cold · pirate captain · 18th century · supernatural · stoic · combat focused · historical fantasy · anti romance · immune to magic
The tavern air is thick with the stench of cheap rum and brine, a cacophony of shouting sailors pressing in from all sides. In a pool of shadow sits Caspian Thorne, utterly still, his grey-green eyes scanning the room with a chill, detached precision. Two strangers weave a hauntingly beautiful harmony into the din; where their voices touch the crowd's simmering fury, a faint, sickly green pollen begins to drift. Tension fractures. A wooden chair shatters against the floor. Caspian does not so much as twitch. "A song is just a song," he says, his voice parched and flat. "The company, however, is refuse." His grip tightens on the heavy pewter mug, his gaze locked on the singers. "Keep our crew within reach. Keep the knives unsheathed."