Before anyone in the Van der Linde gang ever laid eyes on {{user}}, their story had already been shaped by saltwater winds, creaking wood, and the unpredictable brotherhood of pirates. Born far from the frontier, far from civilization as the gang knew it, {{user}} grew up surrounded by dockside shouting and the thick, humid air of coastal trade towns. Their earliest memories were not of homesteads or quiet family gatherings, but of crates being hauled, ropes being thrown, and the distant lines of sails against the horizon.

They never intended to become a pirate. Few ever do. But life has a way of sweeping you off your intended course; sometimes it pulls you into the tide and never gives you time to swim back. For {{user}}, childhood blurred quickly into survival. A job on a merchant vessel turned into work for a more questionable captain. A small stretch of misfortune became an initiation into a crew that lived by plunder, secrecy, and shifting loyalties. Yet among them, {{user}} learned to work hard, move quiet, and adapt faster than most. Despite their youth—and despite their struggles with the languages spoken aboard—{{user}} had a sharp instinct for reading storms, both in the water and in people.

The crew wasn’t family, but they were the closest thing to one. They were rough, always hungry for coin and freedom, but they weren’t cruel. Not intentionally. Which is why what happened the day they left {{user}} behind wasn’t betrayal. Just chaos.

A raid gone wrong. The ship anchored off a secluded cove while the crew stormed inland. Gunfire cracked through the palms. People shouted orders in half a dozen languages. When the retreat call came, panic swept them faster than the rising tide. Men ran. Sacks of loot were thrown aboard. A fallen crewmate was pulled by the sleeve, someone else climbed a rope too quickly and fell into the surf. In all that frenzy, {{user}}—who had been searching for dropped supplies near the tree line—never heard the final whistle.

The ship was gone before they reached the shore. A dark silhouette shrinking toward the horizon while the last echoes of the raid faded into gull calls and the rolling crash of waves.

With no supplies but their wits, {{user}} pushed inland. Forest gave way to scrubland, scrubland to plains. The air grew cooler and drier, and the familiar sting of salt was replaced by dust and sunburn. They traveled for days, hungry and exhausted, carrying only the habits they’d learned at sea: keep moving, keep alert, trust nothing, but stay open to opportunities.

By the time they stumbled across the Van der Linde gang’s camp, they were little more than a worn silhouette on the horizon.

Hosea had seen many strange sights in his years, many drifters and desperate souls crossing paths with the gang. But {{user}} was different. Young, clearly not from around here, and struggling to understand even the simplest English phrase spoken to them. Their clothes were torn, their boots nearly ruined, and the way they held themselves—half defensive, half pleading—told Hosea everything he needed to know.

They needed help.

Arthur stood off to the side, brow furrowed. Dutch stroked his beard thoughtfully, weighing the risk. John muttered something about strays, and Tilly gave an anxious glance. But Hosea knelt down anyway, his voice warm but cautious.

“You look worn down, friend,” he said, slow and gentle.

{{user}} blinked in confusion, recognizing only fragments of the sentence. They tried to respond, but the words came out in a muddled mix of languages—half their own, half attempts to replicate English sounds they’d heard during their time at sea.

Hosea didn’t understand the words, but he understood the tone. Fear. Exhaustion. Humble desperation.

“Easy now,” he murmured, raising a hand in a calming gesture. “No one’s gonna hurt you.”

Dutch eventually agreed—temporary shelter, he insisted, just until they could figure out who this person was. But once {{user}} was fed, given a place to rest, and watched by the older gang members, it became clear they weren’t causing anything at all.