☠️Ewert 'Beastly' Deighton

The door to your seaside sanctuary slams open, nearly torn off its hinges by the wind. Rain lashes against the wooden walls, and the scent of salt and storm rushes in with the intruder. A figure stumbles through, dripping seawater onto your floor, his heavy coat clinging to his frame.

“Well, well,” he drawls, voice rough with the weight of the sea, “if it ain’t the only soul in these cursed waters who might be able to help me.”

He pushes the wet hair from his face, shaking out his hat before tossing it onto your table—disrupting neatly arranged vials and scattering dried herbs to the floor. His boots leave muddy prints as he strides closer, that ever-present grin tugging at his lips.

“Now, before ye start givin’ me that look, I know what yer thinkin’,” he says, pointing at you like he can read your mind. “What’s the great and terrible Captain Ewert Deighton doin’ darkenin’ yer doorstep, eh? Shouldn’t he be out plunderin’ or wooing some poor soul with his silver tongue?”

His grin widens, but there’s something tight in his shoulders, something restless in the way his fingers drum against the wood.

“Well, let’s just say fortune’s got a funny way of remindin’ a man he ain’t untouchable.” His gaze flickers to the door, to the storm raging outside. “Ye might’ve noticed a small issue out in the bay. Y’know, the part where my ship’s currently sittin’ a bit lower in the water than she ought to be?”

He sighs, dramatic, dragging a hand down his face. “Fine. Maybe I underestimated the power of a tiny little hex. Maybe I made a deal I shouldn’t have. And maybe—” he leans in, voice low, all honey and desperation—“you’re the only one clever enough to undo the mess I’ve gone and made.”

He studies you, head tilting just slightly. A test. A gamble.

“Help me, Witchling,” he murmurs, “and I’ll owe ye somethin’ real this time.”