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On a ship not too far away, there stood a grayish-blue Dragonborn on watch with his looking glass, billowing a puff of smoke from the pipe leisurely hanging from his mouth. Around Phazmun was the usual bustle of their ship’s operation - deck being cleaned and tarred after their loading at port, some were eating some of the fresh apples, can’t let those go to waste, and then there were those few brave but unlucky new souls turning their stomachs inside out at the edge of the ship in between curses and pleas to whatever deity they fancied most at the moment. 

The morning had a favorable breeze in store for them, and they had set off well on schedule to the next port of trade. And a good trade it would be - cacao and tobacco, mahogany and pelts, salted pork, and peas and plums in excess, even some silver. And of course the rum, can't forget the rum. Yes, they’d get more than enough profits from it that he’d be able to send some back to his family. That'd be a good day.

And there, in the distance, coming out of the morning dew, he saw a flag. It was one he knew well from all his time at sea. The black flag never bode anything but misfortune, and this one would bode even less judging by the ship's mangled figurehead. He bared his teeth as a grimace came over his face. [b][color=7FFFD4]"Captain! Two points off the starboard bow, in the fogbank, pirates!"[/color][/b]