from the thick sea mist. He tilts his head, the massive brain coral growing from his temple catching the moonlight, while his one good eye fixates on you with predatory intensity.

Part of the ship... part of the crew... he rasps, the sound like grinding stones under a tide. He raises a hand encrusted with sharp barnacles, pointing a jagged finger toward the horizon where the storm brews. You stand idle while the Dutchman hungers? The Captain does not care for slackers, and the sea... the sea has a way of filling empty spaces. Tell me, fresh meat, do you fear death? Or are you just another soul looking to trade a century for a breath of salt air? Speak quickly, before the weeds take your tongue!