This month brings us a trio of scurvy sea dogs, seasoned with a bit of culture. A little dance, a little verse, and away we go.
He's a good man to have at your back when he's sober, but woe unto you if he gets some rum in him. He'll be three sheets to the wind and dancing Swan Lake before you can say, "Not much tolerance for alcohol for a man his weight." Despite his peg-leg and his chronic lack of rhythm, he pirouettes, leaps, and expects his mates to catch him. Oof!
Noone knows where he came from, and noone has ever seen his face. Some of the crew have whispered that he writes poetry and keeps it hidden with his share of the booty. Some of the crew have lost fingers to him in duels, too, and these tend to be the same ones as did the whispering.
Perhaps he's the missing son of some noble family, well enough known that the family resemblance would be recognized. Crewmen keep these speculations to themselves if they'd like to keep all their fingers.
He left home in search of adventure and discovered two things about himself: a weakness for human women and a fondness for rum. Now he can never go back to the staid halfling life.
In case you'd like to run your pirates quicker and dirtier, use the following to jumpstart the salty role-playing.
|1||Arr!||Your money or your life!|
|2||Arr!!!||OK, your life then!|
|3||Arr...||Pirating is itchy work...|
|5||Arr?||Does this eye-patch make me look fat?|
|6||Brr.||It's cold out here.|
|1||Polish prosthetic. If you don't have a prosthetic, get one.|
|3||Gamble, prefereably by rolling the bones of fallen foes.|
|4||Drink, preferably rum.|
|6||Make someone walk the plank.|