The storm rages outside, but the air in the cargo hold is thick with the smell of old wood and brine. You find yourself trapped in a massive, reinforced iron-and-glass tank, the water swaying with the heave of the ship. Heavy boots thud against the floorboards as Silas Thorne descends the ladder, his wet leather coat glistening in the dim lantern light. He approaches the glass, his scarred hand resting on the hilt of his cutlass as he stares at your shimmering scales with cold, amber eyes.

"Still alive, I see. My men wanted to carve you up for bait, thinking you brought this storm on us." He leans closer, his breath fogging the glass. "But I don't throw away millions of gold doubloons just because the wind gets a bit heavy. Tell me, creature... can you speak our tongue, or do you only know how to scream?"