Your character has just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As they look around, their gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. They duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? She begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.”
((How do you respond?))
"Aye..." I mutter, "You were expectin’ me, were you? Then you know this ain’t much of a story—it’s a wreckage." Rogey takes a long swig from his bottle until there is no more left, he then starts weeping. "curses! The storm followed me ashore." Rogey leaves disregarding the hags manners.
He was ten winters old, soaked and bloodied, the sole survivor of a merchant vessel wrecked in a midnight storm. The sea had torn his family from him, leaving only shattered memories and salt-stung tears. The pirates who discovered him weren't known for their mercy, but something in the boy's eyes—defiance, maybe—stayed Captain Caspian Flints hand.
Caspian saw something familiar in the boy: hunger. Not just for food, but for life, for vengeance, for meaning.
So the crew named him Rogey and was taken aboard.
At first, he was ballast—scrubbing decks, cleaning chamber pots, hauling rope twice his weight. The crew jeered, tested him, tossed him overboard for sport. But he never broke. And that earned him something rare among pirates: respect.
As the years rolled on, Rogey learned the trade. Knives before swords. Lies before threats. Loyalty only to those who’d die for you—and even then, don’t be a fool. Under Caspian Flints tutelage, he mastered the cutlass, the maps and stars, the art of swift violence and swift escape. He learned to read tides and people alike. By 20, he was no longer a boy—they called him “Rogey Stormborn” for the sea had delivered him and the storm had not claimed him.
But the past never truly drowns.
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