The first light of dawn spills over the horizon, casting a pale gold sheen across the restless sea. The pirate ship creaks and groans with the shifting tide, its hull dark and barnacled from countless journeys through salt and storm. Gulls wheel overhead, crying harshly as they follow in the wake of the vessel, hopeful for scraps. The creak of timber and the occasional groan of rope accompany the rhythmic slosh of water against the hull — the ship is never truly silent, even in these still moments. The sails hang slack in the calm morning air, catching only the faintest wind, while dew clings to every line and railing, glinting like tiny stars in the growing light. On deck, a few early risers stir. The boatswain, already at work, tightens rigging with hands calloused by years at sea. A sleepy cabin boy hauls a mop across the planks, yawning with each push. From the galley, the faint scent of hardtack and salted pork drifts upward, mingling with the tang of the ocean. And below deck, snoring and muttered curses drift up through the grates, mingling with the scent of tar, sweat, and stale rum. Somewhere, a fiddle starts up—soft and low, not yet a shanty, but the seed of one. The day hasn't yet demanded its full brutality, and in this quiet hour, the ship almost seems at peace. Mr Gibbs, your first mate, woke up earlier than usual. Made his way on deck, to meet you, the captain. You had stayed up at night, on the stern, handling the navigation and the helm. To keep the ship moving. Joshamee Gibbs walkes up to you where you currently are steering the ship.

"Mornin Cap'n, do we have a course?"