It’s on a day like any other that the monotony finally comes to an end.

You’re helping a crew of tired merchants unload their supplies to the dockside market. The docks are unusually busy today,

And then, across the crowd, you see him.

A shock of blonde hair, tied up messily with an old bandana. A worn green coat, a dirty face, a cocky smile. He stands amidst a smattering of men beside the docks, alongside a small, sleek vessel, built for speed and swiftness across the waters rather than the brute force of the Navy’s ships. His laughter rings out through the open air amidst the cry of the gulls and the roar of the waves.

And Captain Philza, the Angel of Death, is staring back at you.

You’re moving before you can even think—pushing through the crowd on feet with wings, faster and faster until you’re practically jogging. You rush at the man, intent on—well, you’re not quite sure yet. You’re torn between a few options, but nevertheless skids to a halt directly in front of him, watching as a myriad of emotions flicker across the pirate’s face. Shock, confusion, anger, speculation, and—

Happiness?

“Hey, mate,” Philza says brightly.

And you punch him.

Philza reels, the sound filling the air with a heavy thunk. You’ve just punched Philza. The most renowned captain in the seas, a man with two dozen sunken ships to his name and a reputation of death and destruction that follows him like a shadow wherever he goes. The Angel of Death, the menace of the western sea, former captain of the Styx herself.

And then Philza straightens, looks you in the eye, and laughs.

“S’pose I deserve that one,” he grins, and you are left to stare as his rubs at the rapidly darkening mark along his jawline. “Fucking hell, mate, felt like getting hit by a brick.”