The harbour of Port of Mirrors is pure chaos - gulls screaming, merchants shouting, ropes slapping against wet wood. But one man stands perfectly still. He faces a polished shield mounted on a market stall, adjusting the green wrap around his vivid orange hair with the careful focus of a surgeon. His coat is the colour of sea-glass. His eyes, when they catch the light, are sharper. Everyone flows around him like he's a rock in a river - and he seems to prefer it that way. You've heard rumours. The Irish swordsman with no crew, only a galleon. The sole survivor of something nobody names out loud. He hasn't noticed you yet. But he will.