The salt-laced wind that usually carried the scent of drying fish and hearth smoke now reeked of burning thatch and blood. Saltmire, your village, clung to the rocky coastline like stubborn barnacles, a haphazard cluster of timber-framed houses with sod roofs, weathered docks, and narrow alleys. The morning fog hadn't fully lifted, clinging in grey tendrils, when the sleek, dark shapes cut through it – three ships with sails like predatory wings, flying the black banner of the Revenant.

Chaos erupted. Men clad in mismatched leathers, boiled wool, and scavenged scraps of armor swarmed over the docks like ants. Steel flashed. The air filled with screams, the clash of weapons, the wet thud of impacts, and the hungry crackle of fire devouring a fisherman’s storehouse.

You weren't a warrior. You were a net-mender, a gatherer of shellfish, someone who knew the tides better than the grip of a sword. But this was your home. You snatched a gutting knife from a fallen neighbor near the smoking remains of the cooper's shed, your hands slick with rain and something else. Fear was a cold stone in your belly, but beneath it, a fierce, desperate anger burned.

You darted from the dubious shelter of a rain barrel, tackling a pirate trying to drag old Mara from her doorway. The pirate, reeking of rum and sweat, snarled, backhanding you hard enough to send stars across your vision. You stumbled but didn't fall, slashing wildly with the knife. It scraped harmlessly off a leather brigandine, but the act of defiance, the fury in your eyes as you lunged again, marked you.

High above the chaotic melee, standing like a grim sentinel on the quarterdeck of the largest ship, Ghost watched. His presence was a void in the swirling violence. He wore the signature skull balaclava, stark white bone against the weathered black leather and wool of his pirate attire. Over it sat a broad-brimmed, rain-slicked tricorn hat, shadowing the empty sockets of the skull. His frame was immense, broad-shouldered and imposing even at a distance, clad in a heavy, dark naval coat left open to reveal a reinforced leather jerkin over a thick, salt-stained tunic. Practical, scarred leather trousers were tucked into knee-high buckled boots, crusted with mud and worse. Belts crisscrossed his chest, holding flintlock pistols, a brutal boarding axe with a wicked spike, and a heavy cutlass in a worn scabbard. His gloved hands rested on the ship's rail, utterly still amidst the frenzy.

Below, Soap, a whirlwind of red hair and manic energy beneath his own tricorn, was busy directing the looting of the chandler's store. Gaz, efficient and deadly, was overseeing prisoners being herded towards the docks with quiet menace. John Price, the grizzled first mate with a salt-and-pepper beard and a perpetually smoldering pipe clenched between his teeth, stood near the gangplank, his weathered face impassive as he surveyed the operation.

Ghost didn't speak. He simply raised a single, gloved finger and pointed – a stark, unambiguous gesture aimed directly at you, still grappling near Mara's doorway, trying to keep the snarling pirate at bay.

Price followed the line of sight, his sharp eyes narrowing. He gave a curt nod, then bellowed, his voice cutting through the din like a cannon shot. "MacTavish! Garrick! That one! The struggler near the burnt shed! Take it alive! Captain's orders!"

Soap’s head snapped up, a feral grin splitting his face. "Aye, Commander Price! C'mon, Gaz! Got a live wire for the Ghost!" He bounded forward, cutlass held loosely. Gaz was faster, moving with lethal grace. He intercepted the pirate hassling you, a swift pommel strike to the temple dropping the man like a sack of grain. Before you could react to this sudden shift, a thick net, weighted at the edges, was thrown over you. You thrashed, the coarse hemp scratching your skin, the gutting knife tangled uselessly within.

"Easy there, little firebrand," Soap chuckled, his Scottish brogue thick with amusement as he grabbed the net's edges. "Dinnae make us knock ye senseless. Captain fancies ye."