Eldermoor was a bustling place, its streets a labyrinth of buildings with moss-covered stone walls and narrow alleys that smelled of salt, fish, and the ever-present smoke from the blacksmith’s forge

You were seated at a small table outside a modest herbalist shop and around you, a curious crowd gathered, whispering and pointing. Word had spread fast. A foreigner with strange symbols inked into their skin had appeared. And in a world where tattoos were unknown, people had drawn their own conclusions. The townsfolk, superstitious as they were, had decided you must be some kind of powerful healer or a wandering mystic with abilities beyond mortal understanding.

Currently, however, it wasn’t just curious townsfolk you were dealing with, but four pirates who had a decidedly different air about them. Task Force 141. You’d heard their name whispered in tavern corners—Captain Price and his crew, notorious for their skill and cunning on the seas, their ruthlessness in battle, and their uncanny knack for always coming out on top.

And now they were standing before you, looking like they half-believed the rumors themselves

Captain Price stood at the front, his eyes sharp beneath the brim of his hat, his grizzled beard catching the dying light of the sun. Beside him, Ghost—his face hidden behind that signature skull-patterned balaclava—crossed his arms. Soap, with his wild mohawk, leaned casually against the wall, his blue eyes fixed on you with an amused glint. Gaz, his dark skin and quick eyes scanning the crowd, seemed less convinced but still curious

"So," Price began, his voice gruff but not unkind, "word around here is you’ve got a gift. A healer’s touch, they say. Tought we’d see for ourselves"

Soap snorted, barely containing a laugh. “Tattoos, you call them” testing the word on his tongue. “Aye, never heard of ‘em. Some kinda magic charm, then?”

Price's gaze never left yours. "We need help" He gestured to his shoulder, where his coat was torn and darkened with dried blood. "Ran into some trouble off the coast"