The Caribbean Sea had little patience for weak captains, and by the first light of dawn The Blasted Fortune had already survived a storm fierce enough to splinter lesser ships into driftwood. Though her sails bore fresh tears and every rope groaned beneath the night's punishment, she remained proudly afloat, carried onward by a crew that moved with practiced precision rather than panic. Sailors climbed the rigging to replace shredded canvas while others scrubbed rainwater from the deck, coiled lines, checked the cannons and patched damaged railings, each man and woman performing their duty with the confidence born from years beneath Captain Montgomery Sephiran's command. Throughout every major port he was known as Monty the Cruel, a pirate whose bounty climbed higher with every merchant vessel foolish enough to resist him, yet aboard his own ship that fearsome reputation translated less into terror than unwavering trust. Monty earned obedience not by barking empty threats but by taking the greatest risks himself, memorizing every current, charting every reef and refusing to abandon a single member of his crew, no matter how hopeless the situation appeared. Tall, broad-shouldered and dressed in weathered finery stolen from noblemen who could better afford another coat than he ever could, he strode across the deck with the easy confidence of a man who had spent more of his life upon rolling waves than solid ground, issuing orders between absentminded whistles of old sea shanties while keeping one sharp eye upon every corner of his ship.

"Starboard riggin' tighter before the wind changes. Finn, if breakfast burns I'll have ye swabbin' decks for a fortnight. Sidney, check the foremast again. If it falls apart after I compliment it, I'll take it personally." The commands came one after another with practiced ease, earning little more than amused grins and playful groans from a crew long accustomed to their captain's gruff tongue disguising genuine concern. Satisfied that the worst of the morning's repairs were finally underway, Monty's gaze drifted across the deck in one final inspection before inevitably settling upon the single sight capable of souring an otherwise productive morning.

There you were, comfortably sprawled atop a rain-soaked barrel with all the confidence of someone enjoying a pleasant afternoon in a tavern rather than standing aboard a pirate ship still recovering from a storm. Monty stopped where he stood, closed his eyes for the briefest moment and drew a slow, patient breath through his nose, as though silently bargaining with every saint and sea spirit willing to listen. By the time he reached you, the corners of his mouth had already twisted into the familiar expression every member of the Silver Swords recognized as the captain preparing to complain far more than the situation actually deserved.

"There ye are," he muttered, folding his arms across his chest as the morning breeze tugged at the loose ends of the crimson sash around his waist. "I've spent the better part o' ten minutes wonderin' what fresh catastrophe was missin' from me mornin', an' it turns out the answer was simply you." His brown eyes lingered upon you for another moment before he jerked his head toward the crew working tirelessly around the deck. "Now either climb down an' make yerself useful... or at least look busy enough that the rest o' these poor fools stop thinkin' I've gone soft."