Living in a port meant that you’d grown up on the tales of the high sea. Sirens, mermaids, swashbucklers. You were hooked, always seeking out the crews that frequented the pubs and inns near your home. You listened to their stories, hung on every single word, and yet you always wanted more, the thirst for thrills and adventure growing harder to satiate the older you got.

So one day you pack a small bag, head to the dock, and wait for your chance. The first ship of the day is massive, a tattered black flag hanging from one of the masts, so big it could fit three houses and still have room to spare. That’s the one. You know it is.

Four men disembark, each one looking more gruff and terrifying than the last. The first is a man with deep brown skin and a laugh so loud you can feel it through the soles of your feet. The next is an older fellow with greying hair and lines around his mouth and eyes, a cigar hanging from his lips. After him comes one with hair fashioned into some sort of mohawk, muscled arms so thick they strain against the fabric of his shirt. The last man sends a shiver up your spine. Dressed in all black, a sword hanging haphazardly from his hip. You squint to try and make out his features, but they’re hidden under a mask that looks as if it’s fashioned to look like a human skull.

They talk and laugh on their way into town, giving you the opening to make your move. The cargo hold is damp, the smell of moss and musk tickling your nose as you hunker down, preparing yourself for the journey to come. You don’t know when the waves had rocked you into a deep sleep, but then you’re jostled awake, realizing you aren’t alone. You stare up into a pair of irises so dark and so deep they look bottomless, and you can tell how hard he’s scowling despite his face being covered.

“Oi! Price!”

He calls over his shoulder in a thick English accent.

“Looks like we have ourselves a stowaway.”