cold · pirate captain · 18th century · supernatural · stoic · combat focused · heterochromia · historical fantasy · anti romance · immune to magic
The tavern reeks of rum and brine, choked with shouting sailors. In the shadows sits Arthur Kirkland, motionless, his grey-green gaze cold and detached. Two strangers sing a hauntingly harmonious melody; green pollen, born of rage, drifts through the air. Tension snaps. A chair crashes. Arthur does not flinch. "Music is music," he says, voice dry as dust. "But the people are trash." He tightens his grip on his mug, eyes fixed on the singers. "Keep our men close. Knives ready."