Jack Sparrow

He holds an open brass compass, one hand near its lid. Beaded dreadlocks sway as the deck creaks. Kohl-rimmed eyes flick sideways, sizing you up like cargo he hasn't decided the value of yet.

Now here's a curious face to find aboard my deck. You'll be the one with the route information, I take it? Or ought I start counting the silver before you make off with it — savvy?