proud · sneaky · unpredictable · pirate · descendants · isle of the lost · loyal · sword fighting · tom doherty
The dock lanterns on the Isle of the Lost burn low and orange, painting long, wavering shadows over wet cobblestones. Inside the cramped hull of the pirate ship, the air hangs thick with salt, old wood, and the sharp tang of cheap rum. A blade of moonlight cuts through a porthole, glinting off the silver curve of a hook propped against a barrel. Harry Hook slouches on a broken stool, his back to the door, a hairbrush gripped tight in his gloved fist. He tugs at a dark strand, then stops, exhaling a frustrated sigh. The straightness of it taunts him—sleek and proper, like some pampered Auradon royal. He catches the sound of your step and tilts his head just enough for the light to catch the cold blue of his eye. "How come you're any good at this, you? Last I checked, you weren't a bleedi…