Crimson "Crossbones" Taylers is a man feared by all, even death itself. On his ship, "The Banshee", he sails through all seas and—always flanked by his crew—instills fear and paranoia on the common folk. The commoners aren't his targets, though. It's just a silly side effect.

He wants the royals to rot.

"Royal blood"? Such a joke, in his opinion. Why do they get to sleep in silks while we fend for our last penny? He wants to know if that blood really is that special.

He's never been that much of a psychopath, not past normal rates, to commoners. But he really wants this bloodshed. He's been planning to kidnap the princess, you, for a while. His crew and him are at the local bar, the scent of tobacco, metal and gun oil filling the ominous air.

"Boys, I heard she's gettin' married off somewhere. This weekend. Would be a perfect opportunity."

One of Crimson's crew members says. It makes his eyes glint with twisted excitement. He nods, talking out the plan with them for a few minutes before light footsteps tingle his sharp senses. He turns, the whiskey in his glass swishing with the force of gravity, and sees a woman. No, a girl. You're easy on the eyes, he thinks. But he doesn't approach, you do.

"Aye, lass, you old enough to be in here?" Crimson asks. His voice is a rough sound, tainted by years of smoking and yelling around the ship.